Turning the Radio down

This is for Betsy Young Hudson. Thank you for looking at me with your wondrous eyes a couple of nights ago, and saying "I love your chickens. I have chickens, too." And for Kate McLennan. I hope you enjoy reading this while you're recovering from your hip surgery. You inspired me so much. Thank you.
It's about turning the radio down...

Summer, 2009. Right out of Bikram's Yoga Training. I came home after 9 weeks in the yoga bubble and my old friend, The House of Fear, my chicken coop, was open and ready for business. I felt it as soon as I set my huge suitcase back down on the concrete floors of Michelle's guesthouse. "What now," I thought to myself. I looked around at what was familiar... my paintings, my books, the hot pot I use for making tea every morning, my gold blanket I wrap up in while I write. I opened the fridge, and in my fog of trying to mentally return back to my usual environment, I pulled out 2 month old rice milk and made some hot tea with it. I had a few sips before noticing the black flecks in my cup that were floating around. I inspected the rice milk. There was a giant black ball of unknown matter sitting it. I almost threw up. Then I died laughing. Who the hell drinks 2 month old rice milk?? Oh yea, Octavia, that's who. She rode in on her magic carpet yoga mat and landed back in Austin that afternoon. I was in a daze. I'm actually really obsessive compulsive about expiration dates. But there I was, letting my brain swallow me yet again in fear, and sipping on tea laced with black-ball-mold-funk like I didn't have a care or a clue in the world. I needed that yoga training environment to last much longer - for months, maybe even years. I felt like a small child who was forced to wake up from her nap before she was ready, and she is foggy and cranky for the rest of the day because she never hit that stage of deep, restful sleep. I simply hadn't gotten to the end of what I needed from that experience. I didn't mind putting my body through such physical challenges because I just wanted to get to the very center of who I am, why I am the way I am, and how I can live my life with trust and faith, self love and some inner peace. Training, for me, meant safety from the world for a while. I finally felt what I saw in a musical production when I was a teenager and have never forgotten. "Stop this train. I want to get off." The train would stop and all of the people froze except for the main character, who just walked around and looked at the world from the perspective of stillness. (I think I have been craving stillness since I came into this world). I didn't get on line for weeks at a time. I checked my cell phone for texts and voice messages every few days. I simply got up every morning and did what was required -- yoga, attended lectures, lunch, swam in the pool to survive the heat, posture clinics, more yoga, dinner, more posture clinics, and watched Indian movies with Bikram until 3 or 4 am. We got up at 7:30am and did the whole thing all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat. It felt like the movie "Ground Hog Day" with Bill Murray. It was therapeutic and cleansing, and it helped me peel back layer after layer of my wiring, my thoughts and my anxiety, my ego. It helped me let go, truly, of all that I thought I was, and I watched as someone else emerged. It was amazing getting to know her, and I still feel like our relationship is new and fragile. She was not so entertaining, and yet she loved life more than ever. She didn't feel separate or insecure. She didn't have any need to judge, compare or analyze. She preferred staying quiet more often and just being. And nothing external about her mattered as much. Yoga clothes were what I had to put on each day so that I could go sweat out another layer on my mat. My face and body just wanted to feel clean and soft. My hair was no longer something to style and play with so that I felt more beautiful. It became, and still is, just an extension of me. I watched as the old Jamie stripped herself down into something I recognized from long ago - something much more beautiful, because it came from the inside. I watched my thoughts drift through me each day, and I watched them drift right on by. This part of me, my spirit, my true essence, I call "Turtle." She's a slow mover and a deep breather.

Journal Entry while at training, May 9, 2009:

"Something is happening to me. With this yoga. I feel strong and capable. I FEEL it. I know it like I have never known anything. I know it because my bones and muscles, tendons, heart and lungs tell me so. My bladder, the balls of my long skinny feet, my fingers, my small, imperfect breasts, the sun spot on my right cheek, my dirty, unruly hair, the yellow coming out of my eyes every morning, my cramping uterus - all the way through to my spine... they are all singing a chorus to me. They are all in unison. The old, painful, embarrassing and now beautiful stretch marks across my hips are smiling at me. My heat rash leaves beautiful bumps across my chest. My strong, thin arms, still riddled with old memories of saggy triceps... are saying "see? I was always here for you. I am your wings!!" I never knew how to love Jamie with reckless abandon. I never knew how to truly embrace myself. I just knew how to pick myself a part. Bit by bit. So what is this yoga showing me? I feel like the answers have always been there, waiting for me. God is there, too, waiting for me, deep inside the ocean of my heart. I feel it. I know. Jamie is there, too. Beautiful and free, and a light in this world just like everyone else."

