Day 74 No Judgment
Anthea often tells us in class to listen to our bodies, do the postures as best we can, with no judgment. “Time and patience,” she says. “That’s how you improve.”
I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly patient person, however when I think of the activities with which I occupy my time, it becomes pretty clear I have a thing for delayed gratification. Yoga can take weeks, months, years to see results. Gardening, an annual just-wait-until-next-month/season/year/house project. Parenting, generally considered an eighteen-year project. Marriage, for the lucky, and the tenacious, a lifelong project.
Then there’s writing.
I’ve been published off and on for the last couple of decades, in print, on-line, in magazines and book format, short-stories and full-length, fiction and non-fiction. And while every now and then I get a lovely burst of “free money” in the mail, overall, I’ve probably made the full-time equivalent of about 0.23/hour. Freelancing is not a career choice for those with loftly financial goals.
Fortunately, the Mennonite in me disparages filthy lucre anyway. (Plus my husband makes enough for both of us, so I can afford to be philosophical.)
But there’s is still something about financial reward that makes a person feel valued, Mennonite self-loathing aside. And when it comes to the writing life, recognition tends to come in fits and starts, long periods of drought broken up by mists, drizzle and the occasional deluge.
I learned this week that 1) my agent is going to pitch my book proposal at Book Expo America, only the biggest publishing event in North America 2) the wonderful people at Heritage House are releasing the new, improved version of my first book, Great Dog Stories, and 3) are going to repackage my worst-selling but arguably best book, Wildlife in the Kitchen, with a new title and new cover. (Who knew that a cross-eyed rat wouldn’t warm the hearts of chain representatives? Or that the title could be interpreted as a cookbook? Roasted Roadkill, anyone?)
So as always when it comes to my career, time and patience is of the essence. Keep on keeping on, no judgment.
I guess I can do that.
Day 73 The 80-20 Life
“I’ve been doing yoga for seven years,” our instructor, Randee, told us today. “And it took me three years before I could do Fixed Firm.”
As this is a pose that only took me a week or two to master, I suddenly felt pretty darn good about my practice. (Again, not me in the photo, but I think my alignment is more or less the same. At least, no one corrects me, so it must be close.)
After 73 days straight, it’s gotten to be something of a habit now. I’ve even had a few classes where I’ve sort of zoned out and suddenly, it’s over and everyone’s packing up.
My nemesis posture, Standing-Head-to-Knee, is coming along nicely. I can now get each knee straight, toes pointed backwards, Achilles flexed. For just a moment or two, but still. Next step, bending my head down to my knee, but I’m in no hurry. If it takes years, it takes years. I need to stop thinking of this as a quick fix, a 90-day boot camp, after which I’ll be able to go back to my sloth-like ways. I may take a few days off eventually, but I aim to continue four-five times per week. I like the way I feel, and I don’t want to lose that.
It’s not about perfection, or deprivation. It’s about making healthy choices 80% of the time.
I got another motivator recently, with the results of some routine bloodwork. My cholesterol – wow, this makes me feel old – has been edging upwards for some time now, a genetic albatross passed down from my mother’s side. (Strokes to the left of me, cancer to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with you.)
In April 2010, my total number was 6.9, at which point I pretty much put my fingers in my ears and went la-la-la-la. As of February 2011, before I began my challenge, it was 7.1. I’d like to emphasize here that I’d just returned from Maui, where I freely admit my lifestyle was probably 80% mai tais, 20% lying around, but this forced me to take my fingers out and pay attention.
My HDLs – the good fats – are also high, which means my HDL:LDL ratio is still within normal range. Which is probably why I haven’t had a heart attack – yet.
I don’t know if Bikram yoga, without dieting, has a documented effect on cholesterol. My diet is fairly good anyway, pie notwithstanding, and I get really crabby when I’m hungry, so I’m not inclined to anything drastic here. But I will get my blood chemistry rechecked in a few months, and report back. If my cholesterol has gotten worse, despite my yoga challenge, then – and only then – I will reconsider giving up cutting down on pie.
Day 72 Crack Me Up
So as I continue my education in all things yoga, my reading has extended to a book called Stretch: The Unlikely Making of a Yoga Dude, by Neal Pollack.
Very, ahem, different from my other recent readings. His catch-phrase is “Namaste, mother&*%$ers!” How can ya resist?
Here’s the bit I’ve been making everyone read, with full attribution to NEAL POLLACK. (I do not want this guy mad at me.) (Also, don’t judge me. Farts are just funny.)
“… One night,” writes NEAL POLLACK, “finally, I went to Tanya’s class. She had a degree in yoga therapy from the excellent program at Loyola Marymount. Her alignments were precise and invigorating. I could feel my warrior two improving markedly under her watch. We held our poses for a long time and it hurt; if your teacher makes your quadriceps hurt, you’re in good hands. Oh, how my yoga was evolving! My body and my mind were changing, becoming something grander and higher!
During the cool down, Tanya told us to draw our knees by our ears. We grabbed our feet with our hands and rocked gently from side to side. This was happy baby pose. My body felt free and loose, totally relaxed in every way.
A murmur emanated from my guts, and an airy whoosh moved through my intestines.
I then uncorked the sloppiest, wettest fart of my life, a desperate five-second bleat of sweet relief. The sound seemed to bounce around the walls of the studio like a rubber ball thrown at maximum velocity. I followed this with a series of three little toots, duckling farts chasing after their mother. It was like the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles except that, instead of cowboys, hot chicks in Spandex surrounded me, and I was the only one farting.
“Oh, yeah,” Tanya said. “That’s it.”
My fart had been so strong that even my teacher felt relief. I quaked with humiliation and self-hatred.
“Oh my God,” I said. “I’m such a Jew.”
The class roared in appreciative laughter, which made me even more nervous. Really, what did Judaism have to do with farting? My coment could be explained away by self-loathing, but what was their excuse? Were all yogis secret anti-Semites?
Regardless, from then on, whenever I went to Tanya’s class I couldn’t contain my flatulence. I ripped and hissed and tooted. There were silent deadlies and noisy, odorless farts. I farted while standing, sitting, and lying down. The sorrowful people next to me tried to stare stoically ahead and focus on their practice, but I knew they were thinking: Who is this hairy, ass-blowing Heeb next to me, and how can I prevent him from ever coming to class again?”