Life's Escape Artist

the sunrise through the trees this morning

…aesthetic pleasure in the beautiful consists, to a large extent, in the fact that, when we enter the state of pure contemplation, we are raised for the moment above all willing, above all desires and cares; we are, so to speak, rid of ourselves." (Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Representation, vol. I, § 68, Dover page 390)

I'm reading a co-workers Master's thesis based on Schopenhauer's view of art being a means to overcome life's suffering.  If I subscribe to this philosopher's take on the role art plays in our lives, then maybe it explains why I've always been drawn to dance, to write, to draw, to play music. It certainly brings a level of emotional reaction.  I get goosebumps. I well up with tears.  I am moved.

I've never been wealthy, but if I had plenty of money to live a comfortable life, I'd be spending the majority of my time exploring artistic endeavors.  I'd nudge my photographer friends to teach me about this rather complicated camera I got for Christmas last year.  I'd go to dance classes for eager adult-kids that want to move with a fluidity that seems to be only grasped by the young.  I'd renew my passion for drawing and fill my spare bedroom with empty canvases to explore shapes, texture, and color.  I'd travel and write vibrant commentaries on the places I'd visit, of the people I'd observe.  I'd play with all of those things that bring us to a state of expression and be raised above the suffering that is what Schopenhauer describes as life. That is what living should be... not suffering through the daily grind of clocking in and checking out, the mundane tasks of housewifery, the repetition of our scheduled life that Schopenhauer would say is our suffering.

Relief from that is expression.  I feel it. Art transports us away from all that is repetitive, yet necessary evils in our lives. Art is an escape.    

Artist or Entrepreneur

The artistic process is very similar to the entrepreneurial path. Both artists and entrepreneurs create something from nothing, face rejection and fine tune their approach to succeed.

It was an hour long discussion this weekend about the differences between Artists and Entrepreneurs.  As yoga teachers, we tend to fall into one category or the other.

The Artist is motivated to create an atmosphere that will reflect his or her specific type of art.  The Artist expects to be paid what she's worth.  It's not about diversifying to meet the needs of others. For Artists, it's about sharing their talent with others and exploring their specific vision.  Take it or leave it.   After all, it is THEIR art.  A lot of the time, yoga studios that are opened and run by Artists do not succeed.  Artists don't make the best business people.  They aren't into customer service. They want to focus on their art.  They want to concentrate on the muse.

The Entrepreneur is more focused on figuring out what the students need.  The Entrepreneur is not afraid of diversifying or deviating from their personal vision.  If Artists are the back of the house, Entrepreneurs are the hosts and hostesses. With regards to yoga, they meet the student where the student is at.  They look to grow their business by searching out other avenues for revenue.

My coworker says I'm an Artist.  I tend to disagree.

In regards to yoga, I am certainly about the spiritual art of it all. That is my focused goal in practicing and teaching.  However, I truly understand that yoga brings different things to different people.  Yoga is about meeting people where they are at, not forcing them to subscribe to what type of yoga is your personal preference.

I have friends who are Artists.  They are some of the most intelligent and thought provoking people I know.   They are also, however, some of the most opinionated and emotional people I know too.  You have to be extremely confident and laid back to be friends with an Artist.  Oh, there's no room to be sensitive or insecure.  Artists don't always play nice with others.

So my coworker is wrong.  I may enjoy the creative life, but I am no Artist.  I have no desire to own my own studio either.  So maybe I'm not an Entrepreneur in a traditional sense either.  I diversify though.  I have eggs in all sorts of baskets.  That's an Entrepreneurial move, right?

Crafting to 'The End'

I've noticed a common trend in the art of writing, whether it be short stories or scripts or novels.  The writer begins with a fascinating scenario or inspirational idea that obviously motivates them to explore and craft the story.  The beginning and middle seem to thread a well-developed plot and be full of meaningful, memorable scenes and dialogue.  But then there's the end. Writers don't know what to do with the end.  Or maybe the end is all they had envisioned, and then the reader experiences this precarious leap from the action to the 'how and when to end it.'

