New Year's Eve

Why am I blogging at 1:50 am EST on January 1, 2007?   Shouldn't I be dancing the night away or cuddling with that someone special?  I will just say I have been transported to Florida to care for my mother and visit with my sister and nephew for the next several weeks.  Thankfully, my laptop and my DSL make it possible for me to feel at least virtually connected to a world that is pulsating with fascination for my every thought and whim.  

 

At 11:53pm I sat with my very strong eggnog with the vintage red plastic stirrer topped with a miniscule jockey on a miniscule horse framed by a tiny horseshoe (looked like a nice little symbol to bring good luck and a good man into my new year), with my yellow noise maker, and my cell phone with a very special potential 'jockey' on the line as I tried to get my mother and nephew to complete their writing assignment;  five good things that happened in 2006 and five resolutions for 2007.  They were struggling.  The clock counted down and I tried to make it all as festive as possible.  Being on my second eggnog (after wine with dinner), I figured being loud and trying to have three conversations at once would  create an illusion of New Year's Eve festiveness.  

 

Prior to all this wild celebration (yes, I know, how do I do it!?), I jotted down a few blessings of the past year and a few intentions for the new.  Here they are, made public in case I later try to insist how pathetic and insufferable my life is, or try to avoid making anything of the new year:

 

The blessings of 2006 (in no particular ranking or order):

• Mom is still alive
• Trips to NYC and Seattle
• My senior classes
• Students who told me I am a good teacher
• Senior blogs
• Headstands and handstands
• Yoga and my yoginis
• Choir (Arian and Delores), O Magnum
• My birthday party
• Christmas Party
• Reconnecting with old friends
• Joshua Tree, hot tubs and hot springs
• Costa Rica
• Nov. 9th
• Motorcycles (and friends with motorcycle jackets)
• Meeting challenges at work with colleagues
• Carpooling
• The Writing Project
• My blog
• Dancing
• My home
• All my friends:  old, new, those who are still with me and those whom I lost touch with

 

My 2007 intentions:

• Read 24 books (not counting work stuff)
• Continue writing
• Start grad school
• Continue yoga
• Stay healthy, be healthier
• Believe in and invest in myself
• Learn to love and be loved
• Foster Compassion
• Be professional
• Be daring and bold
• Create new adventures
• Meditate daily
• Sing like a soloist
• Volunteer
• Plan money management
• Keep away clutter
• Celebrate friends
• Welcome new friends
• Create balance
• Stop worrying
• Break bad habits
• Forgive
• Live now
• Be present in each moment
• Practice Being
• Intentional and random acts of kindness
• Recycle

 

 

An unfinished metaphor

One day the little leaf opened her eyes. The root worked hard to
provide the leaf with all it needed: nutrients, water, a strong stem
to support her. The root felt the heat of the sun through the little
leaf and knew its work was not in vain. The root continued to strive
against the confines of the dirt, digging deeper and deeper to send
more and more energy to the growing leaf. The leaf and its stem
grew fatter and enjoyed the sun. The leaf sent thanked the root and
invited the root to come up and take a break, enjoy the sun and the
breeze. The root insisted that was not possible.

One day, the little leaf and its stem fell away from the root, the
mother plant. The initial shock was jarring, just air. Dehydration
felt a real threat for the first time. The leaf, though grown,
could not reach toward the sky, but lay flat. Soon, it found its
way, alone into a glass of water. Upright, the leaf felt better.
The water refreshed, but was not as good as all the constant flow of
hearty meals from the mother root.

Soon, the leaf grew small tiny roots, reaching into the water. Still
lonely in the tiny jar, the leaf would long for the root, calling to
the root to come up into the sun and see the leaf. The root would
call back praise for the leaf's ability to survive in the small glass
vase and for the sprouting little roots. The mother root was proud
how the leaf followed her example.

Then, the leaf grew roots that were long and tangled. She continued
to stay in the glass vase, enjoying the sunlight throughout the tip
of her nose to the toe of her root. The mother root suggested she
get a pot and some dirt to hide her unruly roots. The leaf refused,
enjoying the light and freedom of floating in water. The mother root
grew resentful. "I never knew you hated life in the pot so much.
You must be glad to be rid of me." The leaf was confused that her
happiness could make the mother root so sad.

Soon, the leaf got a larger vase and was joined by some other leaves
with equally long and tangled roots. Their roots grew together in
the sunlight of the vase, exposed and thriving. They swam among
each other day and night. The potted mother roots did not
understand this behavior and dug deeper into the earth. Where did
they go wrong? If the new leaves would not dig into the earth, then
they must dig deeper, stay longer. Eventually, not new leaves grew
in those pots.

