what's with me and the pants?

Recently I invested in four new pairs of pants in a larger size -- as chronicled here a little more than a week ago. It occurred to me as I was writing and posting that particular post, that I have a thing about the pants.  Seriously.  The one post I did for Elephant Journal that got any traction at all, Retiring the Porno Pants, was naturally about pants.  And just by the way, the only reason it got any traction was because of the deliberate use of "porno" in the title.  Which is why I don't really write there much.  More pants-aria ensued in Personal Spanda.  And now I'm about to do it again.

What is with me and the pants?

The sad truth is that the yoga pants of which I bought four pairs over the past two weeks are actually too big for me.  Yes, I realized today that though they are capacious enough in the ass, they are too big at the hip, resulting in a different set of issues than previous pants presented. Damn it.

It's freakin' ridiculous.

I am back in my room between classes and grateful that I didn't bring only the voluminous pants, but also two pairs of my older, smaller bottoms.  Thank goodness for that, and for the ability to bust out a costume change between classes, allowing me also to change into my new t-shirt.

Did I mention there is so much retail here, so many opportunities to buy clothes and books and malas and yoga-related stuff.  Also, naturally, many many opportunities for feather hair extensions and even a booth where they will either assist or instruct you in how to "artfully" cut up your t-shirt.  It's a little bit Disneyland for me -- you know, in that way that people go to Disneyland and walk around in the ears, with their name embroidered on the back.  They'll never wear those ears again, outside the park, but damn it if they don't have to have them.  That's how it is for me with some of the garb being sold here, feathers included.  Every Cancun needs its corn-rows, apparently.  I warned you: I can't resist the Wandersnark even as I am loving it, loving it, loving it so much.  Like all things, it is not without its less-shining aspects.

Wait, back to the costume change.  I'm out of the YogaDork t-shirt for the moment, and into my new Rock the Bhakti shirt, Sianna's creation.  Loving it.

And my smaller purple pants right now.

But really, what's with me and the pants?  I'm thinking about it, but meanwhile, heading out to grab some juice and check out more stuff and make my way back to the Anusara Pavilion for noon-time class with Amy Ippoliti.  Hopefully I'll get a spot in the shade, but either way, I'm rocking the right bottoms.

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Note to self about altitude

banded, ready to fly

I am not kidding or exaggerating when I say that every single time I go on vacation, whether it's a long one or a short one like this one that I'm on right now, every single time my body manages to re-arrange its calendar so that I get my period.  Every single time.  And yeah, this is going to be one of those posts where if you don't want to hear a bunch of TMI about such topics, you should just exit now.  Because really, I need to talk about it for a minute.  I swear, it's every single time.

And now is no exception, try as I did to encourage my body to let down its load of misery earlier in the week.  Nope, it's now.  Which is only made worse by the fact that I'm at 6,000 feet so I'm a little goofy from the altitude, and the combo of period + sleeplessness (can't sleep anywhere "new" for the first night) + altitude seriously is the migraine-inducing trifecta. 

OK, so altitude is not always involved in our vacations, though the period always sneaks its way on board.  I am reminded of the time we were in Grand Cayman on a diving holiday.  The water there is miraculously clear and warm.  You can dive to 100 feet in just a bathing suit, no wetsuit, not even a shorty, even remotely required.  It is truly so miraculous, so comfortable.  So imagine my horror in climbing back onto the boat after 45 minutes under water in a group when Joe whispers, "Honey, your tampon string is hanging out."  For fuck's sake, really?  Really!  

Snowcamping, where altitude generally is involved, is truly dicey when one has one's period.  Just adds a whole other element of complication, when you're dealing with how to pack out your own excrement (I shit you not, ha ha ha) and you have the whole issue of tampons to deal with.  Disgusting.

And just so inconvenient.

As the daytime part of Day 1 of Wanderlust is coming to an end, with the music yet to come, I am sitting here in the empty condo in Squaw Village, my friends gone to class, nursing my aching cranium and laughing at my own situation.  Seriously, Body, again with the ill-timed period and the migraine?  Lame!

But since this has happened to me time and time again, whether in Peru or Mexico or Grand Cayman or Bali or Colorado or Bosnia or Tahoe, I'm generally prepared.  I know it's coming, so I pack my pills and off I go and generally spend the first day or two in a fog of pain, its edges somewhat dulled by medication, waiting for the worst to pass, and trying to take everything in despite my ouchy senses.

This time, though, I've learned a new lesson: add a day on the front-end.  How much more wonderful would today have been had I arrived a day sooner, to give my head time to adjust to the altitude, to allow me to move through the adaptation before finding myself on my mat for 4 1/2 hours.  That would just be smart.

And that's something I can do.  I can't do anything about this insane period of mine, but the planning part, that I've got under control.

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Wanderlust prep, finally!

Underway, at last!

I've been ticking my way through an enormous pre-trip To Do list this morning, since about 6.  Well, OK, I admit it: I sat on my ass and did little until about 8 (if that's what you call reading and writing), when the work of paying bills and taking care of business finally began.  And then I had to put things away, fold all my laundry so that I had a clear, clean space in which to start on the packing.  You know how it is.

