Dear Katherine, you left your backpack.

Wednesday before Turkey Day, I came home to South Austin after being in Wimberley overnight. It's my usual schedule. My roommate, Chrislyn, had already gone home for the Holiday weekend. I drove up and saw that my front door was wide open behind the screen door. I could see through the house, all the way through to the back sliding door, also pulled wide open. Fear is an interesting emotion, the way it creeps through you slowly, and it slows your mind down so much that rational thinking becomes extremely difficult. I thought maybe Chris was still home, even though her car was gone. I thought maybe I'd left the door wide open on accident. I couldn't accept what had happened at first, but slowly I ruled out the obvious and called 911. I was too afraid to turn the truck engine off. I sat in my truck and waited, furious and scared that they may still be in our house. My masculine side and my ego wanted to bust through there and smell them out, hunt them down and face them head on. My softer, feminine side said, "wait, you are not here to handle thieves." It was a clear message. I listened. Once the police came and checked inside, I was afraid to go in and face what damage had been done, what was missing, what remained. It's a gut wrenching feeling. And it's a familiar one. The feelings that come up are powerful enough to shake your core, make you question the human race and God entirely, and eventually leave you standing there with your hands stuffed in your pockets like an angry child who wants to blame everyone else for her anger, when actually it is all mine.

There is no doubt, it sucks to have stuff stolen. It's funny when you tell people you were robbed, they always want to know what was stolen. A subconscious conversation starts up underneath the one you're actually having. Most people are afraid of being robbed and what they really want to know is what to expect when it happens to them, so they can start mentally preparing for it. So here's the list, folks:

They don't want hard drives, thank God. They're not worth much, and it's too time consuming to wipe them clean. Laptops are worth the time because they're worth more at the pawn shop. Computer monitors are easy to carry and easy to pawn. All of ours were taken. Jewelry is a no brainer. So are flat screen TV's and prescription drugs, but we don't have either in our house. Musical instruments in cases are easy. They took Chrislyn's great grandfather's violin. I know that one hurt her as much as losing the journals that were tucked into a duffle bag with other things in it. They just took the whole bag. You realize that what matters most to you is not necessarily monetarily valuable. It is sort of a beautiful lesson.

There are many factors that contribute to the amount of stuff that's stolen, but I think the big ones are time and experience. I've heard of robberies where the thieves are high on drugs, and they not only steal stuff, but they take great pleasure in destroying things along the way. All in all, we got off with minimal damage to the house, a list of things that will eventually be replaced, and a few things that will always be missed. And every now and then, and if you're lucky enough, the thieves make mistakes. In this case, they left evidence. I was standing by my desk after the police left, looking at the space where the computer monitor once was, and noticed a bag sitting in my desk chair. It was a child's backpack. I'm sure my jaw dropped. It was black mesh, and in the front pocket were several pens for school, in an assortment of bright colors, along with a shoe string, and one post-it note that said: "Is it okay if Katherine works on her math homework in your classroom? If not, send her back to mine." It was dated 11-14, with an illegible signature at the end. I called the police and they came back and got it. It's evidence, after all, they tell me. I felt the anger shift a little inside me. Whoever robbed us has a daughter, or perhaps a teenage girl was in on the robbery, sitting at my desk, wondering what else she could take. Perfume and jewelry were stolen. My 5 gallon glass jar full of change. They went through my belts in the bottom of my closet and took one that I never wear anymore, the one with rhinestones all over it. An antique soap dish is missing. A painting was forming in my mind. I could see a young girl in our house with older men or women who had the experience to break into sliding doors and pass things through in the night. I could see this girl, eyes full of mischief and wonder, as she roamed around our house taking whatever pleased her. Half empty perfume bottles are a beautiful thing when you have none.

My amazing super hero of a sister came over later that evening. I felt frazzled, bewildered, exhausted, angry, scared and sad. She had the perfect remedy. She arrived, backed her SUV up in my driveway, and unloaded an arsenal of spy equipment. She was dressed in black and was holding a bat. She carried in a giant box and my smile grew wider as she unpacked hockey sticks, cleats, tiny plastic remote control dogs, batman capes, gloves, flashlights, goggles, hunting knives, both real and fake, pellet guns, giant plastic jars of pellets, diaper creme for my door knobs incase they came back (she said it was a bitch to get it off your hands) and the cardboard box game called "Trouble" for me to set inside my living room window to scare off burglars.

