Turn that Hot Mess into a Happy Little Tree

Back in June if you saw me with a sock on my forearm I had no compunction with telling you why it was there. You might have also noticed I was totally unwilling to show you what was under it.

I went and got a tattoo I couldn’t stand to look at. Now, you may be wondering a few things, like didn’t I see it before they put it on me? Why yes, I did. But looking at a tattoo outline is a little like looking at faces on a dating site – it’s not always accurate. The famous last words, “But when we add color and shading….” sealed the deal for real estate on my lower arm.

You might wonder if I went to a place I’d never been. Perhaps I decided to go the disreputable and half assed rout. Alas, no, I went to a custom shop where I’ve gotten work before. It is for this reason that I was willing to ignore my little voice and churning guts that had a very bad feeling and plenty to say.

Do you know what I said in response to that little feeling? “It’ll be fine.”

The artist was late and hadn’t drawn up the design, so it was all sort of a rush job which I willfully ignored because, you know, it’ll be fine.

The following day I taught my very first out of town workshop to a large group of yoga teacher trainees. So horrified by the affliction of this horrible tattoo, made worse by the swelling despair of its recipient, I re-purposed a brown stocking sock by removing its toe.  I swiped this sock from my host and dear friend to whom I am forever indebted; thank you for having such nice footwear.

I had a six hour drive home after this roller-coaster weekend of tattooing and teaching. I had plenty of time to decide what in the hell I was gonna do with the hot mess on my arm. Only recently I’d been referred to an artist in Pensacola and, after reviewing her work, called for a consultation from the exit onto I-85 south bound.

I pleaded, “I know you can’t do anything with it right now, but if I can just come in so you can tell me you can fix it, I’ll feel so much better.”

When I arrived the next day and peeled the sock away from the gooey mess of a fresh tattoo she said, “I can do something with that.” It felt like a balloon of tension and anxiety popped right there in the middle of The Psychedelic Shack. I made my appointment for a month later. This is a list of things I learned while I waited it out –

1. People are a lot more sympathetic than we give them credit. Sierra Kay, my tattoo artist and one of top twelve favorite people, made me feel a hundred times better just by meaningfully saying, “I know how you feel.”

When I explained the sock on my arm to clients or students, people seemed to understand. It was like being stuck in an outfit I hated but couldn’t take off. Everyone was nice and didn’t give me a hard time about it. Most people either tried to reassure me or make me feel better by sharing their own tattoo tale of woe. It was all very sweet.

2. Detachment is just a yogic concept until you have to take care of someone or something that you really don’t like. A tattoo is, essentially, a controlled wound that requires special care. Just because I couldn’t stand the sight of it didn’t mean I could just let it wither and crust up on my arm because it was on my arm. I had to wash it, dry it, put the stuff on it, make sure it didn’t get bumped or harpooned even though on more than one occasion the serrated edge of a butter knife looked like an appealing alternative. This teaching potentially translates well to challenging family, friends and customers. Also, the car you may no longer be in love with still requires an oil change. This is sorta reminiscent of that teaching, “People are assholes, love them anyway….” especially if you are somehow attached to them.

3. Things you think of as permanent aren’t necessarily so. I signed a waiver at a tattoo shop where I got that hot mess put on and that waiver said I understood I was having something permanent put on my body. Permanent is relative given how quickly I got it fixed, just saying.

This teaching could extend to that new haircut you hate, that boyfriend you wish you’d never met, those lip injections or that job – it can be changed, adjusted or perhaps, if you’re lucky, totally transformed.

4. Perhaps the most important thing I learned is to never, ever, under any circumstance ignore that little voice, especially when it joins with your guts. It was almost an act of will to stay in the shop when I felt things going awry. The artist was late, unprepared and distracted and I knew it. All of this is really on me, you know, because I could have left. But I didn’t. Let me tell you something, Reader, this teaching has already paid off because since getting that tattoo I have thought to myself, “it’ll be fine…” and now relate that dialogue with, “No the hell it won’t.” There is no telling how much grief and misery I may avoid because of this new found faith in my intuition.

5. Everyone has bad days, even the most lauded professionals. I’ve had yoga classes I tried to teach with laryngitis. I’ve gone to work at the restaurant so hungover I thought about throwing up in the garbage can near the Coke station (I’ll happily list the benefits of sobriety if there’s sufficient interest – not being tempted to throw up at work would make the top ten). I have had receptionists book me clients for services I was not trained to perform but tried to do anyway.

I never thought of this before, but I think part of professionalism is recognizing when we are not prepared for the work. This doesn’t mean to sub your yoga class when you get a hang nail on your pinkie toe, but if you really have something going on show compassion to yourself and your students, clients or customers.

