yoga loooooove

The yoga I'm used to doing is of the sinew-twisting, bucket-sweating, birth-cursing variety. It's 26 postures over the course of 90 minutes in 106 degree heat. Add humidity. The instructor might kneel on your back or "help" you contort your leg into a more uncomfortably impossible position and will often, yell, (yell mind you) "Change!" to signal a posture's end, usually accompanying the order with an authoritative clap.

And I love it.

Loved it.

Once upon a time I loved it.

And then life got in the way and I quit and I missed being all lithe (well. . . ) and strong and good-sleep/good-eat/good-attitude Jill. In the end, however, I haven't been miserable enough without it to brave the ten classes it would take to get past the place where death camps out in the back picking off the newcomers with his rancid breath. (Occasionally, I'll admit, the place does smell like feet. Another reason I'm less than inclined.)

Anyway, this weekend, I took a class called Yoga Love. (Yoga Looooove.) Candles. Soothing music. Incense. A little light stretching, some deep breathing and then toward the end Hila invited us to put on our warm clothes or perhaps cover ourselves with a blanket (WTF??) and "Oh, does anybody need an eye pillow?" (Eye pillow?!) and we took a nap! I got out of bed on a Sunday morning after a nine hour travel day to take a nap?

I'm still having a hard time reconciling that: napping as exercise.

I should be thrilled, I know, but I feel cheated. I'm already a black belt in napping.

So tonight: Bikram.

Pray for me.

* * *

Snowboarding update later this week. Just to ease your mind, however, I'll say this: I'm not dead and I love it like air.

an egg in motion

I'm loath to even sit here, unsure of what words lie in wait. If there are even any words worth typing, let alone posting. But I feel the urge to claim this sense of concrete expectation. Forward-moving, positive, living expectation. As often as I've come here to whine, there is reason today to celebrate.

I took a risk. I produced. The outcome, out of my hands, isn't my worry. I did my part and in that there is deep satisfaction. The design, if I do say so myself, is beautiful. Clean. Clean like my house will never be. Clear like I'd like my mind and heart to be. (Here, before I digress, I must remind myself: baby steps.) I'm given to chaos and color, so that I could create something so crisp. . . it's a mystery that's beyond me. And like all my best artistic endeavors, it feels not of my own hand.

I like when I remember that I am only the egg.

There have been times when I've let the channel take me where it will. Existed, briefly, in that state of hyper aware release, comfortably traveling in the dip of my spoon. Obstacles, another's responsibility. My only responsibility, to trust. It's a choice to live there. And one I allow my penchant for and frankly, my enjoyment of misery to prevent.

This year, however, has begun with two bold and positive choices. Opportunities weren't so much offered, but I asked for them anyway. Trusted the Hand when it pointed the way. I actually made the decisions and to my great surprise, followed through with the requests. (And not just by shout-wishing in my head. The words formed out loud. Audible even to other people.) And all the while I forgot, for some strange reason, to tick off a list of negatives. To allow my fear of the no to prevail. The word fail briefly lost its meaning.

On Saturday, I leave to go snowboarding. I can't think of a better way to begin the year than with this bit of adventure in the company of good-hearted and fun-loving people who don't mind that I invited myself to their party. When I get back, someone may have judged the very clean hat I tossed unsolicited into the ring. But the beauty of it is, it's none of my concern. A body in motion stays in motion and I'm telling you, my friends, that this will be a good year.

the universal hat

Thursday night, nothin' goin'. Sadie called.

"We're at Audra's. Bring wine and Fred." (click)

Grabbing coat, Fred, sweater for Fred, keys and phone I can't remember what time the market down the street closes. It's 9:30 now.

Call Sadie back.

"What ti. . ."

"10:00."

Ten words have never made me feel so wonderfully known and loved.

* * *

When I've got time motivation, I'll recount the rest of the evening which involved organic sangria, grecco-canine roman "wrestling," (Fred so hearts Satchel), wine as a paint medium, Russian mail-order brides and the Universal Hat. Among other things.

Happy New Year!