We played Charlie's Angels for the next couple of hours. We talked about Katherine and what life must be like for her. We suspect my neighbors who live across the street are either directly involved or know who is. Six kids live there with their mom and her boyfriend. The oldest is a teenage girl. I don't know her name. A neighbor tells me that the boyfriend who lives there told him he's been in and out of prison, and he's in a gang called "The Bloods." (I told Libby this, and she said, "that's so 80's.") But the truth is, Chrislyn's car was broken into a month ago, and Rodney's a few months before that, all right in front of that neighbor's house. The kids have come over asking for money. After the cars were broken into, I stopped feeling safe. The boyfriend spends lots of time outside talking on his cell phone, watching our house. I honestly felt like it was a matter of time before something else went missing. We were too easy of a target. I don't know if they are to blame, and I don't spend much energy thinking about it anymore. But I do wish I could give Katherine back her backpack, filled with new tablets, pencils and folders.

I sat at my mom's dining room table the next day for Thanksgiving dinner. We added something new this year. We went around the table and each of us shared a favorite Thanksgiving memory. It was my idea. I needed the love from those stories. And in the midst of reminiscing, time slowed down for me and I saw it all with my turtle vision, my spirit. My family around me at that same table, all healthy and accounted for. My mom's crocheted turkey attached to her apron, my dad's laughing eyes, my cousin's jokes, my sister's quiet tears because her boys weren't there this year. The same plate of food set in front of me that my mom and aunt prepare every year with recipes from generations past. I thought of that teenage girl in my house, two days before Thanksgiving, rummaging through closets and medicine cabinets. She was stealing love. It came in the form of perfume, computer monitors, belts and jewelry, which will never sustain her, but for now, it's all she can get. Every person who stepped foot in our home while we were gone just wanted love. For them, it's stealing so that they can get cash and get their needs met. Should they be caught, arrested, and sent to jail, the need never changes. Should they end up living a life of crime, in and out of jail and prison, the need is still the same. Perhaps they end up with hate in their hearts, emptiness in their eyes with drugs flowing through their bloodstreams... the need will always be there. It's a simple need, too. I got my fix that night looking into my sister's spy box and the next day at my mom's dining room table.

I'm not praying for the extra money to arrive so that I can buy a computer monitor. I'm praying that I hold on to every bit of compassion I feel in my heart for human beings. We are all in this together. I was hoping on Turkey Day that maybe Katherine was happy wearing a new belt, perfume on her wrists, and new earrings in her ears. I also hoped that she paid attention to the little chicken inside her head that said it was wrong. I hope she feels, at some point in her life, what real love is. And I hope she fights for it with every ounce of strength in her body. There isn't anything more valuable than that.

Hank. And my heart.

It's Thanksgiving week! The storm last night cleared out the heaviness that humidity brings with it. I woke up at 4:45am and stood out on the back porch, listening, watching as rain finally fell with commitment. Ahhhh... and this morning it actually feels like Thanksgiving week.

I fell back asleep after the rain stopped, and woke up with a happy heart and a song in my head, as usual. Must mean it's time to tell Hank's story. He's been waiting patiently, but said today he was tired of being a B-Lister in my blogs. I guess at some point, they all want to be the star.

Hank. My Musical Chicken.

I was that child who preferred alone time. I spent hours sitting in the formal living room, rocking in the old green rocking chair, listening to my dad's 8-tracks and completely focusing on the music and what the lyrics meant. That was my retreat after a long day of kids' chatter and my need to maintain my personal space. I listened to Helen Reddy, Barbara Streisand, Tom T. Hall, Neil Diamond, Don Williams and Hank Williams, Sr. I listened to Simon and Garfunkel, Elvis, Elton John, and Olivia Newton John. I listened to whatever music my dad had collected. I was fortunate because he loves music. I started playing the piano when I was around 8, and what I really wanted to learn were pop songs... Christopher Cross' "Arthur's Theme", Joe Cocker's "Up Where We Belong" and Neil Diamond's "Forever in Blue Jeans." I learned Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" while my piano teacher was telling me to learn Bach and Mozart. "But what about Lionel Richie???" I would say. "You can't play anything really well until you learn the classics," she always replied. It's funny. I can still sit down and bang out "Up Where We Belong" and my dad still comes into the room singing, full of joy and nastalgia.

