Letting Things Happen

I love to be doing.

If I’m running, I like do be out on the street going somewhere, rather than running on a treadmill or around a track. Even if my street route is basically the equivalent of a really big track: At least I go in one circle rather than around in circles.

If I’m teaching, I like to be moving around my classroom, offering feedback to students individually or in small groups. I can’t count the number of times I’ve come to my desk at the end of the day to discover that a student has usurped my “teacher chair” because they figured I wasn’t using it and therefore wouldn’t miss it. (To be fair, they’ve been right every time.)

If I’m choosing an asana practice, I like active, fluid vinyasas. Even if I don’t move super-fast through them, my general preferred rhythm includes relatively more physical movement and relatively less physical stillness.

I’m not so great at letting things happen to me.

I can think of a lot of reasons for that.

Doing things makes me feel accomplished and worthwhile.

When I hear or read fitness talk, much of it is rooted in doing: actively working to make oneself faster, stronger, thinner, more socially acceptable and/or conventionally attractive. Even if I don’t want to be all of those things, it’s easy to internalize the idea that action is good. Not always but often, inaction conjures images of laziness, staying home on the couch.

In other areas of my life, letting things happen is equated with ideas about victimhood. I shouldn’t have let myself get raped. I shouldn’t let pain from bad endo days keep me from activities I love. I shouldn’t let the Arizona legislature’s attacks on education and on women wear me down. Even though I realize the emphasis is all wrong in those examples, it’s easy to internalize the idea that letting things happen is somehow bad or weak.

And yet. In yoga, in muscles, in bodies, sometimes this is precisely the right choice.

My hips get tight from running. My shoulders get tight from push-ups and, if I’m going to be completely forthcoming, probably all of the chaturangas and forearm stands as well. My back gets tight from everything.

In times like this, the trick to taking good care of my body is to quit trying so hard, to stop doing and start letting.

[Video from Mark Laham Yoga via YouTube.]

Day 3 & Day 4

Continuing the Daily Dose of Yoga with suggestions for December 3 and December 4 — or whenever you like, if you like them, according to how they serve you or not.

Day 3: Considering Ahimsa

I’ve most commonly seen ahimsa translated as “nonviolence,” which is, as far as I know, accurate. However, when considering it as part of a yoga practice, it might be helpful to consider it in a broader or deeper sense. I’ve also seen ahimsa described as “do no harm” and practicing compassion, and as practical matters, both of those strike me as more complete and therefore more helpful. For instance, it’s certainly possible for me to be technically nonviolent toward myself or others while still doing them harm or regarding them without compassion.

Shunning someone out.

Self-deprecating talk.

Guilting anyone for something that has already happened.

Nonviolent — but, I would argue, not really in line with an observation of ahimsa.

And you know what? Developing a consistent practice of ahimsa — learning to feel and act compassionately toward others and ourselves — is tough. It’s worthy of being considered a yoga practice in its own right. Because as the sum total of my life, what matters more: how compassionate I am, or how many sun salutations I could do?

Day 4: Heart Opening Asana Practice

This was uploaded by Esther Ekhart, one of my favorite yoga channels on YouTube. It fits in quite nicely with Day 3′s discussion of ahimsa:

[Video from EkhartYoga via YouTube.]

It starts with a fairly fiery core practice that builds into some heart-opening postures. I’ve only viewed (and tried) the practice once, so my memory is not the most informed, but — This is a practice that assumes ability to get into a number of common asanas without assistance. Additionally, it assumes some familiarity with said yoga postures; they are described some but not in a whole lot of detail and not with too many modifications offered. (To give a complete picture, though, Esther Ekhart has another YouTube channel that details a lot of individual poses with much more instruction and modifications. I get the impression that the new channel’s intended audience mostly includes people who are familiar with the first channel.)

Physically, core awareness and control helps create support for safe backbending, which a lot of heart opening postures involve. In terms of chakra work and the subtle body (if you’re into that sort of thing), activating energy in the heart center can help cultivate the capacity for love and compassion within ourselves. Whether that’s strictly true or not, I find that a heart opening practice does serve to remind me to consciously think about how to do no harm.