6. You probably saw this one coming, but Bob Ross was right about happy little accidents. Sierra Kay gave me this dreamy bracer piece that takes up about three quarters of my forearm. She designed a marvelous rose quartz skull in the center of a blue lotus matched in detail by lavender plumeria and moonlit waters. The hibiscus that was a little too confederate red for my taste is a dazzling cranberry. The aspects of the tattoo around which communication was stunted is now covered over with a mosaic in which symbols are nestled and held by a totem of steadiness. The whole effect is that of a vintage Hawaiian post card.

I didn’t start out with the design I have on my arm now, and I don’t know how I would have otherwise arrived at it without starting where I did. God blessed the broken road that lead me to the Psychedelic Shack – seriously folks. Thank you Sierra Kay.

They say referrals are the highest compliment – well, that and a nice tip. If you’re in the market for a tattoo artist who is easy to sit with and has a particular talent for tattooing give her a call. Her watercolor work is amazing ~ 850-479-9007

 

 

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Rethinking The Great American Eclipse

This is the day before the Great American Eclipse and let me tell you something – I’m tired of hearing about it. I’m tired of seeing articles on it and talking about it, too. I read horoscopes and Vedic astrology and like any decent new age kid I follow The Hood Witch, Mystic Mamma and Serpentfire on Instagram, so I kinda already know everything about all the woo woo of this eclipse in Leo. Just saying.

Right now I’m over it all. There is an expectation in the air for this eclipse, like we’re collectively going to be able to release dogmas that have held us back from being our best, brightest and most enlightened selves. We’re going to break through or jump over this eclipse portal to be somehow different and better than before. It’s like 2012 all over again without the hysteria and subterranean fear of aliens no one wanted to talk about until after it was over.

This eclipse portal and all its fetishized implications, the least of which is that this country’s leadership will somehow come under the control of someone with some sense, makes me feel like an under achiever. There’s lots of internet chatter, which I have resolved to henceforth ignore unless it’s in regards to this blog or my Etsy shop, about this eclipse aligning us with our true purpose, our dharma, our raison d’etre. I’ve heard that before and now it’s just starting to piss me off.

Maybe it’s because I have a cold and feel like an under achiever, because all I want to do is drink ginger tea and eat noodles, but I feel pissy about this topic of dharma and purpose. Does this mean that in my pissy-ness I will neglect my practices, that I won’t do my mantra or that I’ll say to hell with you all and those damn cardboard glasses that make everyone who puts them on look like ALF?

Of course I will do my practices, but I’m not doing them with any certainty that lightening will crack open the sky and I’ll have a clear vision of my own raison d’etre – eclipse or no. In fact, I’m not so sure about that whole reason for being anymore, at least not in the great sweeping sense of finality that has made me feel like a desperate yogi on the lookout from some outpost on the edge of the world. Maybe we’re not supposed to have the one, explicit unchangeable thing that we are – poet, doctor, lover, priest, garbageman, physicist…. What if the work isn’t to discover what we are but, instead, to peel away everything we are not.

I spent six years thinking, decidedly, that my purpose on this planet was to teach yoga classes. I fell in with a crowd who I let convince me that “job” and “calling” must coincide and I’ve been miserable ever since. By the time I wrapped that up a few months ago, I felt strained resentment for the “profession” and annoyance at the decidedly shiny happy people who insist on yoga #everydamnday and never ever admitting to feelings of sadness, frustration or anything below the acceptable baseline of utter joy.

Sometime around my first year of teaching yoga I did Rod Stryker’s online workshop on The Four Desires, which is a book about helping the aspirant uncover the fundamental intention of their soul and purpose for walking upon this Earth. The book talks about intention, decision and the four aims of life which are the investment of oneself equally in duty, wealth, pleasure and the pursuit of liberation. I don’t know about you, but that’s pretty much me #everydamnday

Upon further contemplation and a few years under my belt, I am given pause at the audacity of someone implying I must qualify my existence with an acceptable statement of intent.  All of the stream of consciousness writing I did during this online workshop with The Four Desires left me feeling as confounded as reading about the implications of this eclipse we’re looking at tomorrow. If there is work to do, I don’t know what it is. If there are special maaracas I am supposed to shake, then I don’t know where they are. If I am supposed to be something more or different than myself after the moon dances in front of the sun tomorrow afternoon, I don’t know what that looks like.

Dear Reader, have you ever practiced puja or prayers in which you left offerings on your meditation table or altar? Perhaps a bouquet of flowers or a small cup of water in front of a picture of the Black Madonna or Jesus? Have you ever removed the pits from dates and left them before a statue of the Buddha? Have you ever dared to leave dark chocolate before an image of Kali?