So today I want to say this to Madeline, my piano teacher, wherever you are: the pieces I learned ARE classics, right up there with Mozart. And sometimes they even tap into a deeper, more meaningful response than Bach ever could. And that's because we relate to it, Madeline. I'm so glad I listened to Hank back then, my musical chicken. He was tap dancing on my shoulder, whispering in my ear... "learn 'Easy Like Sunday Morning' so we can etch it in our memory forever and sing it in the shower for years to come."

Mind you, I understand now what I couldn't then, that I would be a much more accomplished piano player today if I had practiced scales everyday, held the tennis ball under my hands while playing like she asked me to, cut my nails way back so I could press down on the keys with the right part of my finger, and studied chords and key changes instead of album covers before going to bed. But that was my path with the piano lessons.

I heard a Bikram Yoga teacher once say in class that practicing Bikram Yoga was like playing scales on the piano everyday. You do the same thing, everyday, so that you can go out and play Mozart with your life. I loved that, and I say it often to my students. It makes sense to me. We practice the same 26 postures and 2 breathing exercises, working everything in the body, so that we can enjoy a higher quality of life, one that is pain free, and if we're lucky, our lives become a symphony of classical music, simply by practicing your scales, your yoga, one asana or chord at a time.

Tap...tap...tap... Hank, my musical chicken, had to be named and categorized so that I could stop the music that plays repeatedly in my brain. Afterall, meditation is something I crave, and Hank wants NOTHING to do with it. So now, before I meditate, I close my eyes, and imagine myself walking into the chicken coop, and I find little Hank, who's quite cute with his headphones and scrawny legs as he sits by his records, tapes, and now his coveted I-Tunes collection. I gently lift the headphones off of his tiny head, and I say "be quiet for a little while for me, okay Hank?" The first time I did it he squawked and squawked, "what about all the songs we love in the morning, Jamie?? I was going to play some old Paul Simon for us!" I looked at him with love and said, "give me this quiet time, and you can turn it back on later." Now when I come up to him, he just lays flat on his back in a state of dramatic surrender (Libby taught him that, I'm sure) with his hand lifted up high, handing over his tiny headphones without a struggle. We've built a trusting relationship the last few years. He knows his job is important. He knows I love music because he feels every cell in my body respond to it. But now he understands the need for quiet time. I think he actually enjoys it some, too. It gives him time to build new playlists.

When I was little, I made up songs and sang them in the car for my adoring fans, Brad and Libby. I remember once I was in the back seat sitting between them, singing and bumping my head against the seat to the beat in my head. They both put an arm out and pinned me to the seat and put their hands over my mouth. I KNOW I sang all the time, and it must've driven them crazy. I was a singer and a bumper. They went hand in hand for me, and bumping was the most calming, meditative thing I could ever do with myself, so I did it often. It put me in a trance. I'd sit in the living room, rocking or bumping, for hours while the music played. I remember telling my mom and dad when I was little that I was worried I might not find a husband who would let me bump since Brad and Libby hated it. I stopped bumping when I thought it wasn't cool anymore. But every now and then, when I'm in the car with someone and I'm totally relaxed, a song will come on that I love and I'll softly hum and bump my head against the seat. Who needs a time machine? I can shoot myself back to 1977 and I'm in my dad's Ford LTD again with Brad and Libby flanked on either side, while I'm rocking out to Glen Campbell. That's a fast track to sincere happiness.

So enough on bumping, Side Train Annie. What I'm saying here is that Hank sometimes dictates my ability to focus for several hours each day. Music can play so loudly in my head sometimes that I just can't make it stop unless I surrender and go turn on my I-pod for awhile. Music grabs me, and shifts my energy around if it's powerful enough. It makes life so much more beautiful. I must have thousands of songs stored in my memory, and Hank spins them all regularly. He lands on an old favorite sometimes, and keeps in the mix of 10 or so songs that he plays repeatedly. He'd make a great D.J. since he likes to hit the repeat button a lot.

