Finding Balance with Pie

I’m thinking about pie.

I know I’m supposed to be blogging about yoga, but instead my thoughts are going to apple and pumpkin and pecan and the subtle variations in the crust that can make all the difference in the world.

I am thinking these things because I am and always will be a Ryan, and at Thanksgiving this means that almost everything else takes a back seat as we get ready for our annual pie contest.

The story of the pie contest is this: Many Thanksgivings ago, because my family is made up of wonderful and creative cooks, someone came up with the brilliant idea of having a contest. The only rule was that you had to make your crust from scratch. And so every year since we celebrate Thanksgiving by having a no-holds-barred competition to see who can come up with the very best pie. The trash talk begins in July.  We work up to a frenzy through the early fall, with photographs of prototypes and other teasers circulated via cell phones and the Internet.

When Thanksgiving arrives, we linger through my brother Dave’s oysters, have a pleasant enough dinner and then, to much applause and fanfare, unveil the year's entrants.  Sometimes there are only 8 pies, sometimes as many as 13 or 14.  The competitors include experienced bakers like my dad as well as nieces and nephews still in elementary school. 

Each and every pie is absolutely delicious. But, there can be only one winner.

And that’s where the judging comes in. We still don’t have an ideal system. Initially, anyone who didn’t make a pie was put on the jury. But the pressure on these folks was too much. So we switched to an open format: Anyone who wanted to take taste every entry may vote. The challenge now is to convince the youngest judges (never had this problem with my own kids) that they don’t have to vote for their parent’s pie.

Whatever each entry’s merits, I’ve discovered that the pies reveal much about each of us as individuals. For example, Cheryl is the most reliable person I know. She’s had one husband, one job, and only two homes for the last 30 years. And using the same basic recipe, plus a gourd she grows in her yard, year after year she makes an amazing pumpkin pie. Amy is a highly accomplished public relations executive. She presents her company with panache. And while her pie changes every year, the presentation of each is always flawless.  Handcrafted pottery for serving. Pastry adorned with beautiful cutouts. Homemade whipped cream for the perfect topping. Before he became a dad four times over, Chris tied beautiful, effective fishing flies. Today, he chooses and uses every ingredient for his pies with the same precision that he used for flies.  And he practices the recipe a few times over before he’s ready to submit. Miriam, a mindful yogi and mom, always comes up with a variation on a traditional pie that includes something wonderfully good for us: handpicked apples, organic oats, maybe some fresh ground nuts or seeds. As for me, the reckless one in the group, my entrees are always a little unpredictable. Cranberry meringue, for example. In a contest where there may be multiple pumpkin or apple based pies, mine end up in a category all alone (strategically, not the safest approach but that’s another story).

As much as the pie reveals something about its baker, the contest says even more about us as a family.  Clearly, we all love to eat and cook. And maybe this is where there’s a tie to yoga. Because the pie contest helps our family maintain its balance all year round. Maybe the contest reminds us to use the time we have to be happy, to laugh, to appreciate one another, and to recognize our many blessings – at Thanksgiving and always. As a family, we generally don’t bicker or focus on our differences or woes, even though there are sometimes many. Is it because of the contest? I doubt it. But I think it helps. After all, it’s awfully hard to argue when you’re eating a piece of pie.

Happy Thanksgiving. Namaste.

 

Turning lessons of 2011 into action for 2012

New Year’s Eve Day…. The kids, some of them anyway, are in the living room playing an X-Box dance game and making it a little difficult for me to focus on Patanjali’s Yoga Sutra’s, the golden rules for life.
Patanjali didn’t have the same distractions when he wrote his sutras sometime back between 200 BC and 200 AD, but there apparently was enough going on even then for him to compile 195 aphorisms that describe what it truly means to incorporate the science of yoga into one’s life. In essence, Patanjali wrote that yoga is much more than the postures or asanas, but how we treat ourselves, our family, our friends, our acquaintances, and our planet.
While some would describe Patanjali’s words as simple and straightforward, yogis, historians and philosophers have been debating their precise meaning for thousands of years. I’m sure I don’t understand them very well, but I do think about them from time to time including now, as 2011 comes to an end. I wonder if I am integrating yoga into my life, off the mat?
In the last year, my mantra was that the universe will unfold as it should. But, I realize that I usually said or thought that only after the universe unfolded as I thought it should. I fear that mantra didn’t cross my mind when I was disappointed with the way something turned out.
Case in point: Christmas. With all the lightness and joy comes disappointment that can often be traced to experiences of what the holiday has been and preconceived notions of what it should be. Like a lot of people, I miss loved ones no longer with us, with traditions no longer followed, heck, even with the lack of snow. For me, the struggle comes every other year when my son goes off to his dad’s for the holiday break.  This is not, I think, how holidays should be celebrated!  While I thought I was being cheerful, I actually allowed my disappointment to seep into my psyche. I ended up being miserable and sharing that misery with everyone around me.
I tried something different this year. Yes, I missed my son. Yes, I thought of him often. But unlike those other odd-numbered Christmases when I my son was away, I finally was able to detach myself from needing him to be with me for me to be fully present and enjoy the holiday for all that it offered. I created new traditions. I was grateful for the loved ones that I could be with. And, I think, instead of bringing misery to our holiday gatherings, I finally brought a little joy.
Building on this more positive Christmas, I’m going to spend some time in 2012 exploring this idea of detachment. I haven’t quite figured out where passion fits in with all of this. I don’t think Patanjali was advising against passion. Passion can be good. It drives me forward in my work and my play, in my relationships as well as my civic duty. But I do think it’s possible to be passionate and engaged without associating happiness or success only to one outcome.
And when I figure that out, I suppose I should go back to the sutras and see what Patanjali would say about X-boxes.
Blessing of the new year to us all….
Gin.