Well, I have (or variations thereof), and sometimes I wondered if there was something else I was supposed to do other than leave the milk, the oats, the water or incense. Should I do something more than leave an offering? Ought I to say a special mantra specifically designed for aspirants on the spiritual path to say while making devotionals? If so, I don’t know what it is and am confounded by that, too.

Then, like lightening opening the sky, one night it struck me that it’s not my job to know what to do with the offerings. I hand it over for a reason…. I give over the chocolate, the flowers, the water, the flame and I set it down. Setting it down is part of the practice. Perhaps, for some of us, it is the hardest part of the practice. But by the very virtue of being the one leaving the offering, I am not the one who has to know what to do with it.

So here we are on the precipice of this magnificent celestial event, and if you’re anything like me you might have cultivated all sorts of spiritual expectations and psychic implications around it. It’s okay, as you can see, clearly I have too. But I’ve been doing some writing today, and I’ve been doing the one practice I have clung to during the maelstrom of information, astrological guidance and implicit warnings regarding the path of the moon’s shadow passing over our great nation.

That one practice to which I have clung is the silent mantra, which is a great tool for overcoming the shadow of negative thinking that stretches across the mind during times of transformation and change. Sometimes, negativity manifests as expectation. Think about it – has doing something awesome ever made you feel like crap? No, it hasn’t. But any wall of expectation you built around the awesome thing you did might have made you feel like crap. If it didn’t then you’re more enlightened than me, so…..call me, tell me your ways. Because if I write and publish a book and it’s anything less than a run away best seller, I’m going to feel like a failure. See, isn’t that crazy? That’s what I’m talking about.

I see the real potential for this eclipse to leave folks deflated and a little depressed, like the wake of a few weeks into the New Year, because I’ve seen a lot of talk regarding the expectations of this eclipse. There is a heightened sense of something, and even though we don’t know what it is or even if it’ll be good, at least it’ll be different.

Make your expectations like an offering to the Sun – set them down and let ’em go.

At the eleventh hour, when I’ve had quite enough of all this talk of dharma, transformation and upheaval, I’m going to suggest you do whatever it is you’re gonna do and to the best of your ability, let it go. Get grounded before you stare into the sun, set your feet firmly on the path to which you committed and hold onto your practices with both hands. If you’re doing that, then you won’t have a free hand to hang onto expectations and projections so, whether this eclipse is just a really cool astronomical occurrence or a major astrological event that ushers in a time of peace and prosperity, you’ll be receptive and present.

Also – this is what everyone I’ve seen so far looks like wearing their eclipse glasses….

alfglasses

 

 

Under the Mat

In the world of hairdressing, there is a saying “Behind the chair…” which is code for tips, tricks and horror stories. Tonight a Yogi in teacher training messaged me about my “worst deer in the headlights yoga teaching moments.” I was referred to him by a friend. My response might become a new blog series. These are my tales from under the mat….

At the beginning of my yoga class I like to ask students what they want to work on. I like this opportunity to interact before class begins and it allows time for those who are on time to settle into the space.

Once, not so very long ago, a man replied to my inquiry, “I’d like to learn one handed handstand.”

Dear Reader, I do not practice one handed handstand for so many reasons, but it’s lucky for this guy that I know enough about alignment and stuff that I can effectively teach it. If you’re in yoga teacher training and reading this, please be advised that you don’t have to be able to perform every pose to teach every pose so long as you understand what you’re teaching. Got it? Also, there is usually someone in the room who can do it; use them to demonstrate the pose.

One handed handstand it is. I begin the class with everything we’re going to need for this posture, though I am not sure if Iyengar included it in his work Light on Yoga, but what the hell, right? We say mantras for supple joints and I pass out calcium supplements just to be safe. We do shoulder stuff and activate our abdominal muscles and everything. At the end of this class I move me over to the wall, where we shall discuss and perhaps consider this pose for ourselves.

I invite the man who suggested this pose of the day to the wall with me, where I will assist, coach and encourage him. And do you know what he says to me?

“I was just kidding.”

“What?” I ask with the late afternoon sun shining through the window onto my perplexed face. “What?”

Well, he might have been kidding but there I was, up against a wall and an entire room of yoga students expecting a demonstration. I demonstrated a perfectly respectable handstand and, while up-side-down, described what one might expect of a one handed handstand were I to demonstrate that, which I did not.

Then, most of the students go to the wall and they practice perfectly respectable handstands… with both hands firmly on the ground thankyouverymuch.