Hank is special, too, because he knows when I need to hear a certain song that's supposed to trigger something in me. He sends me messages through songs. We communicate that way. This weekend, while in Wimberley, he kept playing Patty Griffin's "Let Him Fly" over and over for me. And sure enough, the hawks started stirring around in my heart again. Wimberley is where I found my heart on that fence post I was talking about last time. Here's a little more on her, and if you're lost, back up one post and read the beginning of my "Fence Post" story.

***

She had no way of knowing how long she'd been hanging on that fence post but she was high enough so that she struggled constantly with a thin layer of dust and an underlying current that made her feel vulnerable. She had a sense of wonder at the display of life in front of her, and the wildly beautiful sunsets she was constantly witnessing. She strained herself everyday, watching for those hawks. And they'd been watching her for quite awhile, too, as they lazily looped through the oaks and cedars, landing on much higher posts than hers, and peering down at her. She didn't know why I left her there, or when I would be back. She didn't panic because she knows, and has always known, that I come back. Time doesn't exist for her either, so her days blended together as she would once again watch the sun tuck itself inside the night, arranging a symphony of colors on it's way out. Nights were spent openly, and were a welcome relief to the dry, hot summer days. Mostly she felt sad because she knew I was far away from her again. There isn't much a heart can do to speed up her return when she's left hanging out on a fence post in the middle of the Hill Country. I felt her there for months, but didn't spend much time looking for her. I stayed busy and distracted, noticing from time to time that the hawks were circling much closer than they used to... ***


Play me a song, Hank. Let's get this day started. He stands up and sways side to side as he tosses aside Patty's "Let Him Fly" and picks up her "Heavenly Day" instead.

"Got no one on my shoulder
Bringing me fears
Got no clouds up above me
Bringing me tears
Got nothing to tell you
I got nothing much to say
Only I'm glad to be here with you
On this heavenly, heavenly day."

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Fence Post Story

"Up and at 'em."

I guess it was always my dad's job to wake us up in the mornings for school. He liked to clap and turn on the lights, turn the radio way up and say "Up and at 'em!!" I don't think I've ever woken up with that kind of enthusiasm. Not once. Don't get me wrong, I love mornings. QUIET mornings... I even told Chrislyn, my roommate, that sometimes I don't even talk until around 10:30am, and not to take it personally. We laughed. We always do. So I was up at 6am today. It's only Thursday and I've taught 7 classes already this week. I'm on a yoga high. And when that happens, you simply float around. Sleep is fun but not always necessary. I was writing in my journal this morning, something about how beautiful it feels to spend time with my parents these days, and with my new baby niece, Brooke Jean. It seems that lately my heart breaks at least 3 times a day over the slightest things. Like I said, I'm a big fan of crying. And it has been interesting to watch the shift in what my triggers are. Lately it's the beautiful things that are triggering tears... like the light in my mom's eyes, my niece's long fingers, and the stories my dad tells me about his childhood (he was always barefoot, so his feet were permanently black). If there's a crack coming up to the surface, I let it come, fill it with some tears, and watch it drift away. It is strengthening my will to step out of the way of my own healing process.

So while I'm writing in my journal, I grab my I-Phone because Libby, my sister, texts me at all hours of the day and night. Rules simply do not apply. She was here when I came in to the world, so I adapted years ago. And she's the funniest person on the planet, so that makes it easier. So here's the text: it's a photo of a man who was in the grocery store with her last night. She said he was the only one at HEB besides her at 10:30pm. He was an old man, and looked really sweet. I'm sure she felt some cosmic connection to him. So much so, that she probably took something out of his basket when he wasn't looking.

Since I was lost in a sea of late night HEB shoppers, I decided to open up the Icon I have that I'm just starting to use, called "Notes" so that I could start a grocery list and plan a date with HEB on my own.... bananas, honey, loose green tea, RICE MILK... and on that thought, something else popped into my head, and it was this, which I think is the beginning of another story, so I thought I'd share it here and that way I've sent it out to the Universe and I can watch what it does.