"We" is not always inclusive

Marianne Williamson on the Larry King Live, as part of a panel of Oprah's XM stars, said that this generation is the "we" generation (versus the 90's "me" generation).  Perhaps, more accurately, it is the "us and them" generation.  There is a new revival of community, but only in relation to the other.   I saw and wrote about this in response to 9/11 -- the bonding of New Yorkers tainted by the threats and discrimination of anyone who looked like a terrorist, which meant brown skin, thick wavy jet black hair, large eyes, lush lips, and prominent noses.   Sound vague?  You can picture it, right?  But reading it, I also picture an African American, a Latina, a Roma.  Such is stereotyping and discrimination:  usually way off the mark.   The "we" generation, turning back the clock on segregation, this time often voluntary, a mark of pride and solidarity.   We are coming together in small groups of opposition.  Red versus blue.  Black versus white.  Brown versus yellow.   Community is good until it becomes an island, a prison. 

In my classes, students of mixed races often will choose one ethnicity with which they choose to identify, choosing a community and bonding that would be denied if the other parts of them were fully embraced.  The other separates.  "We" only becoming a inclusion of something that is like "me," familiar, a mirror, unchallenging, unquestioning, reinforcing my own self-image and self-centeredness.  

I get it.  As I continue to struggle with my own identity, ever changing, ever challenged, I remember my longing for a community that was large and accepting that I could be swept up in without having to prove myself or pass some litmus test of coolness or knowledge or skill.  In writing my senior thesis about adolescents in the American novel, I read versions of adolescence from the margins and envied this other world where the characters could find a likeness, a home.  I was mystified how those on the margins seemed to want to be in the white mainstream while those in the mainstream longed to get out and be on the fringe.  I wanted to be like Selina dancing at the Barbadian wedding in Brooklyn or Esperanza playing in the Monkey Garden with her neighbors on Mango Street, not wandering the streets alone like Holden.    

In the segregated city of LA (a statement many Angelinos would deny), I continue to walk that line of belonging and not, of trying to be beyond center or margin.  Maybe I am fooling myself.   I am blessed with wonderful friends, a fairly diverse group of friends, I think.   Yet, when I enter my school, I am distinctly the outsider.  There is a bonding that I will never be granted as long as I am not Latina.   Or the idiomatic Spanish expressions that spice up any meeting or lunchroom conversation.  I love the variety.  I enjoy living in a city where I can hear five different languages in one trip to the store.   Yet, how can I, the white girl, laugh with their inside jokes in a faculty meeting about how white people are?   How do I explain that the disconnect between my Eastern European immigrant parents, my solidly working class family and the educated white privileged perception imposed on me is not so different than the disconnect between the wetback, illegal immigrant perception many have of all Latinos and actual Latinos?   Is one more unjust than the other?  Is it possible to compete in suffering or wrongs?  What would be the point?   The only injustice is not allowing your "me" and my "me" to be fully realized,  not letting your "we" and my "we" have equal opportunities and respect, and not letting your "me" and my "me" to be a "we" despite our many differences.    

Practicing love

Even superheroes face a learning curve from discovering their powers to
actually using them effectively, to actually using them, not being ruled by
or fearing the power. In Smallville, we see Clark Kent practicing in the
safety of the remoteness of the family farm. The Bat-family has the
auspices of Bruce Wayne to give them guidance and training. In the Marvel
world, there is an entire school dedicated to developing nuances of
superpowers -- controlling the evocation of the power, discerning the needed
intensity, and most importantly, being able to limit the power before it
becomes self-destructive. Moreover, there is the emotional regulation, the
ethics and responsibilities, of using superpowers. How do you not let this
power, this one aspect of your physical manifestation, become YOU, overtake
who you are as a complete being? As the latest issue of Wonder Woman
(long overdue) asks, is Wonder Woman a role played by Diana or is
Diana a role played by Wonder Woman? In the end, it all takes
practice, awareness, and patience.

Like love.

A superpower we all have.

Usually it sneaks up on us, unaware, unprepared. Outwardly, we seem
the same, but there something new, wonderful, scary lurking within.
It is unfamiliar and we are not sure what
to do. We think we know all about love; we have seen images of love
in songs, in movies, in fairy tales. We may trust it completely and
submit ourselves wholly to its power,
forgetting the totality of who we are, hoping the magic will work as
we are told it should. When it does not, when it is apparent that
love is not magic, but a gift we must nurture, what was love may
become resentment, anger, hatred. We fumble with love in a tug of
war. Love gives us power, over ourselves and over others, power to
heal or hurt, to bring peace or war, to free or oppress.
Love, does it liberate us or control us? In the end, it takes practice to
know when our love is real and pure or when it is a front to serve our ego.

