Losing the Way

I got there again – that place where I become a grumpy, frantic lunatic that just oozes negativity. The one who can’t remember how she was ever happy, loses her connection to creativity, and doubts everything in her life. And while I was there, I didn’t realize how far I’d driven myself beyond exhaustion.

Luckily, my über patient fiancé was kind enough to treat me like a 33-year-old toddler having a tantrum. He knew that with lots of rest and a yoga session I’d regain my much cheerier self.

DSCN1032I felt like an abysmal failure since my inner monster had resurfaced with a vengeance. It had been a tumultuous few weeks but I found little satisfaction in the excuses.

The why didn’t matter because this little episode served as glaring proof that I can’t change. I can read all my wonderful Buddhism texts, meditate, find beauty in my morning walks, hell even find beauty while nervously pacing outside a hospital for news, but I couldn’t stop the freight train of negativity.

But then my Thursday night hot yoga session revived me.  In my post-practice haze, I started thinking about the many terrific quotes on failure, especially the wise words of Ralph Waldo Emerson: “The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”

I had always thought those words were reserved for the bigger failures of life like the screenplay that had fallen short of acceptance and my most disastrous relationship. But this relapse has taught me that the smaller, repeat failures matter just as much because you still need to pick yourself up. It’s the only way to live boldly and fully – you have to be willing to fail repeatedly and, most importantly, risk failing bigger.

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Time & Intention

On those three nights or so I glue myself to the chair to write, I commit to putting in the time. I literally set a timer for 15 minutes knowing that whatever happens there will be a cheery musical symphony announcing my liberation.

I remind myself that it’s just about showing up. I don’t have to write marvelous scenes or concoct exotic sentences. There’s no set topic and no commitment to writing a blog post. All I have to do is keep that pen moving across the page.

Time IntentionBut it’s not enough. My words never escape from the lined pages of my journal. They just dwell, bound by their lack of significance and purpose.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself: why isn’t this process working? Why am I at such a loss for inspiration? Why for the first time I can remember do I feel like I have nothing interesting to say?

Yesterday, I started thinking about some of my other passions – my workouts and the countless hours I spend with my pit bull companion. Sure, my workouts like my writing are usually time (or mile) bound. But when have I ever showed up saying I’ll be here for the duration but I’m not going to push myself to work hard? Never. I show up when my legs feel like concrete, when my workout is postponed to after 9 p.m. and even when I’m simply exhausted but give it everything I got.

And on those occasions when I set a timer for Elliot’s morning playtime so I can make it to work on time, when have I ever just said I just need to toss the ball for 10 minutes? Never. I give him all of my energy and enthusiasm, shouting “wild and crazy bully” and “torro, puppy, torro” chasing him around the yard before my coffee has fully kicked in.

My relationship with my writing needs to be the same. It’s time to stop taking the “just show up” mantra to the extreme, using it as proof that I’m trying while dodging the story that creeps into my pages every week.

It’s time to lightly sketch out a path forward and actually show up with the genuine intention to create, rather than cleverly writing to avoid it.

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An Encounter with the Sunday Night Yoga Critic

Sunday night yoga – a time to get present and toss aside anxiety about the transition from weekend to work week. Yes, this was my intention. But what I found on the mat was a super judgmental freak. I’ve noticed her before – butting in occasionally, criticizing my crows or shaming me for not attempting my headstand.

But yesterday she just wouldn’t shut up. My practice literally became a repeated procession of pose and response. Here let me give you a few:

Downward facing dog, dip your heels down to the floor. And she said, “It’s just not anatomically possible for you to ever reach the floor. Years of yoga and you’re still a good inch away.”

Yoga matWarrior two, reach your arm under to take the bind and reach your chest to the sky. “I can’t hold this. I lifted weights yesterday. My legs are shot from all the squats and lunges.”

Half moon, stack your hips and extend your leg with energy. “I was so much better at this last year. I was graceful, now I’m awkward. I’m wobbling.”

Wide leg straddle, reach the crown of your head to the floor and take the inversion if it’s in your practice. “I’m still not there. I can’t believe I’m still not there. I used to do this but I can’t. It doesn’t feel possible.”

Pigeon, send your breath where you need it. “I can’t stand this. I really can’t stand this today. I normally can but I can’t stay here. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

Yes, that witch was completely merciless. She kept talking even though no one else was commenting on my yoga practice. There were no adjustments. No prompts to find my edge. No praise of other students. Nothing except a coached flow of poses.