From Jamie's I-Notes, "Fence Post" is born...
Somewhere in the midst of a hoarder who loves strawberry sodas and cigarettes, an artisan who was last seen standing on his roof of steel beams over rammed earth blocks, a photographer who feels most at home behind the lens, and a brother who tracks wild pigs, I found my heart again. She was hanging on a fence post watching for hawks. How she got there is another story. I gently lifted her up and wrapped her in my scarf and carefully placed her in my dad's truck next to me. She mentioned her desire list to me again as we drove through the hill country.... "I still want salty air, warm studio floors, open windows, a garden, children close by or a baby of my own, music, laughter, and the smell of freshly cooked meals always lingering in the kitchen. I want a man who sees ME, and not just YOU. I want to continue to make the decisions on what you wear and who we really connect with. Stop doing Yoga obsessively and find some quiet space again for us to chat. I miss our talks about dreams, mermaids, God, and the need for winter blankets and candles."
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry I left you on the fence post. I haven't forgotten our plans. I just got distracted again by the noise in the chicken coop. I'll keep you close, and we can stay up late and have hot tea and read and you can show me some more of your magical dreams."
She looked up at me with a deep sense of relief. She was tired of watching for hawks...
*****

I like my drift. I like watching where it goes...

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.

Sitting by a Moon Beam.

"Quietly while you were asleep, the moon and I were talking. I asked that she always keep you protected." ~ Sade

I can see myself as Grace, when I was 8 years old. I'm sitting under the stars, hugging my knees close to my chest. I'm beside my oak tree, the one I used to talk to when I needed someone to just listen. I'm asking the tree about her life and I want to know what it feels like to stay in the same spot all day, and have your branches sway side to side in the breeze. I want to know if it feels magical to have a bird choose your branches for a nest, since you get to peek into the nest at your leisure and check on the new babies. The moon is out and she quietly watches over me, spilling her light through the tree branches, and over my small shoulders. I am peaceful here. The night air wraps around me like a blanket, and I am lost in the magic of being a child, and of simply being.

I realize that I am, in some small miraculous way, actually living in the moment of my life like I did as a child. My thoughts are not screaming at me. My heart is content to just enjoy the ride that is my life each day. I am moving through with Grace, Octavia, Patty, Hank, Tomahawk, and a few other chickens I haven't named yet. Presently, they're all content inside the chicken coop that is my house of fear, my brain. I feel more settled in my bones than I ever recall feeling.

Transition has been moving through me again. Sometimes I can actually hear a clock ticking in my body. Each tick requires that I pay attention to what my body is saying to me. My heart has been asking for what I recently gave her for a long time. She simply wanted to be free. She wanted to spread her arms out wide, and let that feeling of deep inner peace run through her veins. I am getting better at becoming an observer of my own thoughts. I am getting better at honoring and following through with my heart's wishes. But it can be a rough ride at times. It can mean that someone you really care about and love gets their feelings hurt badly. But what I know now is that if I am taking the best care of my heart, and following through with those feelings I intuitively have, then by doing that, I am also taking the best care of everyone around me. The truth shall set us all free. We get so foggy about what our own truth really is, that it can become our greatest challenge to gain clarity and move from that place. And so it was with me. I saw that I needed to walk out of a relationship I have been in for over a year. I saw that it would serve us both for the better in the long run if I spoke my truth and walked away with love and grace. And so that is what I did. And the truth, my truth, set me free.

I came down with a head cold the same day we decided to split up. Some of my yogi tribal women who are older than me, and watch over me in that tribal sort of way, said I was detoxing the relationship. I hadn't heard this one before, but it certainly felt right when I asked my "internal pharmacist" if that was what this head cold was all about. The answer I got was an absolute yes. And so I treated myself intuitively ~ the way I know how. I took lots of B5 - Pantothenic Acid, lots of Vitamin C, fresh juices, green powders, green tea, some Ibuprofen, and I stayed in the hot yoga room for atleast 3 hours a day, either teaching or practicing. I taught 8 classes last week. I think I practiced 5. It has been months since I've put myself through that heavy of a yoga schedule. The results were what I knew to be true. I sweated out the toxins. I sweated out my head cold, which really translated to: Grace's fear of being alone, Patty's anxiety over transition, and Tomahawk's anger over not being able to play his role of being a victim. I let the tears come in the hip-opening postures and the backbends. I stepped out of the way for once, of my own healing process. I became an observer to what my body was going through, this letting go in love, this passing of something beautiful, but something that needed to shift. I sweat out fearing the unknown, and I loved myself more and more each day, honoring my spirit, nurturing myself back to good emotional, mental and physical health. I honored that I am grieving a loss right now, and that it's necessary to feel every second of it. I'm still in it, and I am grateful for it.