Call from the Universe: Collect

Ever hear the saying that you always hurt the ones you love?

This has been my experience with my smart phone.  My passion for my phone, my dependence on it and the need to always be available, mostly to my kids has led to the destruction of six phones in less than five years.

 #1 was the victim of a hit-and-run accident.  It dropped out of my jacket as I was on a marathon training run. I noticed it missing soon enough to see if glimmering by the side of the road, but not so soon that I couldn’t get to it before an oncoming car.

 #2 landed in the toilet at Hynes Auditorium.

Less than 24 hours later, #3 landed in the toilet at my office.

#4 was buried in a snow bank for  48 hours.  It kinda sorta worked when I found it, but not for long.

#5 landed in a tub of hot bubbling  water at the local nail salon. The pedicure nearly made the loss worthwhile.

#6, my most recent victim, fell into the turkey brine at Thanksgiving.

Lest you get the idea that I’m one of those people who can’t put their phone down, let me set the record straight. I used to be that way, probably (though I don’t think I knew it at the time).  I’m much better now but I still like the idea of the phone more than actually using it.  

Which brings me to the question of balance, my greatest challenge not just in yoga but in all aspects of my life.  Just as I struggle with Garudasana (Eagle) or even, at times, Tree, I am constantly trying to figure out how to spend the precious hours of my day – whether to work or play, whether to hang with the kids or my beloved, and whether to answer the phone when it rings, to wait until the rest of the family is otherwise or  to simply turn it off and put it away so that whoever I’m with understands that my attention – my focus – is on them and only them.

And so I wonder: Are these problems with smart phones a coincidence or are they calls from the universe telling me to hang it up?

After destroying six smart phones  I’ve decided it’s time to try something different, at least for awhile. The old, definitely not smart phone that I’ve been using since Thanksgiving is a relic. I can barely make a call,  never mind text. It has no appeal to me whatsoever and, therefore, no risk of being tucked into a shallow pocket to be at the ready. That may be its saving grace. And mine.

namaste.

Don't Leave the Room

I took my first Bikram yoga class yesterday. For years, I had been ogling Bikram from a distance, curious about why anyone would choose to practice yoga in 105 degree.

But I was just coming off a few days of detox eating and thought that maybe a nice way to end it all (hopefully, not literally) was with a last good sweat and stretch in the heat.

When I arrived for the class, I was never greeted so warmly (pun intended) by fellow students. People could tell I was a first timer and all shared the same advice: Don’t stand under the panels (that’s where it’s hottest); keep a second towel nearby; take a knee if you need a break; and most of all, no matter how bad you feel, don’t leave the room. Leave the room? Why would I leave the room?

If I wasn’t nervous before arriving at the studio, I certainly was now.

I didn’t need to be. The assanas aren’t particularly complicated, and the pace is fairly slow. But I found it difficult to focus. It might have been the streaming dialog from the instructor who led the class through words, not demonstration. It might have been the close proximity of the student on the mat just inches in front of mine. Or it might have been the heat. The weakest part of my own practice on a good day is balance and so I wobbled, even during tree. The nausea began when tried to join a few of them by lowering myself into toe stand. I fought the urge to flee the room but took a knee instead. Fortunately, we were done with the standing poses and treated to a few moments on our backs and, after a few deep breaths, I was fine and ready to go.

Bikram is a series of 26 poses and breathing patterns that are practiced universally, in the same order, no matter where you study. There’s no centering at the start of class, no soothing music in the background, no gentle instruction from the class leader urging you to make the practice your own, no calming savasana at the close.

It’s the mirror opposite of my approach to teaching.

There was a lot about Bikram that didn’t feel right to me. I think I would hate to teach it. And yet, there was something pretty great about it, too.

The marathon runner in me loved the rush of endorphins and feeling the sweat flowing out of every pore.  Despite the forewarnings, I felt fabulous after the class and throughout the day. I had a surge of energy in the evening that I hadn’t experienced in a long time, but, I was also tired and slept like a rock.

I’m going to go back and see if I like it as much the second time around. If I do, I think I’d like to practice Bikram a couple times a week. In moderation, it may be the perfect balancecomplement to the gentle yoga that I teach.

Someone asked me if there’s anything I'd incorporate from Bikram into my own classes. There is, but it’s not a pose or breathing. It’s a lesson I learned from the other students that is applicable in and outside of the studio: No matter how hard it gets, stick with it. Take a break if you need to. Change your position or your perspective. But whatever you, don’t leave the room.

