First Rains

First rains of fall are here in the South Bay! Happy new year!

The moment I noticed the rain falling I threw on the least amount of clothes possible (ie less to dry) and headed downstairs. It feels so real and right, to be soaked through and shivering along with the juniper and the pepper trees. And yeah, I’m in the middle of a city, and it’s probably acid rain, and I’m probably going to wake up tomorrow with extra eyes or toes, but it is worth it for the cleansing.

This is when the real Autumn begins. I miss the Falls of home, water running down the hills in rivulets, the culverts full and gurgling… Pulling on a yellow raincoat and too-big boots to slip and slide up the Little Hill behind the house, my hand small against the rough rusted water tank. Slopping through 2 feet of mud in the barnyard to get to whatever animals in the corral, the heady-earth scent of wet horse- and cowflesh slick against my cheek…

I grew up on a cattle ranch, where drought meant so much more than letting the front lawn go a little brown. The months leading up to the rains were full of worry, of “navy showers” and my father and grandfather checking the sunrise, the cloudfall, riding out on the quad each day to make sure the cows and calves had made it to water. Some days they brought back little black bodies of calves that laid down in the hot sun and never got up. The first rain would bring a little relief, a short coat of grass for the hills, and prayers for a wet winter.

We don’t do it for the money – my family works hard to barely break even every year … I’m not sure each family member’s individual reasons: it’s been tradition for the past hundred years, the need to be close to the land, that if we sold out our 80 acres would become a landfill and cookie-cutter houses. We’re stewards of the land and cattle, and if it means going a little thirsty, letting the lawn wither, that is fine. Putting something both higher and equal – the earth, innocent animals, the grass and the eagles—before yourself is a powerful thing.

When I’m waiting at the busstop after work soaked to the skin, or get my books wet on the way to class, I’m still going to thank the universe for this rain. Though this water may be poison or polluted, the earth is still trying to get her cycles back in order and I am so thankful for it, even as I dance between raindrops and feel my soul filling up like a crystal glass, even as my Self drinks her fill and the gutters gurgle and run overflowing…

Re-Stepping onto the Mat

My yoga practice differs greatly from many others, for both obvious and more subtle reasons. Most people in the West, if they delve deeper into their practice, it is to physically strengthen themselves, conquer asana (pose) after asana, maybe bringing some meditation/relaxation into the practice. Of course, when we clear the mind that opens a channel for change, and many people do find their lives—their selfs—changing greatly after taking up regular meditation. From what I’ve seen, unless someone possesses a great depth and, usually, a great trauma or hurt in their lives, they rarely take the time and thought to use the philosophy of yoga in conjunction with mat practice as a conscious tool for change.

Since I’ve restarted, that’s kind of what I want from my practice—conscious change. When I first got into yoga, I went in to class blithe and enthusiastic—at first. I was overjoyed to find something physical to do that I truly enjoyed, and determined, finally, to accept, explore, and love my body for what it was. Who cares if I can’t touch my fingers to my shoulders? Who cares if I can’t straighten my arms, or if I collapse in downward dog, or can’t rest back on my heels? I went home every night ignoring the pain, relishing in finally feeling energy and tranquility flow through me in ways I couldn’t remember ever feeling before. Always, since childhood, I remember mostly feeling anxious and stressed—either too much in my body, (irrationally?) fearing for my well-being; or entirely out of it, head in the clouds or a book. Yoga equaled peace to me… Until I came down from the initial high and began to look around. The studio I went to did not have kind energy towards the physically unable, the intellectual, or the lower-middle class. It abounded with “kick my ass” suburban moms and twenty-somethings, and more middle-aged lean-serene-yoga-machinis, and had zero sense of community. I began looking around classes, seeing people older than my mother easily doing poses that made me shake and wince. I did remain optimistic, but the idea of my own youth, my own weakness chewed on my mind. Something is wrong here.

And then I was diagnosed. This was after I had finished yoga for the summer, and was off to live my first year at college. A week later I was on a toxic drug that didn’t help at all, had a rhuematologist’s card in my wallet—just in case—and was moved into a dorm with a full load of classes to tackle. Leaving home for the first time, adjusting to the big city, and being diagnosed with a crippling, incurable disease—rheumatoid arthritis— it’s no wonder I was miserable that autumn, though I didn’t realize at the time. I let myself wear sweatpants to class, something I had never done in high school, as I took school seriously. Looking around me, college felt like an extension of the yoga studio—everyone professional, exuberant, well-dressed and well-adjusted, while I sat in the back of my mathclass in stained sweatpants and slippers, aching everywhere despite the Plaquenil. I took a yoga class that semester but only learned, from my rather hippie professor, who looked like santa claus, that Bikram yoga symbolizes everything that is wrong with society today. We did the same slow 4 sun salutations every class, and my mind was usually elsewhere.