Was it quick and dirty?  Did it spin the story in a whole new direction?  Does it sound all too predictable?

Last night, I watched 'Meet the Millers' with Jason Sudakis and Jennifer Aniston and a host of other well-known actors. Although it's not the best movie I've ever seen, the characters were hilarious, the situations excruciatingly awkward, and through most of the story the action kept my interest.  Then, at last, the denouement.....and I'm completely disappointment.  I got up to brush my teeth and go to bed. Predictable.  The quirky dialogue had gone stale.   It seems common at this point in the story that I question the writer/artist and wonder if I have any desire to keep reading/watching.

Writers know the formula -- backstory, plot points, rising action, crisis, denouement, etc. But being able to fully develop all those parts and integrate them in a way that keeps the interest of those who are reading or watching is an art.

I am not excluding myself from this predicament.  I write and wonder, "Oh shit. What now?" At this very moment, I'm writing a short story where I've developed some initial scenery and characters.  I also know how it ends.  But the action along the way is hazy, undeveloped, and quite messy.  That shows my lack of experience with the craft, of course.  It will come eventually.  The ongoing mantra I give to students and repeat to myself as well:  Read more. Write more.

What separates good writers from great writers is the practice of staying with their story, living with it, breathing it all the way through to the last turn of phrase.  Major kudos to those who can do it.  It is art how someone can observe the world and describe it in a way that interests, intrigues, and motivates the reader to keep listening, keep hooked.  It seems pretty metaphorical for my life in this moment.  I know what my heart wants in the end, but how I get there is pretty messy.

I know. I know.  That's a cheesy ending to an otherwise well-crafted blog entry.  Ugh.

Speaking to Spirit

I’ve spent an entire 20 hours over the weekend in yoga training and I’m afraid I’m not much good for anything.  It reinforced a lot of what I had already learned but had, somehow, let drift away a little.  The more exposure to it, the more readily the information is to use.  

It has been explained that with yoga, you’ll only learn what you’re physically and psychologically ready to learn. 

My psychological self seems ready to grab hold of the spiritual part of yoga. That is, perhaps, because it was what first drew me to practice in the first place. I've always felt that my life felt a little off balance in that area.  I had managed to juggle health and well-being, but my inner spirit was not being fed.  

The yoga studio where I practice’s main goal is to speak to the spirit of their students.  The owner (my mentor) explained that for now, yoga is the vehicle for enhancing or encouraging her students’ spirituality, but that doesn’t mean that wouldn’t change.  She originally taught meditation.  She comes from a long line of spiritual teachers.  So when she spoke to my spirit, I was completely engaged. Then I became like a messenger for the art of her cause.  

With time, my physical poses, the ability to stand and to balance, and to be in a pose have begun to develop. But in the end, my mission has become the same; it’s to meet my students with the message of their spirit and how they can connect to that from their body and their mind.  

 

Most people seem to come to the practice of yoga from the opposite direction.  My friend and yoga training partner is the exact opposite.  She strives to push herself to the edge of every pose and work as hard as possible to create a physical challenge. She lives and breathes the difficult, the vinyasa flow, the inversions, the deeply held standing poses.  She wants to feel punished after class.  However, she doesn’t show much interest in the spiritual practice of yoga.  

What I learned this weekend is that there are numerous styles that speak to the student. Your practice can invigorate you through physical postures.  Your practice can be gentle and therapeutic.  I am like Goldilocks.  I want it to be “just right.”  I want to be physically pushed but gentle to my soul.  

Wherever you’re at with what you envision as your ideal practice, yoga will humble you.

Come on, keep up.

Today was one of those hectic, out of control days. It was a day that reminds me that I have an incredible amount of balls to juggle.  I can’t complain.  I have been told I am one of the privileged, who lives in a well-manicured neighborhood with the standard issue two kids (one boy and one girl), a husband, and a dog.  Beyond that, I live a life that affords me to explore my passions. 