Namaste.

Signs by the side of the road

I found a screech owl today.  She was sitting at the edge of the road, barely moving but blinking her large yellow eyes every now and then to prove she wasn’t a stuffed animal that had fallen out of a stroller.

I got a box and brought the owl home and waited for the animal control officer to come deliver her to the local wildlife rescue center where, I hope, she will be nursed back to health. I mean, I assume she was hurt. Why else would an owl be sitting in the road? ( I also assume the owl was female but, really, I have no idea.)

It was such an odd thing, seeing that tiny owl there. I wondered if it was there for a reason, serving as a sign or an omen that I was supposed to somehow recognize.

So I searched the Internet to see if any of the various interpretations of owls in dreams, folklore, the Bible, even Wikipedia jumped out at me. Nothing did.

And then I realized that maybe the owl didn’t symbolize a thing; maybe the significance of finding the owl was simply that I noticed it.

I figured that the owl had been there for a few hours, taking her doomed last flight when it was still dark. Not at midday when I had found her.  So how come none of the dozens of people who drove or walked past noticed her – or, at least – did something to help?

As part of my personal journey with yoga, I’ve dedicated myself in the last year or so to being less of a multi-tasker (even though I thought I was so good at it) and more present to the here and now.  But lately, I’ve been struggling with that -  feeling a little too rushed again and definitely as though I’m being pulled in different directions as I try to feed my spirit as well as my kids.

Maybe the owl showed me that despite life’s many distractions – they really can’t be avoided – it’s still possible to slow down, be present to the moment and see what’s on the side of the road.

Leaving Shoes - and Ego - at the Door

It's my last night in the tree house.

My loneliness passed as soon as I realized that my time here was nearly over. Adrenalin kicked in and I knocked off all the remaining tasks on my retreat to-do list.

Or maybe that surge of energy came from an amazing Vinyassa class that I took at the Yoga Barn.  For the uninitiated, Vinyassa is an approach to yoga that very specifically synchronizes the breath with movement. Vinyassa is often described as a “flow”  because of the way that the yogi moves with her or his breath from one asana to another. It’s one of my favorite forms of yoga, mostly because it can be very active and, at the same time, as gentle or as challenging as the student want to make it.

Vinyassa can also be humbling.  During the class, our instructor Bonnie was walking around in between mats, making adjustments to people as they went through various poses. I assumed I would not be the subject of an assist. After all, I do a lot of yoga. I teach yoga, for crying out loud. I must be doing it right. And yet, in the middle of Virabhadrasana (Warrior) 2,  a pose I’ve done hundreds of times, Bonnie came over to me and began making slight adjustments. She moved my hand to the right, tucked my hip back to the left, and – voila - I felt better, stronger and more energized. Go figure.

Yoga is described as a practice for a reason. No matter how often you do it, there’s always room to learn more. We may never reach perfection. I once took a workshop with an Iyengar instructor who told me that he had been studying a particular type of Pranayama, or breathing, for two years. He said he was almost ready to begin teaching it.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could take an openness to humility off the mat and into our daily lives?  With humility comes a sense of empowerment when we are willing to learn, accept an assist and make some adjustments. The result is that we can do better – we can be better – no matter what we are facing.

I once saw a sign at a yoga studio asking people to leave their shoes and egos at the door.

Pretty good advice for life, I think.

namaste, gin

Solitude

If Jesus went into the desert alone for 40 days and Buddha sat under the Bodhi tree for 49, why am I struggling with just four?

A prophet I am not, but we knew that.

Still, one would think that after 50 years of never, ever being alone that a week by myself would be just the thing.

And it is.  I’m getting a heck of a lot of work done. I’m practicing yoga throughout the day. I’m reading some of those books that have sat, collecting dust, by my bedside. I’ve snuck in a few long bike rides. And yet…. I’m, what’s the word? Lonesome.

 I had contemplated being silent during my stay here. That lasted half a day.  My loved ones are getting weary of my calls and texts. How are you? I ask. “Still fine,” they say. Anything new? “Not in the last hour….”

As I sat on the beach this morning, I couldn’t help but think of those prophets who spent weeks and months in solitude, in prayer and meditation. And I thought of the people who live alone, perhaps not in prayer or meditation, but who experience solitude on a regular basis.  Most of the people I know who have chosen to live like that relish their lifestyle. 

Dabbling my toes in the waters of solitude is giving me a greater appreciation for my life of no solitude. Knowing that my time here is limited makes the solitude bearable and at times, even enjoyable.  It certainly inspires me to keep tackling those intimidating tasks that I claimed not to be able to do for lack of time or quiet.

I wonder if when these seven days of solitude are up whether I will return, changed. Hopefully, change will occur because of Yoga Neighborhood. But I suspect that, despite my wistfulness for family and friends, I will miss the opportunity to sit, think, pray and meditate whenever I want. The challenge, of course, will be to create those opportunities even in my busy, distracted life.  I'll let you know how it goes.

Namaste, Gin