Teacher Secrets 3

Sometimes I call home the day before the paper is due so that I don’t have to call home the day after.

School Pictures

From late last week.

Yes, I sat for my school picture today
barefaced. Because let’s be honest
when was the last time you saw me in
make-up? Second, even by second
period my whirlwind of teaching
has made my hair escape its style
sprouting a silhouette of improbable
angles. The smudge on my glasses
maybe my face too is visible.
I meant to do that.
The ink on my hand you can’t see
but know it’s there. Mostly
that smile, equal parts
exasperation and amusement.
Years from now
this is how you will know me.

Core Stretching, Twisted Edition

One way to release tension in the deeper layers of the low back muscles is through a twisting motion. Twists asymmetrically compress and lengthen the muscles on each side of the spine — so, twisting to both sides is generally a good idea. Additionally, twists are useful in determining if one side of the body is stiffer (LEFT SIDE, I AM LOOKING AT YOU) than the other. When I’m twisting at the end of my practice, I have a couple of preferences for twists.

One option involves fairly active but “open” twists — where the lower limbs aren’t “blocking” the torso in the direction of the twist. An example would be something like revolved Marichyasana (compared to, say, ardha matsyendrasana, where the torso twists in the direction of a leg folded across the body):

(Video from ExpertVillage via YouTube.)

I do more compressive twists at other points in my practice. However, as someone with no small amount of abdominal torso fat (BOOBS, I AM INCLUDING YOU), they require a lot of body-part-negotiation for me and aren’t really the best for truly winding down (pun intended). Open twists let me really focus on both spinal length and rotation without also needing to maneuver the rest of my torso along the same spiral. If what I’m looking for is a posture that soothes more than stimulates me system, an asana that accommodates my body shape is usually the way for me to go.

Another option is for me to take a more passive, yin-style twist. For folks unfamiliar with yin yoga, I tend to mean an expression of the pose that I can relax into — which is maybe not the deepest twist I can take ever — and hold for a longer period of time. (For folks familiar with yin yoga, I realize that is very simplified. But for my purpose here and now, I think it’s enough.) When twisting, my favorite way to do this is via a reclining twist, on account of most poses are easier to hold for a long time when the floor is doing a lot of the support work:

(Video from ExpertVillage via YouTube.)

For me, the most potent component of a truly restorative twist is time. Granted, it’s an element that often eludes me in my limited daily asana practices. But when I can work it in, a supine twist of 5-ish minutes on each side does wonders for my lower thoracic and upper lumbar spine (the area where I tend to build up the most tension from sitting and other day-to-day physical stresses). I suppose I should insert some pithy comment about making time for self-care, but in truth — It is late; I am too tired. And I have already worn myself too thin this week.

Heels, Redux

My sneakers and skirts look has not gone unnoticed at work.

When teachers comment, I say, “Allowing myself the freedom to move makes me a better teacher.”

When students comment, I say, “I’m not willing to worry about how I look at the expense of how I feel.”

Now there is a small but surely growing trend of skirts and sneakers.

My Deal with Heels

Reconstructed conversation I had with a coworker — let’s call her Nicole — the other day. The words are paraphrases, but I have attempted to accurately convey the overall sentiment.

I decided it would be awesome to try to wear a black casual work dress with my bumblebee running shoes. While one could make the argument that it’s not the most professional look I’ve ever constructed, in the grand scheme of all clothes ever, sneakers and skirts probably do not make too many people gasp in horror.

Nicole noticed as I approached our lunch table. “Nice shoes.”

“Thanks,” I replied, sitting next to her. Nicole’s own shoes included three inch wedge heels. “Either I’m getting old, or my feet are still readjusting to teaching. But they definitely do not like it when I try to wear my dress shoes.”

“Have you tried smaller heels?” Nicole asked, poking at the mystery cheese (?) concoction on her tray. “Ew. Anyway, sometimes that’s what I do when my feet need a break.” She took a bite, made a face. “Not flats, though. I’m too short for flats.”

I don’t know about this “too short for flats” thing, but as someone who’s nearing five-eight, it’s not a frame of reference I know that much about, so I decide to keep my mouth shut. Except for the tomato wedge: it is still lunch, after all.