But I’m glad she came out with such intensity her chatter couldn’t be ignored. Who knows how many times a comment here or there went unnoticed as they were ingrained as truths about my capabilities and limits? So I’m grateful for the obnoxious voice that disrupted my Sunday night to take me another step farther on the path to mindfulness where I can permanently remind myself she isn’t real and doesn’t matter.

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Messing Up and Moving On

It was a Tuesday that felt like a terrible re-run of a Monday. My retreat to a post-work weight lifting class compounded the unpleasantness instead of releasing it. I didn’t mean flip my bar over so quickly to add weights to the unloaded side that I accidentally clubbed a classmate in the head. I said I was sorry at least 10 times. I meant it. And she meant it when she muttered, “you really need to pay attention to what you’re doing.”

And so the question that had loomed over the earlier part of the day returned. “What could I have done differently?” I slunk back to my bench in the center of the room without any answers. I made an effort to consolidate my extra weights into the most compact of piles. Maybe I was trying to seem more considerate and harmless to those within a bar’s reach. Or maybe I was trying to shrink my presence in an effort to disappear.

I spent the entire class trying to stay serious, focused and present while never turning my head in the left direction. I couldn’t risk eye contact with the victim of my distraction who luckily was still up for the one-hour workout. There was a fleeting moment when I silently argued that maybe she was positioned a little too close to the weight rack and if she had paid attention to her surroundings she would have escaped the impact. But I knew it was my fault and there’s nothing I hate more than screwing up.

What could I have done differently? It’s only now, three hours later, I’ve realized the question should be “what can I do differently?” And the answer is simple: walk into that gym, prepare for class like I’ve done every other time without incident and enjoy my workout. In other words, see it for what was – an unfortunate mistake, not a pattern.

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The Resurgence of Words

Restarting is hard. Even though I’m a writer deep at my core, laziness and excuses took on their own momentum. And I wound up swapping my words for anything and everything – vacation, holiday preparations, sickness, aimless scrolls through social media feeds and mindless television.



The amazing thing is that true passions don’t abandon you even when super neglected. They find a way back in unexpectedly. Tonight, that was during my yoga class – another facet of my life that has been slightly neglected.

Sure, I was supposed to be fascinating on my breath but the writer in me had hopped out of hibernation. There I was in downward dog staring through my legs at the dark-haired, 40-something man behind me inventing the story of why he was there. To my defense, it was impossible not to notice his late entry when he rolled out his sticky mat that sounded like a 100 band-aids simultaneously being removed in the midst of our meditative silence.

Is it a novel? A screenplay? A random scene that will remain hidden in the scrawling volumes of my journals? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. What matters is I want to write and I will write because not writing has been like not fully living.

And that’s what is so beautiful as 2014 comes to an end. I’ve gained and lost so much but I’m right back where I want to be. And the struggle has brought its own gift of knowing that I can always find my way back.

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Meet Elliot

Elliot is my teacher and my test, my reward for coming home and my biggest worry. He’s the fiercely affectionate pit bull who has demanded love I wasn’t sure I was ready to give.

I repeatedly declared that I was never getting another dog after unexpectedly losing my beloved pit bull, Foxy Brown, two and half months ago. But the universe had other plans: a fellow dog lover at work understood my loss and offered to connect me with Elliot’s wonderful rescue mom.

It’s been about a month and a half since the 55-pound pound, tiger-striped and slightly wild guy officially became a member of the family. But there was never any doubt he had a permanent home.

Elliot won me over during our first “meet and greet” when he dashed up to my office and excitedly seized one of Foxy’s toys. And if his joy wasn’t convincing enough, he put his paws on my shoulders and kissed my face until I had to peel him off to breathe. I think he literally chapped my lips and face as our introductory meeting turned into a sleepover.

While he was rescued in a city and loving recuperated on a farm, he’s new to roaming about a home environment and living in a neighborhood where there’s often activity outside. In his first week, he appointed himself chief security officer of our home, planting his paws on the closest windowsill to bark at every passerby even though when strangers actually approach him he has a tendency to hide behind me. Elliot wasted no time in declaring war on every pillow and blanket in the house. He mistook the toilet for an oversized drinking bowl. And he had a hard time differentiating between the many dog toys scattered all over the house and our shoes.