It is Sunday night. My heart is peaceful. I am not getting ahead of myself. I am not letting codependent or addictive cycles step up and run my heart, my life. I am curious about how I feel, and what I am experiencing. I have never been through a "healthy" breakup, because I never understood myself well enough to feel "healthy". I do now. And the shift is amazing. The snapshots I see of me, when I was a child sitting by a moon beam, were from a time when I was peaceful, staying in the moment, and feeling a sense of wonder around just being alive, in this body I was given. And while my heart is heavy with sadness, I feel a deeper sense of peace for having honored my own wishes. I am grateful to have felt so much love in my life, and I am trusting that God has my hands through this, just like He always has.

GRACE.

She's the one who started the whole thing. And by that I mean, she's the oldest in the Coop. My first born. She's also only 8 years old, and that's where she stays - physically, emotionally and mentally. We're working on it, she and I. She also has a nickname. It's "Little." I love Grace so much that I named her Grace. She is grace. And she has taken over the entire chicken coop for long periods of time, sometimes years.

My dreams the last two nights are again what has inspired me to continue writing about my chickens. Sometimes I want to lock them up and throw away the key. My dreams show me otherwise. The first one allowed me to communicate with myself in another dimension. Was it the ghost of me? I do not know. It was a dream inside of a dream. I was asking me, this woman I could see in black and white, who was sitting in a wheel chair, what it was I was supposed to do in this lifetime. I could see her mouth moving, but I couldn't hear her words. I woke up out of that dream, inside a dream, and I was walking around in a community living space - lots of shared rooms and bathrooms with important people coming in and out. I was consciously aware of how I felt. I knew there was no Grace left in my brain. My "Little" was grown up. I knew because I have felt Grace everyday of my life, in some capacity. And at that moment, I was moving through life without her. I felt no need to be anything for anyone. I felt no reason to possess anything, or anyone. I felt whole and vibrant and necessary and completely unnecessary all at the same time. I was just being. The rest of the dream was interesting. Rodney and I were on an assignment. I was a journalist and he was there taking the photographs. We were in Afghanistan. There were amazingly intelligent and courageous people all around us, and they were in the middle of this war. They were being shot and stabbed in front of me. It was horrible to see, but I knew in that moment, too, that there are many dimensions of existence and death is a small part of transforming into another dimension. This was spelled out to me in scenes of my dream. I woke up with an entirely shifted perspective. Everything was connected again since my brain limitations were blown to bits in Afghanistan. I felt a deeper sense of freedom. I felt no struggle. I woke up and Grace was gone. It was beautiful.

"If you set me free, I will not run." ~ Sade

She whispers to me. She is still so small. Baby-bird like even in her appearance. Her shoulders are small and delicate. Her eyes, large and bright, are still taking everything in, with the newness of a child. Even now, as a 41 year old woman, I often feel Grace's fear and confusion. It's so hard for her to trust that everything is going to be okay. She doesn't really understand "faith" yet, as she only grasps it with the mentality of an 8 year old. She only feels safe when she's not alone. She's afraid of the dark. She's afraid of almost everything. She can't really see past the confined space of the chicken coop, but she's okay with that. There is safety in small spaces and there are usually other chickens close by. She's scared to death of Patty. And Patty just rolls her eyes at Grace and ignores her. She approaches love with the eyes and heart of a child. She wants possession of it. She wants to keep it in a safe little music box on her dresser. She throws temper tantrums. She shuts the people closest to her out. It's the only way she knows how to let anyone know how deeply they have hurt her. Grace gets her feelings hurt a lot, and that's because she's a child, and she sets expectations for others based on that of a little girl. And because of that, she sets herself up for a lot of disappointment. And yet even though she is clingy, insecure, afraid and codependent, she also sees the world through the eyes of a child, and so many times, she can hardly contain herself she is so excited. Grace would be happy riding her bike everyday. She loves to go barefoot. She loves how the wind can shift in the middle of the day, and everything looks, feels and smells differently. Like Patty, she has lightness and darkness. And since this is all really just an exploration of the different personalities in my brain, I will say here that I am learning to love all of my chickens, because they are me, and without each one of them, I would not be me.