I have numerous certifications in a variety of things.  When I had my first child, I had the pleasure of being a stay-at-home mom.  Only a select few of those moms would ever say that staying home is pleasurable.  I couldn’t stand staying home and I’m the world’s worst at keeping a clean and tidy house, so I got certified to teach Spinning.  I taught at 5:30am, before the sun came up, while my child and spouse were still sleeping. Then I got certified in Zumba. I caravanned my infant children around to 3 different gym facilities so that I could teach my classes.  My hourly wages probably wouldn’t even pay for all the gas necessary to drive me to those various gym locations.  Afterwards, I earned my certification to teach Les Mills BodyPump. 

And there were the ones I never even used: my certifications in USATriathlon training, Silver Sneakers, and Les Mills Sh’Bam.  Thousands of dollars in gathering knowledge.

This year, I added a 270 hour yoga training to my resume.  Oh yes. All said and done, after 8 months of training, I will have spent nearly $3,000 on this training alone.

This weekend alone I’ll be doing 20 of those hours of training. Hectic. 

Two of those 20 hours took place this evening.  This training, after teaching two classes in the morning and one in the afternoon and all the while feeling incredibly under the weather.  I’m positive I will learn a lot this weekend and another 20 hours next weekend.  But for now, I look around being torn – I have the luck to be one of the privileged white American women who people from other countries tend to perceive as well, <insert insult here>.  But, hey, screw them.  I am grateful and try to appreciate what I’ve got and try not to stress over what I haven’t got. And one must continue to learn and explore.  What else is there?

When do we ever stop wanting to learn? It’s one of the greatest parts of this life.

Those things that transpire...

There's a growing stack of books on his nightstand, gathering dust at various rates.  I've paged through all of them these past few weeks. I guess I expected them to give me insight as to what he would glean from them, and what I could learn for myself. I read and attempted to absorb while he watched TV in the other room.   And I tried to ignore this undercurrent of frustration that I am exhausted and yet, still trying to gather a sense of awareness about this relationship. He was watching a rerun MythBusters.

But last night he came to bed.  And he picked up the dusty copy of Love Busters.

It was the same scene as a week or two ago.  I stared at the book selection in his hands.  I must've had that tell-tale expression.  He could feel my contemplative gaze.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

I could feel the emotions, but there were no meaningful words to express.   There's an ever-present lump in my throat.

All I can think to say is, "I know you bought these books for you to sort through, but what should I be working on?"

Just like in the past, he tells me, "Nothing. No, you are doing what you can."

He says that I'm not asking for anything unreasonable and he goes on about how he's been an ass to me.  He's been taking his stress from work out on me and the children.  He's decided to be nicer.  He's making a concerted effort to be appreciative of the things that matter rather than harping on all the little things. He's got plans for change.

I watched his face; his eyes were bright and expressive.  I listened to his words.  I heard the cadence in voice and the upbeat tone as he shared in great detail all of his great revelations. All of the things he'd come to realize when I said to myself, fuck it  and explored another part of town.  It took great measures to have him come to his senses on his behavior, and what may have caused my own disenchantment.

So I watched and listened, but I couldn't help but think I was observing a cars salesman when he's sure he's lost the sale and the customers are on their way out the door.  It's the last big push to convince them, convince me, to stay awhile.  Maybe try another model.  Maybe sit and drink their coffee and maybe see if there's something in this deal he's cooked up for them.  The offer is on the table, but I'm not sure it's the deal I'm looking for.

My Walden, My Dream Life

In college, I lived in the middle of 200 acres of orange groves. It was the cabin my boyfriend had rehabbed and rented from the grove owners.  I was 19 and he was 30-something, a mature student, but a young-at-heart soul that, looking back, was my first true love.  But this isn’t a story about my first love.  It’s a narrative about a place that became home to me. 