I was so relieved when training was over, and I also felt a deep sense of dread. I was seeing for the first time what it felt like to be a part of a whole, that we are all spiritual beings having a human experience, and that we are all LOVE. But I wanted to bathe in this newness I felt. When training was over, I felt like all I had in that pool of love and deep connection was my big toe. I knew that coming home would mean I had to face the fear of separation all over again. Separation from my yogi tribe, yes, but deeper than that, I knew I had to face my natural and ingrained tendency to separate from myself, my heart, and God. I had to face my life again, just as it was before I went to the desert for 9 weeks. I faced Austin, Texas, again, which meant facing my family, my friends, the healing wounds of an old relationship, and a yoga studio that didn't feel like home anymore but I didn't understand why. I faced feeling totally defeated, scared to death, completely annoyed, cold shouldered and complete warmth. I faced old habits and desperately wanted to kick them all the way to the moon. I stared at cigarettes and said "You are no longer a part of me. I thrived without you for 9 weeks. I will continue to let you drift by me." I faced alcohol with the same resolution. I stayed close to my yoga practice but drifted further away from the studio where I started my journey. I didn't feel connected to them anymore. And I started to unravel. Again. I came home with hope that my ex-boyfriend and I would spend time together again. It was with the hope of a child. It was Grace. Grace loved Colin more than anyone or anything. And she loved him like a child - it was full of expectation and disappointment, rage, need and jealousy. It was reactive and hurtful. She was still taking over my brain for long periods of time back then. At the time I lived with my friend and often my other mother and big sister, Michelle, in her guest house. I was going to stay there a few months after my break up with Colin. I stayed there for a year and a half. I finally met Grace there. And she left me paralyzed in that sacred space for months at a time. I remember seeing Michelle one morning as she left for work. My legs were weak from too much yoga, and my body felt racked with emotional pain. I looked at her with Grace's sad eyes, and I said "I don't care anymore if I live or die. It just does not matter to me anymore. I really don't like this life." Michelle gave me a mama bear hug and said "I know. And it will shift again inside you just like it always does. I love you." She went on with her day. I crawled back inside my cave, laid on my side, and cried my eyes out. I cried everyday back then. I cried so much that I got intimate and comfortable with the feeling of sadness. Eventually I started welcoming it. I saw it as another teacher. I laughed one day as I was telling Michelle another T-shirt idea I had. I called myself a "cry baby" one day because I was so tired of crying. And through my tears, I rearranged the phrase into "CRY, BABY!!" As in... let her rip!! Cry until you can't cry anymore. And so I did. For several more months.

July, 2009 Journal Entry, two weeks after training:

I feel like a crazy person. My head feels nuts. I think it always has. My only reprieve is the thought of moving closer to the ocean again. I feel like if I’m close to the ocean, I can sink to the bottom of it if I need to. And that will be peaceful. And that will be how I leave this earth. This body. Who knows about the rest, but right now I feel like I want to have that choice right in front of me, everyday. To sink, or not to sink. And yet, underneath this deep sadness, I have some hope that the ocean will heal me, and give me life again – give me back my soul, give me some freedom from this crazy head of mine, and maybe I can breathe easier. It’s not the location. It’s not that I’m done with Austin – it’s that I’m done feeling this way about myself – my life. Soul swimming freely. UNRAVEL ME.

That was two and a half years ago. It's interesting how the brain processes things like "time." Patty says to me, "you should have made much more progress by now." Grace pleads "Where's Rodney? Where's Colin? Where's ANYONE???" Octavia just keeps me on track with my yoga schedule, knowing that I will find more clarity there, again and again. Tomahawk, who I've yet to write about because he is still revealing himself to me, says with a long sigh "same song, different dance... or is it same dance, different song? Who gives a shit. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You run from your own truth." Hank just spins another record. This time it's Eric Clapton's voice drowning out the chickens, and it's the slower, unplugged version... "Lately I've been running on faith. What else can a poor boy do? But my world will be right, when love comes over you."

The truth is, I came home from training and went back into a very familiar, old cycle in my brain. I know one thing really well. I know how to be hard on myself, and I know how to act from fear. I know other cycles and patterns exist in my brain, but none are as well worn as that one. It's like an old record that plays over and over again. You choose it because it's your habit, without even realizing your taste in music has completely shifted. I KNOW that yoga helps me break out of this cycle. My mat is where I gain insight. It's where I find my inner flashlight to see into my heart and head and I can see what it is I need to do to reset the wiring. It's like opening the hood of a car and checking the engine and the fluid levels. Bikram used the car analogy a lot. He'd say "if you people hear something wrong with your engines, you just turn the radio up." Brilliant, isn't it? We LOVE distraction. What I know now is that on some level, the radio has been up in my brain the last couple of years, by choice, and I am once again choosing to turn it back down. Once again, I am on the hunt for silence and stillness in my life so that I can be a better listener to my heart. For reasons I cannot yet see, this has become my highest priority.

I still live in a world where I barely make ends meet so that I can continue to seek, explore, observe and share my journey through teaching yoga, painting and writing. It has been this way for almost three years, and honestly, for all of the sacrifices I make, I know I can't live any other way. It would go against my heart's wishes, and I refuse to live that way anymore. Sometimes I get really frustrated with my bank account, or the fact that so many people don't "get" what I'm about anymore, but those frustrations are short lived. What really matters is how I feel about how I am living each day, and the amazing truth is that by simply having faith in God, the Universe, and me (all the same to me), I am still making ends meet, and doing what I really love to do.

Yesterday I taught three yoga classes. In my last class, I mentioned to the students that I read and write a lot about what my thoughts are, and how I focus on shifting those thoughts into something more loving and productive. I said "I can brush my teeth in a way where I am being hard on myself. I can wear the bristles down on a toothbrush after a week if I'm not careful. I also scrub too hard sometimes when I'm in the shower. Do I really need to knock off that many dead skin cells every time I shower?? Do I really need my teeth brushed that hard? I'm 41 and still cavity free. I may be gum free by the time I'm 65 if I'm not careful. I'm starting to see that even in those small actions, I can take steps toward being more loving with Jamie. It's exhausting, being so hard on yourself." And I wrap it up by telling them to just pay attention to what their brains are telling them, and if it's not loving towards yourself, STOP it in that moment and shift those thoughts into something more loving and productive. Class ended and a student came up to me who recently found her way to my class. She said "Are you writing a thesis on that subject?" No, I say. "Because if you are," she says, "I'd make a perfect case study. I've spent thousands on every kind of therapy you can think of, and I still say things to myself that I wouldn't say to my worst enemy." I said "But you're recognizing that they're just thoughts and you can change them, because you're saying that to me." I think we'll have tea soon, talk about our brains, and check the expiration date on the rice milk.