We knew Elliot had quite the learning curve so we bought him a fancy new crate complete with an ultra durable bed so he could be safe when my boyfriend and I weren’t home. But it turned out that Elliot is also a talented escape artist who was smart enough to not rip apart the house after freeing himself during his first Saturday afternoon alone. We figured if he could manage those three hours without damage, we could take a shot in trusting him to do the same during the week. And for the most part he has except for chewing up two paper plates and helping himself to a banana one evening while we were at a wedding.

DSC02034Elliot’s quirks bring new joy to our home. We quickly discovered he’s a peeping pit. He slinks into the bathroom during shower time and pops his head up in between the fabric curtain and plastic shower liner. Sometimes he even pushes the curtains aside and stands on the edge of the bathtub, stretching his snout into the shower. It’s adorable, especially since he never jumps in.

He also loves to snuggle – on the couch, in our bed and even while I’m sitting at my computer. Elliot has no qualms about standing on his hind legs while draping the rest of his body across my lap when I’m typing. If my office chair was bigger, I know he’d just climb on me.

But of all the things Elliot has brought to our life, the most important is the lesson he’s taught me. It all comes down to love. Faced with a strange new situation, he approaches each day with an outpouring of love from bestowing good morning kisses to resting his head or paw on me when he goes to sleep in the evening. He always makes sure we know how much he loves us and we can’t help but follow his example. I couldn’t be more grateful for this incredible pooch who has shown me how much love I have to give even after losing Foxy.

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Coming Back: The Moofasa Piñata Story

It has been five weeks since my last post here. Five weeks of being completely lost.

Grief is strange like that. It polarizes beauty and emptiness in ways I could never have imagined. It stripped away the labels and the crazy meaning I had put on my time. In some ways, it was like I had reached my most perfect balanced state. I had outsmarted the constant rush and the ego-driven quest to do, do, do. The only problem was I didn’t really want to do anything.

I take that back. I made a piñata. I wasn’t about to shirk my promise to make a homemade piñata for my favorite little girl’s birthday party. I’m sure I could have gotten away with bringing a candy-stuffed, classic store-bought donkey but I needed the distraction. I needed to stop running from the all-too-quiet evenings at home.

On the Tuesday night before the Saturday afternoon party, I decided it was time to inflate my punch-balloon and start piling on strips of paper. I had plans of keeping it simple – making a blowfish that didn’t require much more than my globe-shaped balloon base. But while grabbing the flour from the pantry for the glue, I noticed I had Dixie cups. But I didn’t just see dozens of little paper cups, I saw udders. And right then a cow was born.

Throughout the process, I miscalculated a bit. I underestimated how much work I created for myself by fully inflating the balloon. I overestimated how much progress I could make in a few hours and how quickly my flour-water glue would dry. I ended up putting 20+ hours into the creature I lovingly dubbed Moofasa. I stayed up until nearly midnight every night, layering on strip after strip of paper. On the party day, I got up at 6 a.m. to discover a far from hardened heifer. I alternated blasts of heat from my hairdryer with sips of coffee for two hours.

And then it was on to the fun part – decorating. As I spray-painted a white base on the entire construction on my front lawn, one of my neighbors walked over and asked me if it was a sheep. I politely introduced him to Moofasa and explained that the pink udders and black spots were coming soon.

Moofasa finaleLuckily, the paint coats were super fast drying giving me just enough time to stuff the piñata one hour before the party. It was then I realized that the stuffing hole would be the balloon knot, which happened to be placed on the cow’s rear right under the tail. So yes, I felt like a pervert jamming in the Twizzlers and Tootsie Rolls but my best friend assured me the adults would love this inside joke. I then had to make a cow harness out of twine because Moofasa had become far too heavy for any other type of suspension.

With great care, my boyfriend escorted Moofasa to the car, dangling and bloated with legs that had somewhat collapsed in under its massive weight. As we drove to the party, I wondered if maybe this project wasn’t the best idea. What was is going to be like watching the countless hours of careful construction get completely destroyed?

It was absolutely wonderful watching 10 excited children batter the piñata. Even when the final blows busted Moofasa open and the candy rained down on the crowd, I stood mesmerized by shrieks of delight and the dives for the goodies. My piñata of grief had turned into a piñata of joy.

