Dear Friends,
I hope this email finds you well. This afternoon, I may or may not have had some wireless trouble. And when the guy at RCN didn't seem to understand that I don't know the difference between a modem and a refrigerator, I may or may not have gotten frustrated. When my cell phone lost service with RCN after 25 painful minutes of trying to fix the original issue, I may or may not have slammed my phone down onto the tile floor of my bathroom. All I know is, now, my phone is most definitely not turning on. The good news is that the dysfunctional internet that was the source to the temper tantrum is working again. I believe it is safe to contact me, now that my rage has passed, although without a phone I am effectively unreachable. Should you be desperate and brave enough to need me, I suggest you email or visit me. Whatever your mode of communication, I do request that you immediately call animal services on me if I start foaming at the mouth again. They are on speed dial on my--oh... oh, yeah.
Most Maturely,
Kate
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Yoga
For an inviting oasis of spiritual health, yoga studios tend to be pretty awkward. In fact, there was only one place where I felt more self-conscious and that was in high school during Phys-Ed. Bold statement, I know. But there something about stepping barefoot into a candle lit room flanked by Buddha statuettes and filled with earth-loving vegans who are inclined to “adjust” other people by touching them in questionable regions that’s intimidating and pretentious. That or the silence.
This occurred to me today when I walked into the lobby of a studio and lingered uncomfortably while the instructor sat behind her desk and ignored me. I thought natural human graces prompted eye contact when someone is present, but I could be wrong. Perhaps I disrupted her from her meditation when my vocal chords meekly coughed “hi,” but she seemed equally as startled as irritated. And I knew that by the tight-lipped board straight smile she replied with. “Is this is the 5:30 class?”
“Mhmm.” Still with that smug grin. It’s a good thing I was about to align my chakras or otherwise I would’ve been compelled to align my fist with her face. Many of my encounters with yoga instructors have felt similar to this, and the hypocrisy is maddening. The instant they start waxing tolerance and non-judgment I feel judged. And that hippie-dippy bullshit they sometimes pull makes me think they’re just posers. But regardless of my opinions of the imposter “yogis” who come my way, there is a reason why I still participate. I unrolled my mat on the studio floor, crossed my legs and closed my eyes, and focused on the light.
The beauty of yoga is that, despite that at times it makes me revisit the discomfort of my middle school years, it still allows me to transcend my self-consciousness and tap into a spirituality that is hard to access outside the studio. The art of yoga itself, each posture and pose, every cycle of breath… There is something about it that defies the real world but somehow enters a truer reality. And I think that’s why people participate – they want to experience an attachment to something greater, something genuine. Yogic precepts force you to realize that we exist in a series of tiny insignificant realms that comprise the universe. But conversely we, as entities in this realm, can still be significant contributions to something bigger. The moment we stop taking ourselves too seriously to be patient and too arrogant to be grateful, the walls of the matrix fall away. That philosophy creeps back into my head with every vinyasa. Yoga recognizes that our limited world is a system, and we can be more than just a cog in the wheel should we choose to resist it. It’s simultaneously humbling and motivating.
By no means am I an expert. Nor am I about to renounce my possessions and relocate to India. But I am someone who has been affected by yoga, felt a spiritual shift as a result of my practice. There are still moments when I throw tantrums in my head when my instructor, poser or not, adjusts my body or makes me instantaneously hate yoga with some contorted posture – a clear indication that I still have a ways to go to enlightenment… or maturity, for that matter. But I’m getting closer. And maybe, when I get there, I will discover that the self-consciousness I had once felt was strictly self-prescribed, and that perhaps I was wrong about all those yoga instructors after all.
This occurred to me today when I walked into the lobby of a studio and lingered uncomfortably while the instructor sat behind her desk and ignored me. I thought natural human graces prompted eye contact when someone is present, but I could be wrong. Perhaps I disrupted her from her meditation when my vocal chords meekly coughed “hi,” but she seemed equally as startled as irritated. And I knew that by the tight-lipped board straight smile she replied with. “Is this is the 5:30 class?”
“Mhmm.” Still with that smug grin. It’s a good thing I was about to align my chakras or otherwise I would’ve been compelled to align my fist with her face. Many of my encounters with yoga instructors have felt similar to this, and the hypocrisy is maddening. The instant they start waxing tolerance and non-judgment I feel judged. And that hippie-dippy bullshit they sometimes pull makes me think they’re just posers. But regardless of my opinions of the imposter “yogis” who come my way, there is a reason why I still participate. I unrolled my mat on the studio floor, crossed my legs and closed my eyes, and focused on the light.