Another story that comes to mind is about a mother and daughter who visited Uru Yoga studio when it first opened. They were both very nice, they were both really into yoga and they were both almost always late.

I don’t know if you’ve ever taken a yoga class, but the first five -ish minutes of class are introspective and meditative. This is so even at the gyms, where it is equally important to settle in and focus on the breath before movement.

It is during this quiet time, before the music starts and I start hollering cues, that these two women would inevitably open the door and stomp down the ramp that leads into the large practice space. They sounded like Lipizzaner stallions high stepping in their tennis shoes, which they wore as they walked all the way across the long room to the opposite end of the space.

Inevitably, one would unroll her mat like she was trying to kill something with it and I’d see the rest of the class, trying to pretend like an Army platoon hadn’t just descended on the yoga studio on leave, flinch from the sudden and loud noises of their revelry. I’d keep talking, “Breath in and listen to the sound of your breath…” and I’d watch while these women roll around on their mats, removing tennis shoes and socks and putting their hair in ponytails. I’d say, “Continue to listen to the sound of your breathing, soft “H” sound on the inhale…” as though this was normal, average start of class protocol.

It happened around the time that this mother/daughter team were torturing classes that the studio held a meeting/potluck/getting to know you wherein we sat in a large circle and introduced ourselves. Before we were set loose on the hummus and vegan mayonnaise mango salad we were asked if there were any issues we’d like to address.

I thought this was the perfect time to lodge my complaint with a very reasonable solution. I gave a Reader’s Digest version of these ladies’ shenanigans and suggested that we make a very nice sign covering the basics of studio etiquette. For instance, it might say…

If you are late to class, please enter quietly….

If you must leave class early, please exit quietly….

Please remove your shoes before entering the practice space….

I had no way to foresee how egregious this recommendation would be. Following my monologue, it was suggested to me whilst still sitting in this large circle, that if I was having experiences of people disrupting classes I was teaching it might be that I was entertaining disruptive thoughts prior to class and the real solution to this quandary might be to sit in my car before class and think pleasant, uplifted and non-disruptive thoughts so I could manifest a tranquil and peaceful environment in which to guide yoga classes.

“What?” I think, with the late afternoon sun shining through the window onto my perplexed face. Even while I wonder where in the hell I might have sounded unreasonable, I consider the possibility of being in a sequel to The Secret and then, I notice that none of the other yoga teachers are making eye contact with me.

Having dispatched my problem, the same question is asked again,”Is there anything else we would like to bring up or address?” There are a whole bunch of yoga teachers looking at the floor, undoubtedly manifesting thoughts of warm lentils and glitter.

As it was, by the time we got to the food the lentils were, in fact, cold. It is fortunate that I like cold lentils. Those ladies eventually quit going to yoga classes, but it wasn’t because of anything I said. I think, if I had that race to run over again, I would say something to them. I’d say something very nice, like, “If you’re running late, please come on in, but wait until opening meditation is over so you don’t startle everyone.”

This is the most reasonable way, I think, given that you can clearly see into the studio through two observation windows and a glass door! I would also contemplate tranquil scenes and up-lifting thoughts, just to cover all of my bases.

 

 

 

 

A Storybook About Life

When I was fifteen I got my first deck of tarot cards. They were a Christmas present from my dad, though they were not a surprise because I made him take me to the store to pick them out – The Tarot of the Cat People by Karen Kuykendall and I loved them.

The Star Cat People

The Star can indicate the refreshment and re-alignment with life purpose. It can mean the harmonious blending of resources for self-improvement and inspiration.

Almost immediately my uncle had a fit. He is about as tall as I was in 1995. His eyes have a tendency to run out of their sockets when provoked. Tarot of the Cat People, with its retro vibe and muted jewel tone color pallet, was enough to provoke the hell out of him.

He had a marvelous fit over my tarot cards and they ended up back at the bookstore, both my father and I effectively frightened by Early’s histrionics. Yes, his name really is Early. A year or so later, with the distance of another state between us, I realized my uncle wasn’t mature enough for Tarot of the Cat People, which I promptly re-purchased and still have, wrapped in a piece of pillowcase from the eighties and nestled in a dark wood box.

Since turning seventeen, I read lots of tarot cards and collected numerous decks. My favorites were The Cat People and The Egyptian Tarot, which is now out of print.  I also had a fun, kitschy Halloween tarot deck that is whimsical and retro. Though I parred my collection down, I kept these. The Egyptian Tarot was a particular favorite because of the liberal use of deities and sunlight.

Egyptian Tarot Death

The Death Card symbolizes transformation and releasing unhealthy attachments. Pictured here is Anubis, God of the Underworld.