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Foxy’s Final Lesson

“Find the grace in all the things that you can’t change and help somebody if you can.” –Van Zant

Foxy Brown conquered my heart in less than a day. She lured me in with her spirit. When I first met her, she was an overweight, rain-soaked pit bull who was lost. As much as she wanted to come inside, she was trembling with fear. But she held her head high, shaking but strong, unexpectedly determined to follow along by my side from that moment forward even though she didn’t know who I was. But I think somehow she did and she knew I’d love her forever.

Foxy dooWhen I fell in love with Foxy seven years ago, I didn’t know how much love I had to give. I didn’t know that I’d mold my days around her needs, making sure she went to grandma’s house with her canine crew any time I’d be gone for longer than an hour or two. I didn’t know I’d curl into an uncomfortable ball on the couch or sleep pressed into the wall so our darling 6o-pound bully could be comfortable. Or that I’d talk her constantly and sing to her during every car trip. Or that every day with her would be full of special rituals, whether it was bone-bone Saturday or weekday morning mommy-doggy yoga: she’d sprawl across my mat and I’d try to do yoga around her.

She gave us all of her love too. And then her heart gave out this week at the start of the surgery to save her. We all did everything we could. I know she tried her best to hang on for her wrecked parents. We spent the night we didn’t know was her last on the floor beside her dog bed, getting up with her every 15 minutes and holding her. It was all we could do. And now we have to find a way to let go.

But even though she’s not here, she’s teaching us one last lesson. There is so much love in this world. There is more kindness than you could ever expect. There are just so many people – both people who knew her or those who knew how much she meant to me – who have offered such an incredible amount of compassion and support.

No one can take away the pain or restore the missed sounds of her footsteps in our house, but it helps simply knowing how many people understand. It helps having someone call you out for downplaying that you’re a complete wreck. Because real grace isn’t about elegance, it’s about ceding control of our emotions, letting them ebb and flow, and taking the challenging times like these one moment at a time.

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One last birthday gift

The sun was a fiery orange. It ducked beneath the trees just before 7:30 p.m. Tonight, I was there to witness the graceful swoop from visible to hidden. I was present, really present, sitting on the curved black park bench as the lone spectator.

SunsetThe walk to and from the park reminded me of all I that I’ve been missing lately: that soul-refilling space of being, not doing. There’s such magic in those moments without any agenda.

I began to appreciate the beautiful details in everything around me. I heard Creedence Clearwater Revival blaring from inside a quaint wood-sided cape and imagined a middle-aged man rocking along in the den inside. I laughed at the bark off between two neighbor dogs separated by a chain link fence. And I was amazed by how the sprawling patches of black-eyed Susans I drive by nearly every night seemed so brilliant and triumphant as this humid, 90-degree day winds to a close.

I was a day late but it was the best 33rd birthday gift I could have given myself.

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One Monkey Moment

“Life is available only in the present moment.” ― Thich Nhat Hanh

I’ve been combating a post-adventure funk for a solid two weeks. I returned home high on accomplishment and all the life I breathed in while spending hours carefully placing one foot in front of the other on beautiful glaciers and rocky mountains. And just a few days later I was attacked by uncertainty.

It trampled on my bliss and cleared the way for a relentless series of questions that invoked panic. The worst part was the person who was asking them: me. I became fixated on the future, convincing myself that with the right strategy I could maximize my happiness and enjoy that many more mountain adventures.

I knew better. I really did. But that knowledge didn’t make me happy. It didn’t rekindle my enthusiasm for my everyday, much more average world.

MonkeyLuckily, I was saved last Friday night by the tall grinning man who walked out of a dressing room in a monkey suit. Technically, the suit was one-piece fleece nightwear that had arrived much too early for Halloween or chilly winter practicality. And that man, he’s my boyfriend.

I was in near tears as he pivoted to shake the tail dangling from the backside. My laughter met with solidarity as surrounding shoppers took in the bizarre sight. There was no “to buy or not to buy” debate. We went straight from the dressing room to checkout. At $25, it was a bargain of an anti-blues necessity.

I tried to convince him to put it back on, take a lap around the mall and spread cheer to even more people. He wasn’t interested. It was quite warm and he had already succeeded in his mission. He had delivered one perfect, silly moment that reminded me how I could find everything in the present.

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