“I’ve got faith in you, it’s a razor love, that cuts clean through.” ~ Neil Young

It started when I was around 8 years old. I was the sensitive, quiet child, and the youngest of three. I was also the only blonde in the family, and I think that's enough material for kids to find your weaknesses and attack. I learned words like "dingy", "stupid", "dumb blonde", and (ironically) "Grace" through my closest circle of "Littles" around me -- my older brother, sister, cousins and closest family friends. We all grow up with our own perspective of what's taking place around us. I had a lot of love around me, and yet I still many times felt ridiculed, physically inferior, weak, outcasted, stupid, clumsy and ungraceful. As a result, I felt unprotected. Unsafe. And I let each of those labels attach themselves deep inside me. It took me years to face them, and start removing them from who I really am. Survival mode kicked in early for me.

I was a late bloomer. I didn't grow boobs until I was around 16, and they certainly never felt adequate. I weighed 90 pounds my freshman year of High School. It's one of my memory scars because I had to get on a scale for a physical during freshman orientation in front of the tennis coaches. I was ashamed. Again, I felt weak, uncoordinated, and inadequate. I think these childhood labels I attached myself to were part of the reason I had difficulty learning in school. I mean, after all, a dumb blonde is a dumb blonde. If you're 10 years old in the 4th grade and you can't stop making C's, you just sort of surrender to it. And how could I really push myself athletically if I felt underdeveloped, clumsy and like the weakest link at home who just ran away when things got too physical between siblings and cousins?

Grace found safety in anyone and anything. She fell in love with the tree in her front yard when she was 7. She talked to it and it was her safe place to go when things got too scary. She fell in love with dolphins and horses that would visit her and talk to her in dreams. She fell in love with a boy when she was 6, and she found him again when she was 14. That was the beginning of a long road of self destruction. It wasn't anyone's fault. I was a little girl, and what was going on was destroying my self image, my desire to move through the world as most kids do - with a sense of security, adventure and freedom. Over the years, Grace became so wrapped up in shame and self hatred that it amazes me sometimes that I have made it this far with her. I think she has been with me, at that same age, because I never really knew how to help her mature. She just lived in survival mode. That came from a deep lack of trust I learned as a child. Perhaps it's something we're born with, too. My brother and sister were born with strong personalities, and they have always remained strong. A lot of people who know me now will not be able to imagine that I was this awkward, insecure, self-loathing little girl and young woman, because I am a fairly free and happy woman these days. But there is usually a price for freedom, right? I am grateful I got to pay that price and move out of that self-hatred, and leave those labels behind me.

I am introducing Grace, and all of my chickens, because for 30 years or so of my life, I didn't know what was happening to me, and there was so much darkness I was hiding, or so I thought, from everyone around me. I jumped between personalities in my brain and didn't understand what was happening. One minute I would feel completely empowered and clear, and the next I would be in the fetal position on my bed, paralyzed by fear. It took a lot of wrecked relationships, lost loves, and journal entries where I would empty out the guts of my despair and fill it with tears before I finally wanted to deal with my own inner-wreckage. The chicken coop is my own interpretation and self-medication into understanding my own wiring. These chickens are as real to me as my yoga mat, and just like my mat, they are my greatest teachers.

The only way to face your pain is to go right through the middle of it, and stand up on the other side and turn around and face it, send it love and say "Thank you, my great teacher, for showing me the way."

I think the image I saw of me, in black and white, with my hair pulled back, sitting in a wheel chair in my dream inside of a dream, was a window into my soul. It was my silent speaking self-portrait. She was wise and broken. She had the answers, but had no voice in which to speak from. She knew, but she couldn't relay the messages yet. Yet. It is with Grace and God, with Octavia and Patty, with Tomahawk and Hank, and with the infinite love in my heart, that I will allow that voice in me to come through and shine.