And except for my own shoe woes. “Most of my work shoes are already low heels. I was never too much in love with them to begin with — for actual wearing, even though they look good — but for some reason this year, my feet are just completely rebelling. I think it’s all the yoga and the running.”

“Eek!” Nicole exclaimed in mock horror. “That gives me a reason to stop running. I love my shoes too much!”

I shook my head and took a drink of my water. “I honestly don’t know how you do it.”

Because somehow, Nicole manages to wear high-heeled dress shoes to work every day. Sometimes thicker heels or wedges instead of stilettos, but from my perspective, that doesn’t matter so much. Seeing a coworker doing my same job in anything other than a walking shoe (or running shoe, trail hiking shoe, or similar) leaves me awed and befuddled. Because the status quo on my campus is largely that women will wear traditionally feminine women’s dress shoes, bearing heels or not. Sure there are a few of us in the Dansko Flats Support Group, but we’re considered an anomaly.

Though I understand the mechanics of why my feet (knees, hips, low back) don’t like these shoes, part of me feels like my body is failing me and/or societal expectations by objecting to wearing them. It feels like I’m failing at performing femininity (which, in this particular work context, is sometimes considered interchangeable with “professional dress”) by wanting and requiring shoes that don’t impair my ability to move.

That movement thing. Turns out, there might be more to it than I originally thought.

Nicole giggled. “Maybe I don’t walk as much as you do. Sometimes, I let my students come to me.”

Which, indeed, might be a key difference. While I do establish classroom norms and procedures that facilitate student movement and contact, one of my strengths as a teacher is my ability to work the room. During class, I am everywhere; it’s like a superpower. Students know they can’t engage in off-task behaviors because I will be right there to call them on it. Similarly, students know they can receive one-on-one attention because I will be right there to answer the question they were too nervous to ask in front of the whole class.

I’m not willing to give that up. Not that there aren’t other quality teaching styles, but this one is mine. It fits naturally, and it works for my students and me. Good learning happens when I can be Teacher Ninja.

At the same time, I’m no longer willing to live in discomfort in order to perform femininity (pardon me, professional dress) correctly. Because I think that’s what I’ve been doing for a number of years. Even when my work shoes haven’t caused outright pain, they have caused discomfort — multiplied by many hours, many miles, and many days. I’m tired of sneaking in days of sneakers, hoping no one will notice, and resigning myself to days of kitten heels and unsupportive flats as penance. I’m tired of looking for excuses to be comfortable in my body.

If that means I fail at performing femininity, so be it. But it is not a failure of either professionalism or professional dress. And if it means I need stealth Ninja Teacher Shoes to do it, then stealth Ninja Teacher Shoes I shall have.

No Blame

“I blame my parents.”

I’ve been talking with a few people in real life about body image and struggles with weight. The above sentiment seems to be a common thread. While the specific connection varies, at least a few people I know link their current body size to their parents.

In some cases, this link involves genetic disposition, which I think makes sense. When I look at myself in the mirror, I see:

• the blue eyes of my father’s father
• the broad shoulders and wide hips of my paternal grandmother and her daughter
• my dad’s nose
• my maternal grandmother’s jawline and cheeks
• the dimple in my chin that came from my mother’s father
• my mom’s hands

(I grew up being told that I didn’t look like anyone in the family — at least compared to my brother and sister, who more clearly take after my dad’s appearance — so these recognitions are important to me.) It makes sense that some of the traits I inherited — like bone structure — might correlate to a higher body mass for my height. Similarly, I can see where other traits — like full cheeks and a strong jawline — might lead to a fatter appearance, regardless of their negligible affect on my weight.

And if that’s true for me, it’s likely true for at least some others. Some of the blueprints in our genetic codes influence the body shape we present to ourselves and the world. At this point in life — when we don’t get to choose our parents and as we already exist in the world — it might be a matter of playing the hand we’re dealt.

In other situations, folks I talked to spoke of blaming their parents for childhood eating habits. In the interests of full disclosure, these are people who — as adults — have settled on a basically whole foods diet (not restricting or counting calories or other nutrients but basically trying to avoid processed foods as much as possible) and basically have the access (money, time, and proximity to quality grocery stores) to sustain it. So — particularly assuming that they grew up with a socioeconomic status equal to what they have now, which I don’t know to be true — it’s maybe more understandable that they’re critical of parental choices to prepare, pack, and serve more processed foods.