Love, like so much in life, is a practice, something we must do with
awareness and discipline.

Sotto Voce

After weeks of rehearsal, I woke up and could feel the silence in my throat.  Today, I actually had an expected audience, just for me.  I opened my mouth to try a note and found myself possessed by a young boy going through puberty.  Snap, crackle, and pop, perhaps.   Nada.  My first encounter with laryngitis.    My throat felt normal, no pain, no swelling, but every time i tried to speak, it was a whimpering whisper.   It can't be.  I gargled.  I drank several glasses of orange juice, in vain.  Finally, I had to admit, despite the weeks of rehearsal, the new red blouse, the audience of one for me, it wasn't going to happen.   

Sometimes, we prepare for a moment that never comes.  Sitting in the congregation, listening to the choir sing, would be unbearable, but I had to go.   Dressed in choir black and red, I still arrived early, hoping for a last minute miracle.  I whispered my excuses and instead took over videotaping.   The choir started the service, processing by me down the center aisle as I sat conspicuously in the congregation.   When the anthem started, for the first time in a long time, I had the privilege of leaving my body, the choir, and hearing and seeing its beauty.   There was no sadness or longing.   I knew the music, I could have been part of that joyous voice, lifting up the beauty of humanity and God.  I worked to know each note and feel the sync between the director, the singers, and the organist.  I was still in sync, silently absorbing each note, the layering of bass, tenor, alto, soprano into beautiful harmony marked more so by the occasional slip into dissonance.  Just like every other part of life.  

I probably should have went home after that, but pushed on through a lovely lunch with the choir.   I whispered my part of the conversation, exhausted when I got home.  By the next morning, I had to head to work without being able to make a sound.  The silent teacher, every students' dream.   Luckily, it was finals week so there was little information to impart other than directions.   The reactions of the students amused and surprised me at times.  Silent communication challenged us to find new ways to interact.  Mainly, the familiar and at times dreaded white board became my voice.  Some students laughed at my few attempts to say anything.  However, many students were sympathetic and even helpful, offering to be my voice.   I also have been forced to really hone and perfect The Teacher Look, not having the voice to back it up.  I am sure I looked ridiculous.  Learning the new system more quickly than any other I set up this year, I simply would walk to the board, pick up a marker and someone would call out, "Miss has something to say!"   

More amusing is the reaction of colleagues.   Tired of writing notes, I would whisper simple questions and almost always the reply would come back in a whisper, as if we were sharing some secret.   I would mouth, "I can't speak."   The other person then, rather than returning to normal speech or just ending the conversation, proceeded to ask questions in either a very loud voice or speaking very slowly, as if being mute also made me deaf.   It is interesting how we unconsciously try to compensate for one sense with another, even if only in sympathy with the sufferer.  

It is day three without a voice.  I had three very minimal conversations today and I am now getting bored with the imposed silence.  I wonder what, psychologically, might have brought on this illness.  Or is it punishment for being so talkative (after years of shyness, I am now told, at times, that I am talkative and outgoing and social)?  For my cutting edge witty humor that I try to spread to all I know?    

Thank goodness for writing!   I don't think I have ever appreciated my literacy so much as this week.

Inverting Approaches

"Poses have benefits?"

"Of course, that is the whole point and beauty of yoga."

And lessons exist in each pose.

Yesterday, moving from a lunge, placing my back foot down,
straightening the bent front leg, extending my arm across my body
and, like an arm on a clock, rotating that arm around forming a
series of triangles with my body -- between my torso, arm and leg;
between my legs and the floor; between my other arm and torso and an
imaginary line. Then, we lift up, rotate the feet 180 degrees and
move into the mirror image of this pose from standing. It feels
awkward from this direction, my body closes and resists until I focus
and breath deeply.

The tension is also from the transition of old and new ways of
relating to others. I react physically to innocent words of new
people that evoke the lies and betrayals of people of the past. My
approach-- an oxymoron of controlling independence and self-
sacrificing accommodation -- did not work last time, though familiar
and comfortable, knowing my position and required movements. Moving
into what I want from a new direction, my body tenses, it is out of
its element, but I know, eventually, I will get to a new point of
understanding, openness, to a point where the benefits of the pose
will blossom even further than I knew possible.