The cabin sat half on land, half stilted lakeside with a dock flanking its right side. Motor boats could cut paths through our watery backyard, and we’d hear the splash on the underside of the wooden boards.  There was no central heat or air conditioning. The running water contained so much iron that it turned the toilet bowl orange, as it did the shower, and of course, my blonde hair.  Through most of college, I had pumpkin colored hair, but it was worth it.  When the water was out, we’d bathe in the lake with a bar of soap. From the bedroom, you could watch the 4pm afternoon migration of alligators from one shore to the other.  They were lingering along the path of the sunlight, and perhaps looking for a snack.  We had a multitude of cats that were both our pets and our best attempt at pest control.  When it rained, the bugs found refuge in-between the floorboards or in the crevices of the crooked wooden panels.  In the winter, we’d sleep up in a little nook you could call a loft, although it was just a crawlspace.  In the summer, there was no escaping the heat but to jump off the dock and swim until we weren’t crazy with the heat any longer. Oh and springtime met us with the most intoxicating scent of orange blossoms. To this day, it smells like home to me. I was happy there. 

It’s a representation of how much, in that place, that I realized I didn’t need. 

I live in suburbia now.  Our lawns are well manicured. We are ruled by the iron fist of the HOA. Our mailbox is not a half mile away where the dirt road ends and civilization begins. 

Too many of my acquaintances are about the accumulation of stuff.  The material life may be visually stimulating, but in the end, it’s just stuff. 

I belong in a cabin.  I should go read and embody some Emerson or Thoreau.  It feels like home to me. 

The Open Door

It was the longest summer day in June
when I left the door open
and it slowly sucked the cool air
from this suburban paradise.
Upon his return, he checked the thermostat
and simmered,
"Again?"

And I glared at the open door and wondered
how much further I could push it open
with just my thoughts.
I sat on our leather couch in my underwear
flanked by our two children.

"Again," I replied.
And it all came to me that he was right all along.
This place really was a disaster.

The thermostat is set too high, the floors are dirty, the laundry piles,
the mold in the shower, the dishes in the sink, the littered car interior,
oh why did we get a dog, we're never home.
the kids' rooms are a mess,
you really think you should eat that/haven't you had enough?
that's too much, that's too far,
you should run--it's the best way to drop weight,
the door is unlocked, the garage isn't cracked to let the heat out,
of course you can have lunch with your rich friends,
you're a slob - I don't want my kids growing up to be slobs.
Jesus, what did you do all day?
This place is a disaster.

Yes, Jesus, what did I do?
I left the couch and opened the door wider.
And then like the chill in the room,
I left.

Foggy Tequila Yoga

I lived through my annual "Let's see how much I can drink" evening.  It never fails.

I am not a drinker.  I never have been. I barely even recall a night where I'd said, "Oh a glass of wine after dinner would be fine." Trust me, I've tried to force myself to get in touch with my alcoholic side.  It's the legal option to my preferred method of intoxication.  But, that's another story for another time...

So again, just like last summer, I drank way too much.  One of my sweet friends had given me a bottle of tequila for my birthday back in October.  The plan for the evening was to meet neighbors at a Mexican restaurant, so I thought to myself, what better time to crack the seal on this bottle of Esperanto.

No good comes from doing shots of tequila before going to dinner, then sharing a pitcher of margaritas with a neighbor friend, then trying to keep pace with her as she downs two double tall vodkas.  I can't even pretend to hang. Like I said, I am not a drinker.... of alcohol anyway. And it's been candidly admitted that drinking is in her genetic makeup.

Oh, but it didn't end there.  We caravanned back to my house for another few rounds-- straight shots of Esperanto.  I fashioned a bowl of sea salt for her.  I faintly recall cutting up a lime.  She and the family left in a fog and I was standing in my driveway waving at them, my head swimming somewhere between my shoulders and the pavement.  What the hell....