Several years ago now, I dated “the wrong man” I wanted so badly to be the love of my life. We were a long distance hot mess couple who were terrible for each other but there was this gripping determination I had choking my heart and all reason.

I took to the cards to give me answers. I wrestled with them, demanded answers that fit with the way I wanted things to be. I was willful and tense until I realized I was wrestling with something so much bigger than I was. It wasn’t the cards but the Universe in question, and the Universe doesn’t so much win or lose but simply IS.

About the same time I realized I was no longer in control, or wanted to be, I met my Teacher and my spiritual practices changed. I wanted more to see where I was going than to dictate where I would go. I started to feel something uncoiling from within me which felt infinitely more freeing than investing in wrangling something outside myself.

Hanged man Halloween tarot

The Hanged Man, from The Halloween Tarot, can reflect that you’re feeling stuck or restricted, which is kinda why I got in touch with Uma in the first place.

Last December I was in turmoil because teaching yoga hadn’t quite worked out the way I’d hoped when I went into yoga teacher training seven or so years ago. I thought I was making a career change for the better but what I was investing myself in began to feel like a multi-level marketing business with fitness professionals at the top and raggedy ass cronies at the bottom driving all over the coast teaching yoga classes. This is not what I put on my vision board, people.

While contemplating where my vision board might have gone wrong, I had a random idea; Have a reading with Uma, the idea urged, and that’s what I did.

Uma Simon is a monk and resident at Kashi Florida, the ashram where my Guru lived and taught and where my own Teacher studied. Uma lives there and reads tarot for a living. I considered that, even though I’d begun to doubt the depth or purpose of tarot, certainly having a reading with someone who lives on the very ashram where the Teacher of my heart studied has merit! Uma greeted my email warmly and we had an appointment early the next week.

I felt like I’d met her before, and I very well may have when I was last there. She was easy to talk to even though I could hear myself as though in third person and felt like I sounded like a hot mess. Hot mess or no, she didn’t treat me like one. She was very nice to me and had helpful things to say.

Before we got off the phone I asked her about reading tarot. I explained that I’d lost confidence in tarot and that I felt like I’d just been swimming upstream with the cards. I didn’t even know what I expected to get out of them anymore.

There was a thoughtful pause at the other end before she said one of the two sentences I replay for myself often, “Reading the cards can just be a vehicle for your intuition…”

I felt refreshed by this, like I’d taken myself off of restriction and could go play with my friends outside. I went to my decks and unwrapped them, though they no longer felt familiar to me. Not sure if it was me or them, I turned to ye ‘ole reliable internets and shopped for a new deck.

Shopping for new tarot decks after a seven year hiatus has got to be its own blog post, but just let me say here that a lot has changed since 1999 and I had to order from the bookstore or mail order from The Witch’s Almanac. There is this thing called “indie decks” which are published by independent artists that’ll make you feel like the Universe is sending you post cards.

What I experience now with tarot is that my hope isn’t to be told what to do or where to go, but to experience the landscape of my mind and life’s events with both detachment and understanding. I am learning that tarot is not divination as we think of it as fortune-telling, but that it is a means by which we may communicate with clear consciousness from where wise insights and inspiration comes. It is by tuning into this visual, symbolic tool that we intuit guidance for ourselves and others.

Returning to this practice feels like writing again after ignoring my work or shredding my journals. I forgot how much I enjoyed it and what a comfort simply shuffling the cards can be. There is a difference in maturity in myself that I can see now, and that the break from the cards served an important task of giving me perspective. I am mighty glad for the inspiration to return.

I’d like to share a fitting quote from The Hoodwitch, a most excellent mystic I follow on my new favorite social media platform – Instagram. She says, Fear is dangerous, not the tarot. The tarot represents the spectrum of the human condition, the good, the evil, the light, and the dark. Do not fear the darker aspects of the human condition. Understand them. The tarot is a storybook about life, about the greatness of human accomplishment, and also the ugliness we are each capable of. @thehoodwitch

I could not have said it better myself.

If you’d like to know more about Uma or to book a reading check out her website UMASIMON.COM

Knight of Swords starchild

The Knight of Swords begins new projects with critical thinking aligned with inspiration and fresh energy. This card reminds us not to rush but to remain excited. This is one of my favorite cards in tarot.

Starchild Tarot by Danielle Noel – starchildtarot.com

 

Write Like a Champ

rocky 2

You may wonder why I haven’t posted a blog in over a month. Well, dear Reader, I was wondering the same damn thing, so here we are. I’ve been screwing around with that book, the one mentioned in my previous post more than a month ago.