Today, I placed my forearms on the floor, hands clasped, looking down
at my mat. Faithfully walking my hips over my shoulders, I lifted
one leg, pushed off with the other until I felt one and then the
other heel touch the wall. Forearm stand on the first try, pose I
did once with help a year ago. "Now, we will do one handstand, a
counterpose for the elbows." Handstands. I remember over a year
ago believing I would never do one. It was no longer so important,
but today, I had the nerve to ask for help, just to stand and make
sure I don't fall on my head. I try once and my instructor gives me
a few corrections, an objective view point of where I am in line,
where I am off balance. I focus, and again feel one heel and then
the other against the wall. "Squeeze in your elbows" and suddenly, I
am there, on my hands.

I am that strong. Amazed, focused, muscles engaged in holding up
my weight, head dangling, I finally relax. Stronger than I think I
am, maybe even more ready that I think I am.

The oasis is closer and more real than we think . . .

Head first, my body follows, gliding into the silky warm mineral
water, warm and pure, quenching the thirst that permeates my body.
My skin instantly softens and tightens, finding its elasticity and
color in the healing moisture. I never did belong in the desert, the
scorching sun burning my pale skin and drying my tongue so that I
could not sing, the cold air sapping my body of all moisture at night
so that I could not dance or sleep. Here, in the water, I am light
and move with grace and ease, pirouetting through the pool. The
strength of my muscles propels me wherever my heart desires to go.
I float on the water, arms and legs long, strong and lithe. Why did
I stay in the desert so long, so fearful? When I chose to leave the
desert and its trifling puddles, I prepared my mind and body for the
long, arduous journey ahead. I expected to see myself, gray and old,
the next time I found water. Now, my brown hair streams behind me as
I swim up to the surface, coming up for air, renewed, revived in the
arms of my oasis.

Declaration of innocence of conservatism

Conservative. Somewhere in my quickly passing years, the definition
changed. I always thought this meant someone who is resistant to
change and upholds the status quo, someone who is a non-progressive
thinker and reactionary, someone who wants to hold on to traditions
at the expense of the rights and freedom of others. Now, somehow, it
means someone like me. For the third time in too short a time, a
person has described me as conservative. Conservative! It feels a
bit like being punched in the gut, a moment of denial, "Whom are we
talking about?" Conservative? I try to see myself from their
perspective and, while I do not walk around in mini-skirts and
plunging neck lines becoming inebriated and promoting anarchy (all of
which I might have done at some point in my life though never all at
the same time), I am outraged and insulted, deeply, deeply insulted,
that anyone, especially a friend, would describe me as such.

Is there really a vibe that I emit that screams CONSERVATIVE? Or, is
it the definition that has morphed into something that could be use
to describe me? What exactly is conservative or liberal? A look, a
philosophy, an attitude?

Perhaps it is because I go to church. Yet, I go to a church that
accepts people of all races and sexual preferences and ages, where
talk at coffee hour often delves into off-color stories of our non-
churchy escapade, where conservative policies to oppress the poor and
needy are fought with love and charity. Is that any more
conservative than the atheists and agnostics who worship their ipods,
Razors, Minis, and SUVs, all which cannot leave their sides as they
shop for overpriced produce at Whole Foods?

Perhaps it is because I dress to be (while still trying to look like
I am of the current year) comfortable and to feel like me, not to fit
some image of Betty Page or JLo or Gwen Stefani. Isn't conformity
to an unrealistic standards of beauty (and materialism to support it)
and a style that is stolen from someone else the truer expression of
conservatism? Doesn't holding me to a standard of non-conformity
constitute conformity?

I don't bump and grind with strangers at dance clubs or have one-
night-stands. Is my belief in self-respect and my value of self-
esteem (as well as health and hygiene and safety) a mark of
conservatism or a mark of responsibility and self-worth? I prefer
a classy and easy-going salsa club or a quiet party at home or a
weekend in the desert to the cocaine-snorting Hollywood scene,
probably with a parking lot full of Hummers (yeah, that is really
showing it to the conservatives).

I don't subscribe to cable and live within my means. Is it my
ignorance of all that liberating pop-culture and bling-bling that
makes me so conservative? I am sure, if only I watched more episodes
of Top Model (an inspiring example of the infiltration of feminism)
or American Idol or Survivor (heartwarming examples of how to enact
liberal and democratic ideals in society starting with interpersonal
relationships) or, better yet, maybe a little bit of the Sopranos and
Nip/Tuck, because the mafia and plastic surgery are THE cutting-edge
propagators of liberalism.

Conservatism: resistance to change and adherence to traditions.
Change is the constant in my life. Traditions ground me to what is
valuable and what strengthens me so that I may embrace change, or,
when needed, instigate it.

Perhaps it is my seeming stillness in change, just as the quiet
breathing of a yogi appears passive, static, inactive when in
reality, each breath recreates life giving birth to that moment.