The beauty of yoga is that, despite that at times it makes me revisit the discomfort of my middle school years, it still allows me to transcend my self-consciousness and tap into a spirituality that is hard to access outside the studio. The art of yoga itself, each posture and pose, every cycle of breath… There is something about it that defies the real world but somehow enters a truer reality. And I think that’s why people participate – they want to experience an attachment to something greater, something genuine. Yogic precepts force you to realize that we exist in a series of tiny insignificant realms that comprise the universe. But conversely we, as entities in this realm, can still be significant contributions to something bigger. The moment we stop taking ourselves too seriously to be patient and too arrogant to be grateful, the walls of the matrix fall away. That philosophy creeps back into my head with every vinyasa. Yoga recognizes that our limited world is a system, and we can be more than just a cog in the wheel should we choose to resist it. It’s simultaneously humbling and motivating.
By no means am I an expert. Nor am I about to renounce my possessions and relocate to India. But I am someone who has been affected by yoga, felt a spiritual shift as a result of my practice. There are still moments when I throw tantrums in my head when my instructor, poser or not, adjusts my body or makes me instantaneously hate yoga with some contorted posture – a clear indication that I still have a ways to go to enlightenment… or maturity, for that matter. But I’m getting closer. And maybe, when I get there, I will discover that the self-consciousness I had once felt was strictly self-prescribed, and that perhaps I was wrong about all those yoga instructors after all.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Honeymoon Stage
Love. There has never been a concept more laden or loaded. I’ve heard it said that "love is all you need," that love "lifts us up where we belong." But I’ve also witnessed that nothing on earth is more treacherous or glorious than when it’s at its extremes. It is a fine line, love, as it can be equally euphoric as painful, proportionally devastating as enlightening. But despite its precariousness, the vote is unanimous that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all… if only to experience The Honeymoon Stage.
Traditionally, The Honeymoon Stage refers to the era in a relationship when love strikes: the stars align, heartbeats skip, and the world redirects its orbit to circumspect two people. At least that is what those two people believe. Rarely, however, does this concept apply to the most significant relationship of all: the relationships we have with ourselves.
I realized recently that we live in a world of measurement, and our distance from the social average, however marginal or great, is the gauge of our self worth. And it also occurred to me, that I am no exception to the rule. After a lifetime of comparing and competing with everyone around me, I realized one rainy, lowly, feel-bad-about yourself-day, that our society is one in which our position on the acievement spectrum indicates our value. It struck me suddenly: I spent all of my adolescent years thinking I was stupid, just because my best friend got better grades than I did, and lived my high school years in misery because my teammates were thinner than me. It was an epiphany. I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want to continue exisiting by other people's standards rather than living. Period. It's not one for others to judge or to hate or to love.
So here is the project: to relearn to love myself, the same way I did in preschool - when my fingerpaintings were true expressionism pieces; when I took pride in anything that made me happy; when nothing, neither people nor circumstances, could make me feel bad about myself. I want the simplicity of childhood back, in a way that helps me remember that in order to expand myself, I must first look within myself.
I hope you enjoy my stepping outside my comfort zone as much, if not more, than I do.
Traditionally, The Honeymoon Stage refers to the era in a relationship when love strikes: the stars align, heartbeats skip, and the world redirects its orbit to circumspect two people. At least that is what those two people believe. Rarely, however, does this concept apply to the most significant relationship of all: the relationships we have with ourselves.
I realized recently that we live in a world of measurement, and our distance from the social average, however marginal or great, is the gauge of our self worth. And it also occurred to me, that I am no exception to the rule. After a lifetime of comparing and competing with everyone around me, I realized one rainy, lowly, feel-bad-about yourself-day, that our society is one in which our position on the acievement spectrum indicates our value. It struck me suddenly: I spent all of my adolescent years thinking I was stupid, just because my best friend got better grades than I did, and lived my high school years in misery because my teammates were thinner than me. It was an epiphany. I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want to continue exisiting by other people's standards rather than living. Period. It's not one for others to judge or to hate or to love.
So here is the project: to relearn to love myself, the same way I did in preschool - when my fingerpaintings were true expressionism pieces; when I took pride in anything that made me happy; when nothing, neither people nor circumstances, could make me feel bad about myself. I want the simplicity of childhood back, in a way that helps me remember that in order to expand myself, I must first look within myself.
I hope you enjoy my stepping outside my comfort zone as much, if not more, than I do.
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