Please don't tell me I'm beautiful

Whatever you do, please do not tell me that I have a beautiful yoga practice. 

"You have a beautiful practice" has become a sneaky way for well-meaning practitioners to compliment and praise each other for their abilities on the mat.

Yesterday I may have been able to straighten my legs in Plow pose but find that today my hamstrings are taut and my feet are just dangling out there in space. Some days I am fluid and flexible, and other days I am wound up like the rubber band on a balsa wood propeller plane. That's OK. That's how life is. When you attempt to comment favorably on my practice, you are placing expectations on me, and that impinges on my need to listen to my body and allow my practice to ebb and flow as it needs to.

Any kind of commentary on my practice is a reminder that I am being watched and a subtle suggestion that I should be aware of how others perceive me. If I decide that I want to grab my toes with my fingers in Standing Hand to Toe pose, and open my leg to the side just to discover my tipping point, I can't afford to be distracted by what it looks like. It may not be beautiful - at least not in any kind of way that can be observed by you or anyone else - but sometimes I want to be a mess of flailing arms and legs, sweaty and grunting. I need that freedom.

Whenever you tell anyone in a class that they have a "beautiful practice," you are intimating that they are better than the others, and you are insinuating competition among us. After all, you can't conclude that one person is beautiful without also hinting that others are less so. I work hard to not notice or care if someone else can stay in a headstand longer than I can or if they take an arm bind that my shoulder can't handle. Like many people, I am tempted to use this assessment as fodder for self-criticism. It's hard enough fighting my own inclination toward comparison; it becomes more difficult if I know you're doing it too.

At a deeper level, this kind of sorting and judging feeds into concepts such as us against them, you versus me,  better or worse, ugly or beautiful. It is that kind of thinking (which we all do) that feeds our egos and helps to set the stage upon which the dramas of human suffering play out. If we never had to compare ourselves to another, or if we were always able to reach contentment with who we are and what we have, if we felt at peace with each other, what would there ever be to fight about, or angst over?

That kind of utopia doesn't exist for most of us, but yoga practice helps us to carve a little space and time where we can begin to experience that sense of oneness, of non-judgment of self and others, and where we can practice bringing those ideas into our minds and then into our lives.

And you know what? It's all beautiful.

Peace,

Julie

The art of conscious conversation

As I anticipated meeting an old friend for coffee the other day I found my thoughts riding a predictable trajectory. I recalled how we'd met, what role our relationship played in my life, and the circumstances around which we'd parted ways. I looked forward to catching up, which to me meant hearing about the changes in his life over the past several years, and deciding how I would frame my own stories to share. 

Then I realized that even though our meeting was hours away, I had already designed our conversation, what I would give to it, and what I would take from it. I hardly even needed to show up. 

Aside from this need to control or understand an event that hung suspended in a unknowable uncontrollable future, I saw that I was also putting my friend in a sort of a box. By thinking of him in terms of the past, I was confining him, insisting in a sense that he wriggle his way out of my outdated perception of him.

I was putting myself in that box too because I was viewing him through the eyes of who I once was. I often think about what my worldview was like back then, the decisions I made and what drove those decisions, and I shudder. I am different now, and surely he is too.

I also assumed that I would walk away from our meeting all "caught up." I believed that by hearing the stories he had to tell me of his life in recent years, I would be able to fill in the blanks, and so know him again, label him. But people are not the sum total of the experiences they've had - what about the ways in which he responded to what had happened to him, how it changed the way he saw himself, the way he thought of his life and of the world around him? What about the growing he did, the regrets he had, the new dreams that had undoubtedly germinated and were being nurtured?

And really, did I think that I could tell him a few quick stories about myself, and thereby establish instant intimacy? There is no way I could adequately relate everything to him about my experience with yoga, my failed business attempts, the evolution of my career, my dreams, the changes in my family, and how all of those things had kneaded themselves into this new (and I hope improved) version of me. Even if it were possible to know all the nuances of another, it couldn't happen in two hours over a cup of mint tea at a sidewalk cafe.

The most sobering realization was that I intended to approach this visit without any expectations. Yet as I observed my thoughts, it became apparent that my expectations were many; it's just that they were unconscious. 

So I took a few moments and identified my highest intentions for my time with my friend. Below are two brief lists I came up with.

I wanted to respect both of us and our history by:

• truly listening to him. Instead of thinking about all the stories I wanted to tell, I wished to remain receptive and curious to his stories, to be present as he shared bits of his life with me.
• being with him with a beginner's mind, and letting go of what I thought I knew about him, so that he could have space to be who he is now. Likewise, I promised myself that I would not allow him to promote old ideas about me without challenging him if I thought he was putting me into a box. 
• being genuine. Pull no punches, be open and honest about what I was doing and how I was thinking these days, without any investment in trying to control what he would think of me, or if he would be shocked, disappointed, or even bored.

I did not want to repeat patterns of the "old" me, such as:

• acting self-deprecating, poking fun at myself for the things that might embarrass me or make me feel self-conscious.
• being automatically deferential. Rather, I wanted to have the self-possession to confidently express my own thoughts and opinions.
• playing the coquette.

I learned much just by formulating this list. As I review it now, I see that it boils down to a set of guidelines for having what I refer to as "conscious conversation" -  an art that honors each individual but also recognizes that a conversation between people has a purpose, a life, and a consciousness of its own that requires space, awareness, and respect.