It's been interesting to pack without the golden-brown eyes of Mr Furpants watching my every move, calculating whether this trip includes him.  Sorry, Pony Boy, you're staying home this time.  ;>

I know I'm overpacking.  I feel horribly out of practice.  But whatevs, it's not like I am going to have to carry this around on my back, so if I like it, I'm bringing it. Which mean that's probably more yoga pants, bras and tops than I need, way more cute apres stuff stowed in there along with the just-in-case down vest and fuzzy hat and the uber-useful parasol (except that it's SO hard to text, hold an iced coffee and the handle at the same time, working on it).  So many activities, so many shoes!

This break is going to be great, but I'm a bit rueful to leave home at all.  It would be so nice to stay here, but now that my list is all checked off, stuff packed, I'm hitting the road.

Watch this space: I'll be blogging from Wanderlust, my first-ever festival of this kind, hoping not to Wandersnark too much and sharing what the experience looks and feels like.  Three classes every day, starting at 8am tomorrow, with hikes and hang-out and coffee and food and sun and kula and mountains in between.

See you soon!

Sweetness, sorrow, summer, Soleil

Last night around 8 the doorbell rang.  Joe and I were talking in our room at the time. I had to say, "wait, was that the doorbell?"  For years, we didn't need or hear the doorbell, since Jasper would alert us of the approach of anyone, human or otherwise, through the yard long, long before they reached the front door and the doorbell.

It was our neighbor, David, come to ask Joe's help with Soleil, their dog.  Soleil and Jasper were puppies together, Soleil a little younger, thirteen in August.  Soleil has been sick with cancer, has been declining as dogs so tragically do, before our eyes, growing ever sweeter every single day.  She's always been sweet, but lately when I've seen her, she is just so sweet and cute, slowly putting one paw in front of the other.

Soleil had had a bad day.  She'd been indoors for hours, so they let her out in the front, to her favorite patch of lawn, and she couldn't or wouldn't get up.  David was asking for Joe's assistance in devising a way to carry her back into the house, so they could keep watch with her, since it seemed her time was near.  Of course, our entire family, all three, headed over, eager to see Soleil, to be of assistance to our wonderful neighbors during what is truly such a terrible, painful experience.

And there she was, Soleil, beautiful white dog, such soft-soft ears, stretched out in the grass, breathing shallowly, blood dripping from her nose, Kathi by her side.

Oh how hard this was for us three, so fresh is our loss of Jas, but how sweet too to be able to be there with Soleil, to stroke her and love her and tell her what a good and beautiful girl she is.  We sat in the grass with her for a little bit, petting her as the sun set, taking in her gorgeous face, the way she looks so much like a little polar bear with her gold-tipped fur and black nose.

We carried her indoors and laid her on a rug near the front door, close to her favorite spot on the couch.  And petted her and chattered to her and kept our neighbors company for a bit.

And then we went home, and I cried my eyes out, missing my sweet Pony and thinking about Soleil and all of the tremendous sweetness dogs bring to our lives.

I wouldn't trade it for anything, no matter the huge pain of the loss.

Dear, dear Soleil, precious little neighbor-friend, wishing you peace and a release from pain.  And sending all our love, always.

what kind of fuckery is this?

Someone gave me shit the other day, albeit indirectly, about posting an RIP Amy Winehouse message in my Facebook status.  His point was that she CHOSE [his caps] to be a crack addict and was getting all this sympathy and attention, pushing those killed in Norway on Friday right out of the news.  How, he posited, was the death of this drug-addled celebrity more important, more deserving of comment than the death of eighty other people, victims not of addiction, but true victims of the actions of an extremist nut-job?

Good question.

And here's why, for me: What kind of fuckery is this?

I hadn't realized how lasting Amy Winehouse's influence on me was until I used the word "fuckery" in a sentence earlier today.  Immediately, the line from "Me and Mr Jones" ran through my head, and I realized I'd learned it from her.  Or if not learned it from her, then that the word in my mind is inseparable from her.  That whenever I use the word, and I use it not infrequently, I hear her sound.

Seems appropriate.

When I first heard Amy Winehouse, a thrill went through me.  Here was a combination of amazing tone, gorgeous voice, genius timing, horns, back-up singers, a juxtaposition of lyrics against that background that made me jump around with joy. It was everything I look for in a daily soundtrack.  It was tight.  It was dirty and sharp.  It was perfect.  I read about her travails, her status as a train wreck, but the matter of her talent remained for me completely untouched.  Undeniable.

This is not to say that it's not tragic that a lunatic set off bombs in Oslo and gunned down kids.  That's terrible.  It's not an either/or, that having strong feeling for the one, and talking about it, means I don't feel strongly for the other.  And yet I have to admit that though it's sad and awful, I didn't know those people in Norway.  Not that I have to to feel sad. But really, with Amy Winehouse, because I've been hearing her voice for 3 years, the loss of that potential hits me in a different way.  She wasn't just a crack-addled celebrity.  She had a spark of utter genius in her, a spark that's now out.
It's not OK with me that she's dead.  I don't think it's not sad because she died at her own hands most likely, finally finally reaching the inescapable end-point of years of addiction.