I woke at regular intervals to empty myself-- first, in my bathroom and then in the hallway bath.  Since it was Friday, one would think I'd have the weekend to recover.  No. There was an early morning yoga class to sober up for.  I had to get up and motivate other people to be centered and mindful. And there I was -- I had whole-heartedly given into the downward spiral of my emotions and just lifted shot after shot to my lips like it was nothing. I was physically and mentally poisoned. I was no shining example for them.  I was a wreck.

So I sat disheveled, legs propped over the top edge of my couch at 8am and even the scent of the saltine crackers made my stomach churn.  
"Call someone to sub," he said.
"It's too late," I responded.

So I gathered myself, half crouching half walking towards the door.  I wore my sunglasses into the gym, but I left earlier than usual to prep for class -- so that maybe I wouldn't be noticed.  I could slink in and breathe for a few. I flipped on the stereo and plugged in my music.  And with each pre-class breath, the weight of the night lifted.

I'm not supposed to practice yoga with the class. After all, my job is to adjust/inform/inspire/remind.  I am to be the suggester of the biomechanical cues that will put yogi limbs in the right place.  And yet, I practiced with the class.  Selfishly, I needed it just as much as, if not more than, all 25 of them. As I moved about the class, adjusting or demonstrating, I held my breath.  I knew I probably smelled like my tequila night.  I turned the lights out and we all sunk back into Savasana (corpse pose).  And I quoted something from Eckhart Tolle:
"Be at least as interested in what goes on inside you as what happens outside.  If you get the inside right, the outside will fall into place."

And I left class feeling less like the night and more like facing the day.  If I had stayed in bed that morning, I bet you anything I would've been there all day, suffering.  But if forced to get out of the body and be something bigger or stronger or more aware, then maybe the day isn't shot completely.  Maybe that's a metaphor for life.

That "Thing" You Do....

It's early enough that my spouse is on his way to his sporting life.  It's his thing.  I've learned that you must allow the people in your life, whether you're married to them or not, to have their "thing." You've got to support and show interest for that part of his or her life that brings them joy.  Otherwise life just becomes routine drudgery.

For him, it's soccer.  It's a return to his childhood every Sunday, oh, and every Tuesday night too.  Oh wait, there is also his gym thing.  That is a few nights a week as well.  Most evenings, he meets his guy friend at one of those big chain fitness centers for a workout.  Under the stark light of the florescent bulbs, they grunt and sweat and make small talk.  That's the extent of his social life....other than what I drag him to.  This is all to say, I'm certain he'd be unbearable to anyone if he didn't have the gym and sports.  His things....

Maybe it's more appropriate to say everyone needs an outlet.

Yesterday, we went to a pool party for a 6-year-old friend of my son.  Everyone was fascinated with the intricate, enormous saltwater fish tanks in this unassuming, simple home.  It was the husband's "thing" to buy exotic fish, to buy dainty pieces of coral via the Internet, and fuse it all together in these humongous tanks.  There were hundreds of little pieces.  It was it's own aquasphere of fascinating plant life and living things -- dozens of tiny starfish that were never purchased but rather hitchhiked on some piece of coral and multiplied in this tiny aquatic world.  His wife turns to me and said, "This is his mistress."  I nodded.  I understood.

My best gal's thing is running.  She and I ran a 15k a few years ago in a far away town.  There is the packet pick up the evening before, the elaborate pre-race dinner, a leisurely run for 9ish miles, the post-race margaritas and shopping.  We made a weekend out of it. After that weekend away, running events became her thing.  She desperately needed an escape from the drudgery of routine. She needed an excuse to escape from her overbearing husband and crazy children.  At least her thing is in the guise of a healthy excuse.  A few weeks ago,  too much of her "thing" developed into an injury.  She's incapable of running, even a mile for now. Then what does one do?  What do you do when your "thing" requires you to be at the peak of health?