After some changes that made spring semester amazing—namely a new roommate, less lounge clothes, and more medication—I’m back home for the summer and at a new yoga studio. I work four hours a week in exchange for free classes, and am on good terms with the owners and a few teachers. I’ve had nine months to come to terms with the words chronic and dehabilitating, and am finally ready to consciously use my Self & yoga as a tool for change in my life. Trouble is, I’m not sure what to do. I never had an intention beyond “love thyself” in former classes, and the last few weeks I’ve spent getting reacquainted with yoga. But now I need an intention—I’ve never felt good categorizing or settling on a single thing for myself, whether it’s sexuality or religion or disease. I don’t want to devote myself to one thing, I want to experience them all, so the labels I do use are usually complicated—“Eclectic Pagan”, “sapiosexually panamorous”. I’m a poet—at least that I can settle on—I like words, I like descriptions, I was made to define and expand upon everything I experience. One word, one idea just won’t do it for me.

A yoga teacher, who’s classes I’ve been to before, described my practice to a mutual friend as pain. Albeit, her classes are Vinyasa (Flow) classes, and I’d say a 7 on the 1-10 Unofficial Difficulty Scale o’ Yoga. So yes,I was in pain during most of her classes—but I found her energy and style of teaching so uplifting I chose to take those classes anyway. I’ve thought about this, pain as a practice—am I causing myself pain by practicing? pain I have to work through? The teacher who made the comment continued, saying that I’d reach a point where the pain would no longer matter. I believe she referred to a change of consciousness, but when I first hear that I was undeniably pissed.

Anyone who has rheumatoid, fibromyalgia, lupus, etc, will tell you that one of the worst things to hear is “work through the pain”. This is not acute pain. This is not a stitch in your side trying to reach the finish line, or a cramped muscle, or a bleeding wound you can sew up. There is no before and after, this is chronic pain, this is waking and sleeping and breathing, pain is not a few moments but your life. By working through—ignoring—acute pain that you feel, you are probably causing irreversible damage to yourself. And I guess you can argue that with any pain, but then I think about the pain that signifies change, acute pain. Something that comes on all of a sudden, something you can forget about once in a while, something that will fade. The death of a loved one, breaking a bone, building muscle. That is the pain we need—the kind that allows growth. Chronic pain, I believe, causes damage without growth (as we were not meant to live in pain), and arises when we hold on to things and refuse to accept what is. When we refuse to surrender and accept the thing that caused the pain, that is what damages us. (And of course, to be explored another time: what I am I not accepting that has manifested into RA?)

Unless you have gone through chronic pain, do not tell me to work through my disease, my pain. Unless you have said disease, an in-depth background in physiology, or are my mother/best friend, you probably don’t understand what you’re saying. (And if you are my mother or friend, you still probably don’t, but we understand each other). When I leave the classroom, the mat, the job, I’ll still have this ache or that flare. My immune system doesn’t sleep, my fingers will not reform when I leave your presence. Getting out of bed is working through the pain. Living is working through the pain. If my practice is pain, then so is my life, as terribly cliché as that sounds. But then, aren’t we supposed to extend our mat into our everyday life, and act from a place of love and acceptance in our mundane encounters and not just in yoga class? I suppose this is why I’m having a hard time “deciding” on an intention for my practice, because to me ife is part of my mat and vice versa. My only “intention” in life is to do my best, to act from a place of love, to strive to be closer to the Divine—that is, happiness, eudemonia—in all that I do. It unnerves me to bring such a vague concept to the mat, for if it isn’t a specific intention I find my mind wandering. I still get a spiritual experience, but not as strong as I’d like. (Or perhaps, not as strong as I feel I *should* get. Hmm.)

Four times now in the past year I’ve drawn Medicine Cards in reference to my yoga practice, and always gotten the same two—Dolphin and Turtle. Dolphin signifies mana, or life force, and connecting to that life force through the breath. Turtle signifies the bounty of mother earth, and using one’s boundaries properties. So before my stretch class tonight I drew Turtle, for the second time, and read it again—I realized, especially after beginning Susun Weed’s Healing Wise, that one way to abundance is through surrendering to the Mother Earth, who in turn surrenders to you. I’ve had a lot of problems with energy and feeling constantly drained/numb, and also have always had issues with security and trust. The idea of giving away physical things has always scared me, I remember identifying so strongly with the things I owned and took into me (food) that disrupting any of that—losing things, giving things away, sharing—made me extremely anxious and hostile. I remember around 8 ot 9 struggling to feed myself, analyzing and planning my meals for maximum nutritional affect, but feeling guilty for eating any more than my sister because I knew we were on a tight budget. The idea of dying and no longer being “me” has kept me up at night as long as I can remember. I’ve gotten a lot better since it was shown to me, again and again, “you get what give”. The generosity of the Universe only extends as far as you do. So tonight in stretch class I gave everything to the Everything, selflessly, but with the faith and trust that S/He woud love me right back. I gave away the new opening I could feel in each muscle, the discomfort, the tingling energy rising up. And she gave right back—I breathed a little deeper into each pose, the idea for this post slowly surfaced in my mind. You eat me, I eat you. The teacher, a kind woman, leaned over to correct my pigeon toes and there were silver turtles dangling from her wrist.