The truth of it is that the first draft, which I thought kicked my ass plenty, was just the start of it. The second draft is harder because I have to keep the good stuff, get rid of the bad stuff and add new stuff to fill in the gaps. I’ve decided that the wish to be a writer is like having a mental illness; you don’t choose it, it manifests at inconvenient times and never shows itself when you need it to.

I decided that the stages of writing a novel really do follow the Rocky franchise, and I’m about to tell you how.

During the first draft, I was slumming. I hadn’t written in a while, and when I did I sent stuff to small-time gilt edged literary journals with a pay entry for competitions. I don’t write for the love of it alone, it’s more like a driving madness. Suddenly, perhaps it’s in a turn of phrase I overheard at the Olive Garden or the galactic shock of Michael Jackson’s death, but I have an opening line for something more substantial than a haiku. I think I’ve got a shot at a best selling title and I sincerely want to go the distance.

That’s the heart of the first draft – I want to finish it. I (pretend like I’m gonna) wake up early or stay up (really) late but I attend to it with the same care that Rocky drank those gross raw eggs. Going ten rounds with Apollo Creed is not unlike how I felt when the first draft was finally done. I felt kinda punchy but I made it.

The synopsis of Rocky II is that Rocky and Apollo fight again, then become friends. This is the stage where I went back and read my book like a regular reader from start to finish. Sure I made notes, but I didn’t make many changes. I noticed discrepancies and added commas where necessary. There were secrets kept from me in the first draft that are apparent to me now as I read thru. Characters developed during the writing and I can see them more clearly. I did get lazy in writing discipline while I let the manuscript rest, so I had to go back into training so I could make it another ten rounds. Training includes deep breathing, reading good writing and turning Netflix off. It also helps to write everyday, even if its long-hand

In Rocky III the tables are turned. The Stallion is now in the position Creed held in Rocky I. Clubber Lang is thirsty like Balboa was back in the day. After I made friends with my novel during the re-write I started to feel like I could be a real writer, one with a career and not just a notebook in my purse and a desperate look in my eye. I felt over-confident from my many triumphant wins during the read through, like witticisms I forgot I wrote or off the charts shenanigans that are brilliant. Rocky III takes me down a few notches, when the notes I made during the reading have to be instituted. This is the cutting room floor, y’all. The re-write beat me down. This is where I am now. I pity the fool!

Rocky IV is perhaps my favorite. Though I’ve seen this installment more than the others, I am far from its equivalent in my writing career. This is where I imagine dealing with the publishing industry. The cold, hard tundra of business and negotiations on behalf of something that could’ve taken eight or so years to write. I can clearly see the tiny Balboa looking up at that giant blond Russian played by Dolph Lundgren. That is how I feel about this stage of my career. When the agents and editors say, “I must break you” I mustn’t let them.

Rocky V is the one I pretend didn’t get made. This is the equivalent of what should end up on the cutting room floor; where the files of bad ideas, false starts and sketchy backstories I might think of resurrecting later for a sequel land. I suggest skipping this stage, and this movie, and go straight to Rocky Balboa.

This installment of the Rocky franchise came later. I saw Balboa in the theater with my grandmother. When Rocky I came out in 1976 I wasn’t born yet. Rocky Balboa shows a much older Rocky back on the old block. He owns a restaurant now, he’s a mostly happy widow with a jerky hitch in his step like he could walk into a hay-maker on his way out of the kitchen. We can still see The Italian Stallion in this old guy, we know he’s in there. Writers have that same stalwart psyche; it’s part of who we are, and if properly provoked we’ll come directly out of retirement swinging wildly. This is where I admit that I’ve considered giving it up, the angst and uncertainty of a writing life is so not glamorous, but sometimes you’ve just got to show ’em what you’re made of.

Creed, the most recent installment had me like….. hold on, I need a minute.

Apollo’s son shows up on Rocky’s door hoping the champ will train him. Rocky is old, y’all, they didn’t even try to make him look good, but he still has that slow brown eyed sincerity. And of course he trains the kid, and this is the stage of writing known as mentorship.

Let me tell you something, right now you don’t want me as your writing mentor. I haven’t done anything but self-published content on a blog I bought and, also, hammer out a few first drafts in typical genres. I also fill notebooks with beautiful handwriting that is as easy to read as classical Sanskrit.

My mentors are Stephen King, who wrote the manual for us would-be authors, On Writing, and Natalie Goldberg because she is so damn consistent about writing for a writer is as necessary as coffee and peanut-butter. It’s part of our well-being. I should add that I’ve never actually met these people, so if you see Stephen King and tell him, “Oh, I read a blog post written by your protege, it was wonderful.” He’ll have no idea what you’re talking about and I’ll probably get a cease and desist order in the mail.