I offer you these guidelines and encourage you to look for opportunities to practice them with others, regardless of who the people are or the circumstances surrounding your conversations.

• Give others permission to be who they are, not who you think they are - or worse - who you think they should be.
• Allow yourself the same courtesy. Be yourself and let go of how others see you - it's a game you can't win anyway. You can't know how someone else perceives you. Even if you could, there would be absolutely nothing you could do about it. 
• Let go of how you think the conversation will evolve, or what the outcome will be. To quote my friend Wendy, "Don't conclude."
• Be aware of opportunities to break old habits. If you tend to exaggerate, be more truthful. If you're critical of others, engage the maxim of "If you can't say something nice, say nothing at all." When you practice being aware of and dismantling destructive patterns of behavior, not only are you growing, but you are offering a more fulfilling, gentler experience to the other, as well.
• Listen. Don't interrupt, and don't plan your response while the other person is talking. Just pay attention. Be in the moment. It's a skill you can use all the time and everywhere. 

This isn't a comprehensive list on how to have meaningful communications, but it did help me to enjoy my time with an old friend, who will hopefully now also be a new one. 

Peace,
Julie

The Great Peach Adventure

It was a farm market peach, picked and purchased at its peak. It was the color of an August sunrise – all yellow and orange and sleepy soft. I lovingly placed it in the bottom drawer of the communal refrigerator at the office where I work, and as I slid the drawer closed I softly whispered to it, “I’ll see you at lunch time!”

Throughout the morning, I thought of that beautiful peach, just waiting for the touch of my lips against its skin. I knew it would be juicy and sweet and just the right degree of firm. A couple times during the course of the morning, I was tempted to break into the bottom drawer, but my Catholic upbringing has resulted in an over-developed sense of delayed gratification; I convinced myself that the longer I waited, the more delectable the peach would be. I really needed something to keep me going through a tedious, dull morning.

When lunchtime finally arrived, I made my way down to the kitchen. I could practically feel the juice dripping down and tickling my chin. I grabbed an extra napkin from the shelf, to make sure I didn’t get any on my blouse.

I opened the drawer. The peach was gone. Just gone. No telltale fuzz, no ransom note. Just gone.

"What the fridge!?" I yelled as quietly as I could (but I didn’t say “fridge"). "Who would take my peach?"

I slammed the refrigerator door closed. On the outside of the door was the cleaning schedule, which announced that today was cleaning day. It was Lisa’s turn to go through all the food and throw out expired and forgotten items.

Don’t even tell me that she threw away my peach, I thought.

I opened the drawer again, presumably hoping that the peach would now be there. It was not. In fact, this time I noticed that my apple was also gone and my little Tupperware bowl which had recently contained gluten free pasta was sitting there, empty, gluten-free-free. I stomped my foot. (Yes, I really did that.)

"What the fridge?!" I repeated again in my whisper-yell (but I didn’t say “fridge"). I guess I did this so that the people who didn’t hear me fake yell it the first time could not hear me fake yell it again. My stomach growled and my face grew hot. I marched to Lisa’s office and knocked on her door.

“Come in,” she sang.

I opened the door and there she was, all sitting and smiling and crap like that.

“Hey, Lisa,” I said, in my best you-know-how-professional-I-am-because-I’m-really-pissed-but-I’m-speaking-to-you-in-a-very-controlled-voice voice, “I had a fresh peach and an apple and some other stuff in the fridge," (this time I actually said "fridge”) "and now it’s all gone.”

Lisa’s eyes grew wide and she raised her hand to cover her gaping mouth. “Oh, my god!” she exclaimed. “I thought it was garbage.”

Apparently not quite satisfied to have shocked and dismayed her I added, “No, it wasn’t garbage; it was my lunch.”

“Oh no! I feel so bad.”

But she didn’t get her gorgeous peach thrown in the trash.

“When you clean out the fridge, you’re only supposed to throw away stuff that’s rotten.”

“I am soooo sorry.”

“That’s OK,” I said, closing her door. We both knew I didn’t mean it.

My trip back to my office began with a stomp and ended with a slink as my anger began to subside and the truth of my reaction came into view. I was acting like a real ass. My anger was not in proportion to the events at all. It was a peach, for heaven’s sake.

A few minutes later there was a knock at my door.

“Come in,” I grumbled.

Lisa opened the door and presented me with a gift bag that contained a pint of fresh guilt – er, I mean peaches - from the farm market. She sat them on my desk. I stared at them. They stared back. They tried to woo me with the same sunrise palette and soft fuzz as my lost peach. I was invulnerable to their charms.

I don't even really like peaches that much, I thought. I thanked Lisa and then set the fruit out to share with my work mates.

And I was still kinda pissed. It was then that I realized that I wasn't responding to the loss of a peach; my anger was at the loss of the idea of eating, savoring and enjoying it - in the way that I wanted and planned. I had become fiercely attached to that expectation of pleasure, which was in turn attached to the idea of eating that peach.

It's not that pleasure is bad, or that I shouldn't look forward to enjoying something delicious on a dreary day, but this is a life pattern I seem to follow - and with things bigger and more important than peaches. When I need to escape my aversions I create the prospect of future pleasure and I focus on that instead. When I do that not only am I not living in the moment, but I am creating the conditions for disappointment and anger, which will result in additional future suffering for myself and subsequently for others as well.

I could be happier - and contribute a gentler presence to the world - if I could just learn not to be so attached to things.

Peace,
Julie