I will say this: For a number of years, I was functionally the oldest child living in the house. I learned to cook pretty early on, and a good number of the meals I was expected to prepare included macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, Spaghettios (with franks!), and — if I was imbued with an extraordinary amount of trust on any given day — canned tomato soup and grilled cheese. In the whole foods scheme of things, none of these meals was particularly nutritious, but all of them shared two redeeming qualities: 1) they were simple to prepare, mostly only requiring the ability to warm ingredients; 2) each had a shelf life of approximately forever, meaning that my parents could purchase them in quantity each payday without fear of them turning rancid before we ate them.

But mostly, in terms of parents and body size, what I remember is my mother. Not that I remember her as a fat woman or a thin woman because over the years, she’s been pretty much all the sizes. The vast majority of who she is — her friendliness, her enthusiasm, her intelligence, her compassion, her sociability, and most importantly her worth as a person — hasn’t changed the whole time. Just the color of her hair and the shapes of her body.

However, when I think of my mom and her attitudes about bodies — specifically her body, my body, and my sister’s body — I don’t remember what she looked like at any given point in time. I just remember the actions and reactions. The months, perhaps post-New Year’s resolution, when all artificial sugar was banned from our diets. The mixed messages of being told to “go out and play;” told that we should exercise because it was good for us, where “good for us” implied achieving or maintaining a “skinny” weight but never being joined in activity for the fun of it; the inability of my body to meet her approval.

I remember one time, I was in middle school, and my mom was helping me find a themed outfit for some type of school spirit day. She dug through her closet and trunks and found some kind of maroon jumpsuit. (I don’t remember what the spirit day was, so I have no idea if it was at all appropriate for that.) I tried it on; it didn’t fit, too snug in the shoulders, ribcage, and butt.

Mom frowned. “I don’t know why you can’t wear that. It fit me in college; I can’t believe it doesn’t fit you now.”

I’m not sure if she intended it maliciously. Probably not. But the message that statement sent was that my body was fatter than it should be.

I want to be clear here. While I do think that my mother’s attitude was likely a causative factor in my own developing relationships with food and my body, I don’t think either of my parents are to blame for my current size. Because, quite simply, I don’t see my weight as anything deserving of blame.

Core Strength: Chaturanga

See? I have not forgotten about core stuff, I promise. I think it’s partly, now that I’m reaccustomed to writing (things other than hall passes) on a regular basis, it’s easier for me to branch off onto additional topics. Which is likely a good thing, as long as I can follow through on other strands I’ve started.

In terms of strands, this is a continuation of the core series, with a current focus on the multifidus muscle group, one of the deepest layers of low back muscles. This group of muscles co-contracts with the transverse abdominals in order to stabilize the spine prior to limb movement — limb movement like bending the elbows while pressing back through the heels to lower from plank into chaturanga.

I know I originally said I was going to look at plank variations — and I fully intend to do so in a future post — but then I thought about it. While plank is a standard in a lot of power and vinyasa yoga sequences, the variations I’m thinking about are far less common. Chaturanga, on the other hand, follows high plank on a regular basis, so I probably should discuss how core strength and spinal stability work in this pose.

Like plank, in chaturanga, the core muscles are working against gravity to hold the body in a straight line. Unlike plank, chaturanga can be more difficult — particularly on the upper body — because it doesn’t involve stacking the joints of the wrists, elbows, and shoulders. Additionally, while plank is generally held as a still pose, in practice, chaturanga often involves a controlled lowering into the pose as well as the final position itself.

I’d like to say that when I first started practicing chaturanga, I encountered some uncomfortable joint problems, but that is a lie. When I first started practicing chaturanga, I didn’t have either the upper body or core strength to do it, so I modified with my knees on the ground. After that — when I started gradually incorporating straight line chaturangas into my practice — then I encountered some uncomfortable joint problems. Essentially, my alignment was off, taking the work of the pose out of my muscles and placing it into the joints of my shoulders and wrists.