The second dream I had that left me with no choice but to get up today and introduce Grace to you was a dream where I was flying. It has been years since I've flown. I was swirling through the sky, in a blue dress, arms spread wide, sailing through the air with a huge smile and a very clear heart and head. God Speed, Little Grace.

Update on the Weather Inside.

We don't have a TV at our house, so I get the weather report on Facebook. And that's also how I know who's running in the next election and who's at Starbucks in Dallas. Facebook. The absolute truth that we all have our very own chicken coop. I can also see what my yogi pal, Sonia, is up to over in Sydney, Australia. She's a single mom from Spain who loves to surf. Spanish women are overflowing with this amazing combination of passion and deep affection. I hope in my next life that I come back as one. I want a chance to lose my temper with my lover and spew out a string of Spanish cuss words like Penelope Cruz can do. To me, that's sexy. Forget high heels and lipstick. I'm talking black hair on fire, blazing dark eyes and slinging sexy Spanish cuss words all over the place.

How did I just go from the weather to the Spanish Cuss Word Throwing Goddess I long to be? Oh yea, my Chickens. Hold on, let me lasso them up. There! Oops. I pinched Patty's hip with the rope. That's okay. She needs a little rope burn from time to time.

So let me say here that this Blog situation has been a true delight in my little life. I look forward to opening the door on the coop and stepping inside and playing Barbara Walters with them. I don't have many readers yet, and that's exactly how I like it. Those of you who are enjoying the glimpse into my chicken coop have given me some really beautiful, humbling and inspiring feedback. You're telling me that what I'm saying here is affecting you. I have heard it's making you laugh and cry. It's touching you deeply. It's moving you. It's raw. It's palpable. A few of you have even reached out to me in emails to let me know that I should embrace Patty, my Addict Chicken. She's my Guardian, too, you say. She is both light and dark. All of your feedback has left me feeling so much compassion for all of us. Never have I felt so free from releasing and saying things that only a year ago I wouldn't have dreamed of writing to the public. It doesn't matter if it's 20 humans or 20 million. I AM STANDING IN MY OWN TRUTH WITH A MEGAPHONE IN MY HAND. And I am inspired to do this because I believe with all of my might (all of my chickens are making tiny fists right now) that we can heal those parts of us that feel miserable, broken, inferior and worthless. I believe we can embrace ourselves fully. I believe we can forgive ourselves and let go into a place in life where we live in the moment, just like we did as children. I believe it because I survived it, and everyday I grow into a little more love. I'm growing towards the light. We're all the same. I observe people everyday. It's my hobby. It's my research. You relate to my stories and they hit you in the heart because they are my truth, and they are our truth.

So thank you for sharing your words with me. Let's continue to share this journey.

A met a woman last summer out in Wimberley at Blue Rock Studios named Beth Wood. She was there recording her latest album, The Weather Inside. She's a brilliant song writer and has the voice of an angel. Her record is one of my favorites. It's raw and real. And the Title Track, The Weather Inside, grabbed me just with those three words.

Sometimes I reach into my heart's treasure chest and pull out my earlist memories. I picked up my baby book last time I was at my mom and dad's house, on my 41st birthday. My mother documented lots of things. I read things like "she's completely content by herself in her playpen at age one." "She makes up songs and so we sing every morning on the way to school." "She's content and peaceful." My mom saved some soft blonde hair from my first hair cut. I ran it through my fingers. It opened the old cracks in my heart. I cried really hard that night after reading that sweet book. I am still so very much that little girl, and at the same time, I miss her. I long for her. And so I keep reaching in and peeling back this ego I've created, loving and embracing the most destructive parts of me so that I can continue to heal my way through my adult life, embracing that little girl - content and peaceful, safe and trusting.



"The Weather Inside. This house, the weather inside. They've got to find some way to ride it out."

So what's my weather inside? It's like looking out at the ocean on a day when there is very little breeze. The air is thick and sweet. The sky is a soft pillowy blue. The water is mirroring the sky, making it lucid and colorless so that on the horizon, there is very little distinction between water and sky. And that's because it's inside my heart. There are no endings. There is only softness and deep, deep love.

My absolute truth is my commitment to ride it out. Whatever it is.