Trolling through video for this post, I couldn't find a version of "Me and Mr Jones" performed live that 2) didn't have fuckery bleeped out, or 2) didn't have Amy stumbling around, so please be content to just listen.  Actually, I think she's best that way, her voice coming through loud and clear in all its complexity without the baggage of her style choices or strangely expressionless face.

Gone from the world a truly unique voice, one tiny, tiny person who made a disproportionately gigantic impact. Losing the realization of that great talent, its unfolding, now that really is some kind of fuckery.

Goofy wolverine fan behavior

I'm such a fan of wolverine, my favorite animal besides Jasper (naturally), that I am a total sucker for anything that has wolverine in the name.  Although I do draw the line at the Wolverine character in X-Men, just by the way, because that's not real.  

I mean what's not to love about the real wolverine?  Gorgeous, fierce, endowed with everything it needs to thrive in its environment.  And did I mention gorgeous?

Those who see me regularly see me in the company of my notebook, which travels with me wherever I go and which carries on its cover this reminder of the year's totem animal, cut out from the Wolverine Foundation brochure, along with the I Love You sticker from the Valentine's Day cookie Laura gave me:

Every time I look at my notebook, I feel happy.  I am reminded of what this year is all about for me, not having to work as hard as I did last year, not having to struggle or prove, because I've got everything I need, teeth and claws and fur and heart, built right in, part of the package.  Or it just makes me happy because it's so freaking cute.  [Readers of Wednesday's Breaking Up with Lazy, here's your chance to nod knowingly at the bright-pink tab visible on the right.]

So because you know this about me -- that I'm a sucker for wolverine -- you won't be surprised even a bit that as soon as I saw the words " Wolverine Bread" at Arizmendi Bakery in San Rafael, yeah, of course I had to buy a loaf.  With a name like Wolverine, I "reasoned" (hah) that it had to be good.  [Remind me to tell you about porcupine meatballs sometime.]

Arizmendi Wolverine bread
credit: Lifesapicnic.blogspot.com

So, Wolverine Bread?  Delicious, substantial and stuffed with nuts and dried fruit.  I tore into it yesterday (with my claws) and ate some at my desk.  I enjoyed some this morning, warmed, with a light glaze of delicious salted butter.  Yummy Wolverine!  What's not to love?

As I was enjoying my breakies this morning, Joe looked over, one eyebrow slightly raised, and asked, incredulity apparent, Did you buy that bread just because of the name?  My happy reply, mouth full of delectable toast: OF COURSE!

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so so so so so so good!

Do it for your greatest love...

The practice of yoga is so much more meaningful, deeper, and sometimes easier, when we do it for something bigger.  When we do it for a bigger purpose.  When we do it for Love.

The pose can be so much lighter, held so much longer, with so much less effort, when we hold the image of someone we love, someone who needs a little extra something.  When we do it not for ourselves, not to be able to say we did a certain pose.  But for Love.

As we were setting up for backbend Saturday morning, Laura reminded us of this. She had started the class talking about using love to transmute hate, drawing on the news of the tragedy in Norway on Friday, expressing love for the victims, finding love for the perpetrator.  Her theme was the alchemy we can work when we respond with love, when we push away the inclination to hate and go with love instead.  So much more than just the repetition and refinement of various physical poses, really yoga is a profound practice of Love, right, always coming back to truly seeing the self, loving the self, truly seeing others, loving others.

And so Laura said these words, as we rested on our heads on our way into backbend, to remind us to go big, to make it about something more than just the pose:

Do it for your greatest love

Do it for your dog

Do it...

Which is how I found myself in a deep backbend with tears streaming into my ears, soaking my mat, filled with love for my dear, my sweet, my now-four-months-gone Jasper.  I didn't hear a single word really after "dog," although I think Laura did say "cat" and "beloved."  I was un-done, waterworks set to the On position from that point through savasana, all the way home and even now.

In truth I'd already cried before class.  I saw a cute brindle dog trotting alongside his person along Bridgeway in Sausalito, and the full sorrow of a life without my buddy opened up for me again.  I sat in the car, parked in front of the studio, and sobbed, Blackbird by The Beatles playing on the radio.  So maudlin, right?  But it's like I said to Joe the other day:  Jasper was my best friend.  He just happened to be a dog.  He cannot be replaced.  He's gone, and I miss him so much.

Is it wrong that Jasper was perhaps my greatest love?  I haven't yet lost in my life a person who was really close, really dear, so I don't know how much more pain, if there is more, is possible.  All I know is that the missing of Jasper doesn't go away, the deep longing to see his face, smell his fur, feel his strong little body with my hands, just never goes away.

So I'll use it, I'll transmute this great grief into whatever I can.  I'll keep on missing Jasper and loving him so much, and give him my backbends, my bound arda-chandrasanas, my everything.

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