Sadie Nardini explains the physics better than I can:

To be honest, I was never concerned about the “scooch of shame.” I did, however, appreciate the realization that if the muscles start to get sore, this can be a good thing since it implies strengthening — but if the joints start to get sore, this suggests they’re taking the strain my muscles should be bearing — particularly because this can be applied beyond chaturanga.

Also, FYI — When I was relearning the chaturanga alignment, I did alter my vinyasas for quite a while (maybe 3 months of almost daily practice) while I was exploring this new positioning. Not only did I not lower as far — as Sadie’s video mentioned — but I also stopped jumping back into chaturanga and started stepping back into it again, so I could lower with more awareness and control. It was a good lesson in learning that the “flashiest” version of a pose — or the expression that requires the most strength/flexibility/whatever — is not necessarily the version that deepens the mental or subtle aspects of my practice.

I do not claim that the shape I create is a “textbook” version of chaturanga or one that should be imitated by others. But I can now show you what a fluid, safe, and comfortable (well, the muscles get tired toward the end of my practice, but not the joints) chaturanga looks like on me:

I realize that it looks like I’m lowering my shoulders below my elbows, so that my elbows are going past 90 degrees. I can’t tell if this is due to camera angle (which is not parallel to my body or mat) or because this is what’s actually happening. What I can say is that I practiced for about 90 minutes the day I filmed this — and have continued to practice in this manner for a couple of months afterward — while feeling zero chaturanga stress on either my shoulders or wrists.

Still feel plenty of work in my biceps, thighs, and core though. Speaking of which: for folks who are wanting chaturanga modifications, I will be addressing that next. And I don’t just mean “next time I talk about core again.” I mean the very next time I post.

I don’t want to change my body.

I’ve been doing some reading — namely, pieces like Beauty Schooled’s Why Loving Your Body Won’t Kill You (and related links), The Curvy Nerd’s A Letter to My Future Self, Sasha Paley’s novel Huge (review pending completion), and Shoshie’s Having an openly fat relationship — and I’ve made a discovery that’s profound to me, in navel-gazing, first-world-problems sort of way.

I don’t want to change my body.

This is not to suggest that other people’s choices to lose weight, tone up, or improve the state of their health are ones with which I disagree. I’m all for folks making empowering choices for themselves, and I don’t for a minute expect that everyone else’s good-for-them choices will mirror mine. But as I’m steeped in stories of people who are ultimately on body-changing journeys (for a myriad of reasons, with greater or lesser attachment to the physical results), I’m also realizing none of them are journeys for me.

Because I don’t want to change my body.

I’ll continue practicing asana (among other components of yoga) and running for as long as they serve me — which I hope is decades into the future since I derive a lot of pleasure from both of these activities. And I’ll continue cultivating a healthy relationship with food, where “healthy” includes both my physical and emotional health needs. In short, I’m not going to stop doing anything that’s already working for me.

But I don’t want to change my body.

What I want is to change society’s perceptions about my body.

I want to go clothes shopping and have my size available in a variety of stores — instead of one or sometimes zero. I want to ask a sales associate, “Can I try this on?” while holding a form-fitting dress and not see a sneer. I want to ask about fat athletic wear and not hear anyone laugh.

I want access to medical attention with out fear of a weight lecture, without fear of “just lose weight” offered in lieu of legitimate treatment. And frankly, I’d like people to stop complaining that my weight is driving up insurance premiums. Because I promise, lack of adequate initial treatment due to fat shaming has cost my insurers more dollars than my actual BMI ever has — not to mention what I lose in quality of life.

I want to eat in public without fear of being told I’m doing something bad for me.

I want my body to stop being associated with terms like “lazy,” “unhealthy,” “disgusting,” “pathetic,” and “cow.” Or at least, I want society to equally associate my body with terms like “active,” “healthy,” “attractive,” “admirable,” and “cool.” Moreover, it terrifies me that a lot of people take for granted that an “epidemic of” or “war on” my body is a good thing. I’m not really into using my body as someone else’s metaphor for garbage, pestilence, or annihilation.