When I’m feeling really lost about the business side of writing I go look at websites for authors I admire. I also read books that create for me what I aspire to give my Readers. Currently Drums of Autumn performs this task for me, but so has The Mists of Avalon, Clan of the Cave Bear and Ann Rice’s The Wolf Gift.

When Apollo’s son went into the ring Rocky was right there by his side, just like Micky was there for him. That’s what a trainer is supposed to do and that’s how mentors work. The thing with Writing is that it’s a job in which the fighter must be in their own corner, which is sometimes the hardest part of the craft. Certainly we have friends who support us, a mentor we rely on, a Teacher we trust. But in the midnight hour, they’re all asleep! Writing is a solitary career, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s a worthy one, like anything you put your heart into.

rocky

 

 

 

Vintage Word

If you have not read Night Circus yet, I suggest you put your tablet down and go buy it. Get yourself a nice paperback copy, it feels nice in the hands. Be sure and clear your calendar, you’re not going to be available for a while. When you’re finished, come on back.

I was so enamored with the book that I looked up the author, who is almost as interesting as her work (would that someone would say that about me one day!) and her website does not disappoint. I am curious about authors who have crossed the rainbow bridge into the world of publishing, and in particular the author of Night Circus, Erin Morgenstern.

Because she is a good person, she has a page on her website for aspiring writers. You see, she was an unknown who was published by cold calling agents and editors (le sigh). I’ll have what she’s having, thankyouverymuch. I figure she knows what she’s talking about, even if she is a fly by the seat of your acrobat leotard kinda girl.

In her post on writing she says that she writes on a program called Scrivener. Well, obviously I need that, too. Right? But I have written on Microsoft Word for so long that it stands to reason it’s best not to waste time teaching old dogs new tricks, or more accurately, a sassy nearly middle aged cat who isn’t interested in learning anything new.

I pecked and searched my way through quite a lot of my first draft before my computer broke. It wasn’t sudden, either. I got to watch it wither and wilt with periodic spasms and death rattles. Damn the machine! I was in a frenzy to save this long drawn out document that may one day be my retirement from all of the jobs (except the ones I love, and I’ll leave it up to you to guess which ones they are).

I go get myself a new computer with no little whining about having to learn a new operating system. The worst part, I think, is getting accustomed to the new keyboard. It never feels just right until all of the sudden it does. When that moment arrives, good luck if you have to change again; old dogs and all.

I saved my stuff online with great displeasure. I am dubious of online storage things. My precious work, the words over which I labored and have not yet brought to conclusion, what if it ends up in the wrong hands? What if it is pirated? What if it is somehow spoiled or abducted by sand fleas and made to perform in small tents?

Then it occurred to me that I have plenty of content I put on the internet on purpose and very few people read it. I can’t drive traffic to my blog, and I’m worried someone is gonna go and pirate something I’ve written? Are they somehow going to go and get famous with work I can’t hock for free? Doubtful.

So, I started writing on a word processing program and I actually finished the first draft. I wasn’t happy about the way the word processing program felt, much like the new keyboard. The program didn’t have formatting up to my nearly professional standards (standards which I only discovered moments before my previous computer ceased its operations). This online writing program felt hollow and I knew it was a short term relationship, not unlike a passionate and combustible love affair.

Today that manuscript and how to proceed has rattled around in my mind. How to enter the next phase of editing? The Apollo phase, I like to call it. My nerves can’t take another moment of this online program, it’s too blank and generic. The obvious answer is to do what Erin Morgenstern did – write on Scrivener.

This program is confusing as hell. I’ve tried to learn it in the past and concluded it must be an operator error. There are sticky notes, cork board applications, there are even little digital push pins where you can hang your ideas and stuff. In the event you, Reader, and I have met in real life you know that I only have so much tolerance for fancy technologically advanced stuff and by my estimation there isn’t much more advanced stuff than digital pushpins and internet cork boards unless we’re talking intergalactic travel, in which case that might be more advanced.

I went running back to Microsoft Word. I’m not sure why I waited for so long. It came pre-installed but not activated on this new PC. Maybe I was trying to be different, technologically advanced or a good protege of Erin Morgenstern. But I just now put Word on my computer; it is offline and pretty much just the same as it was on my old, long lost computer. I swear even my keyboard feels better with my characters dancing around on a familiar word processor, not that my characters dance much. I will tell you that they don’t do too much yoga, either. I add this because folks are sometimes under the impression that I must be writing some sort of treatise on yoga or other advanced spirituality themed work of inspirational aphorisms.

Nope. It’s fiction and it’s ready to get the second draft treatment. I feel like someone should start the Rocky theme song. Ding. Ding.