Because my body is exactly the size and shape and strength and weight that work for me right now. It’s the part of me that handles all the “survival” stuff when I’m meditative and stuck in my head. It’s the part of me that handles all the “survival” stuff when I’m dissociative and stuck out of my head. It’s the knees that kneel fifty times a day to teach a student one-on-one, the feet that move me through a run, and the core and lungs that power my vinyasa. It’s the lips that kiss my partner good morning and the arms that cuddle my dog good night.

So I don’t want to change my body because it’s not my body that should change.

Do You Need Any Props?

This post inspired by “Skating on the surface” over at Recovering Yogi.

First, this quote is pretty awesome:

As my teacher says…..yoga is learning skillful action, moment by moment. And most importantly, yoga should teach us kindness.

And it’s true. Yoga has provided me many lessons in kindness, many of them uncomfortable and most of them awkward. Such is the story of That One Time I Showed Up Late To Class.

For folks who are not familiar with Yoga Etiquette, this can be a Big Fucking Deal. At a number of studios, it’s enough to get the latecomer dirty looks from students, a talking-to by the teacher — privately, if one is lucky, or via passive-aggressive comment on the virtues of punctuality made in front of the entire class. In at least one studio I’ve attended, it’s a sufficiently egregious faux pas that tardy students are asked to leave and not return to that class. Perhaps the middle path to enlightenment is paved with little signs that say, “Be the fuck on time!”

So That Time I Was Late, I was not slightly, unobtrusively late. I opened the studio door, about 5 feet from where the instructor sat, in the perfect silence of everyone recognizing that class was about to begin. If I’d been two minutes later, I’d have walked in during opening meditation, and at least everyone’s eyes would have been closed. As it was, I was in the perfect position to have everyone’s eyes on me. Lovely.

Fortunately, I have read Miss Manners Guide to Yoga Etiquette (or, I totally would, if such a thing existed) and knew that the best way to save face was to come to a seat in the corner behind the instructor, allowing her to continue — and also allowing me a discreet way to slip off my shoes — with opening meditation. And I have to admit, I have no memory of what that particular meditation entailed, what pranayama we practiced or what words of guidance my instructor had for us that night. I was too busy glancing around the room for an open mat-sized spot and realizing that the class was completely packed. It had probably reached “full” status a half dozen people ago. I began to think my best option, my least intrusive option at this point, would be to turn around and leave. After all, I was legitimately late: It would be unfair to ask people who’d gotten their butts to class on time to crowd themselves in order to accommodate me.

We breathed, we meditated, we centered, we chanted. I do not remember any of it as I was too busy feeling like I must be completely in the way here. But as she was moving the class into their asana practice, my teacher smiled at me — in a sincerely “glad you are here” way, not an “I don’t know how to say this nicely, but you’re going to have to leave” one. She began looking across the room, checking, I can only assume, for a non-existent mat-sized space.

Somewhere near the back, a woman waved her hand.

Without being asked, about four people had reconfigured their mats, all sliding impossibly close to one another, so that there would be space for mine too. I swear there must have been fifty people in a room that comfortably holds thirty-five, yet people made space for me.

I tiptoed across the room, thanked the people around, me unrolled my mat as quickly as possible, and joined the class in down dog.

“Do you need any props?” the woman next to me, the same one who’d waved, whispered. She glanced up at me from under her armpit.

“What?” I asked, maybe still preoccupied or self-conscious. Or maybe it is difficult to hear through underarm acoustics.

“Props,” she repeated, shrugging her shoulder toward the prop shelf, which was right next to her. “You know, blankets and blocks and things. I can grab them for you; I’m right here.”

“Oh, um.” Truth be told, I couldn’t really fathom a situation where Someone (aka, me) had been a bother and in the way and had just generally ruined everyone’s Spiritual Yoga Experience, and still people were going out of my way to make sure I was included completely. “No, I don’t generally use any, but I’ll grab them if I need them later. But thanks for asking.”

Yogic Confession Time: In the dozen or so years I’ve been practicing yoga, I have listened to a lot of yoga-oriented spiritual wisdom, and the Flying Spaghetti Monster knows I’ve had a lot of physical and emotional struggles during my asana practices. Most of them, I forget within a matter of weeks.

This simple act of kindness has changed me more than all of them.