The Great Outdoors

For the month of March we endeavored to practice one yoga pose every single day. We went with the same posture; downward facing dog. One down dog every day and see what happens.

I thought about adding onto this, building a pose by month sequence so at the end of the year we’d get up to twelve poses a day. But the weather has been so pretty lately and I can be such a shut-in that I want to offer a variation on home practice.

Let’s practice outside. I know what you’re thinking because it’s the same thing I was thinking when I wanted to practice outside – bugs. Bugs and sunshine. Yuck. Combine the two and you have a perfectly good nightmare.

Last week I ordered an all-weather picnic blanket. The thought of eating outside is almost as horrific as doing yoga outside, so a picnic blanket is not something I thought I’d ever own, but it’s Spring and I’m feeling it. The pattern on my large all-weather picnic blanket is blue flowers on a darker blue background and looks not unlike a sheet set we had when I was five. I love it.

Last Sunday, thanks to Amazon Prime and my decisive internet shopping bonanza, I take my blue hippie flower all-weather blanket outside and find a nice area of the yard free of dog poop. The wind blows through the branches above me, which I take for a good sign. I go in and slather SPF 50 on my dedicates and ink, some of which overlap. Unperturbed by the heat, I grab the dish towel with a faded strawberry pattern to keep handy in case I sweat. Even though the Florida sun cannot possibly be hotter than an unholy hot yoga class, I decide to play it safe. No need slipping in a puddle of sweat and having to wait for someone to find me.

When I begin my practice the sun has arced over head and is on its downward journey to the sea. It is still high enough to be brilliant and warm on my skin like a cosmic heating pad administering healing vibes to my sore muscles. Though it is warm, there is a steady Spring breeze that keeps me cool and inspired. There are a few clouds that hang around above me. They are full, white and comfortable in their powder blue home.

The dogs are displeased with this sojourn into the outside and that it excludes them, but they try to escape through the holes in the fence the raccoons dug and I don’t want to worry about them while I bask in sunlit tranquility. Also, they bark. I leave them inside to sulk.

I do the practices I received the last time I went to see Swami. It’s a beautiful sequence to the bright red moon. There is also a breathing practice and mantra sadhana (chanting practice) included at the conclusion. It’s the real deal, ya’ll, at least as long as a “real” yoga class, if not longer if you include the time I spent just looking up into the trees and sky.

This isn’t practical in the everyday world for a daily practice. It is hard practicing everyday and it is especially difficult if I have in my head it is supposed to look a certain way. But I think, given the warmth and sunshine, this is something I can do once a week for a month to see what happens.

So this is what we’re adding on; practice outside at least once a week for the month of April. I think that an enclosed porch, outdoor patio or balcony counts (one of the most amazing practices I ever enjoyed solo was on a third floor balcony in Gulf Shores around mid-night). If you like the beach and are into sand and that sort of thing, try taking your mat out there. There are also some really nice parks around, but the backyard is nice, too.

At this point, you might have a question you want to ask; Prana Devi, I’d love to practice yoga outside and bask in the tranquility of the sun. But I haven’t been practicing yoga for very long and I don’t know what to do. How do I practice yoga outside when I don’t really know how to practice yoga?

Excellent question! I’ll give you a few options. First, go to the bookstore. Find the magazine section and, I am not kidding, buy a print yoga magazine. This is how I built my own home practice. Most yoga magazines have at least one, if not several, practice sequences with pretty good explanations. Take the magazine outside with you and lay it open on your all-weather picnic blanket. Use crystals, your coffee cup or mala beads to hold the pages open. Do what the pictures tell you.

Your phone is another option. That marvel of modern technology has more computing capability than the first spaceships. Find a good educational yoga website, choose a video and do it – outside on your all-weather picnic blanket. I suggest Yoga International.

Lastly, start taking yoga classes and take notes of sequences you like. Ask the instructor to make a short sequence for you so you can take it home and practice outside on your all-weather picnic blanket. Remember your practice does not have to be long to count and it does not have to be complex to have meaning. You just have to do it. Let me know how it goes.

If you are still practicing the daily down dog stick with it and see how many days you can go. If you want to freshen up your single pose du jour, for the month of April pick an asymmetrical posture like Warrior 1 or seated spinal twist. You’ll have to do both sides which, if you think about it, is like doing two yoga poses a day!

Lastly, if you choose to order an outdoor blanket make sure its measurements are larger than your yoga mat is long. I practice on a longer 72 inch yoga mat so double-check your measurements to avoid disappointment. Who in the hell wants their yoga mat touching the ground? We mat be practicing outside, but we’re not insane!