A talented artist friend of mine has his thing too.  One can assume that it would be his overwhelming desire to create.  His photographs are entrancing.  He does things with light and color and depth that I've only experienced through his lens.  I get the impression he feels most alive, most connected to this world when he's creating.  There are experiments with how to process the prints.  There are special chemicals and treatments and mixtures.  I see this internal light in him when he tries to explain it all to me (the layperson).  So he confesses to me that his printer broke yesterday and now it's impossible for him to do his thing.  Roadblock.  Stupid printer.

And something inside me wants to do the impossible.  I want to heal my gals torn ligament.  I want to diagnose and fix the printer.  I want to give them back their things.

My yoga mentor once spoke about how we define ourselves.  If we only see ourselves as our "thing" then,  what happens if you lose that thing?  There are roadblocks and injuries.  There are other life events that take precedence.  And then what are we?  It's a matter of knowing we are not defined by what we do or what brings us the most happiness.  One is not defined by his or her "thing." We are more than that.

Learning to Play Again

So here it is.  I’m reclaiming my creativity.  I’ve started with writing, but I’ve also began singing and playing the piano again. 

What is it that makes us stray from our natural desire to express? Certainly it’s easier when there aren’t so many things to juggle.  My daily agenda not only involves getting to work or to teach, but also getting two small children fed, prepped, and ready.   Children require vast amounts of time and energy. Then we naturally start to put all of our focus on calibrating their lives rather than our own. 

Carving out time to listen to good music or make music or find a perfect poetic turn of phrase is necessary for me.  Actually, I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it before--

I’ve been looking up songs on YouTube, and discovering there are piano tutorials. I can barely read music, but I can pick up a tune if you show me the chords.  YouTube is my godsend.  Now, I just have to shell out some cash to get this old piano tuned.  100 bucks and YouTube.  I may once again feel like an artist.  Okay, maybe not,  but I will feel like I reclaimed an old part of me.

Heavy

A few months ago, I would be telling you how calm and satisfied my life is as I regularly meditate and do yoga and think mostly about all the good I'm planting in the world.  Nowadays, I've slacked in my practice and I'm unearthing some heavy things....dusty, calloused pieces of myself that I hardly recognize anymore. Gone are the days of light and free. They have been replaced with what can only be captured in print in with a capital letter as Realizations.

Weeks ago, I decided I no longer felt like being on a leash.  I left my iPhone in my car and walked free and clear for a few hours.  When I returned, there were at least 9 missed calls, all from the same number. My husband.  He is handsome, tall, smarter than most, extremely logical, methodical, and he is very, very insecure.  To add to his insecurity, I cheated on him.  It was years ago. I could linger in explaining the whys and the how it happened.  I could tell you all of the ways I was driven to it, but it probably would just make me look like I am making excuses. There is never any excuse to step out of a marriage. I feel horrible I broke my promise to be his and for him to be mine.

I also learned it's even worse to have an affair when your significant other is insecure and controlling.  In our nine years of marriage, he's proven it's a textbook case of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder.  It only makes them happy.  I told him so.  I said to him, "Me cheating on you was the best thing that could've happened to a man who likes to control everything."  He readily agrees that it fed his desire to exert his power.  From then on, he would always know where I was, whether it was to the grocery store or to a playdate for the kids.  He would always check my phone calls.  He would print me lists and ask me to detail each caller.  He would lowjack my car with some device to know exactly where it was at every moment.  He would rig our house with recording devices.  He would call my work and ask when I left or if I was working at all. And out of disgust with my own past behavior, my infidelity, I obliged.  I tried to give him everything he wanted to make him comfortable again.  Then, I assumed, I would eventually be forgiven, I'd regain some of his trust, and we could move forward.

What I've learned is that it's just not possible.  Once you've broken that trust, for some, it's irreparable.  It lingers everywhere. Anytime we have a disagreement, all arguments point back to the adulteress.  Blame and shame.

Heavy things.

At some point you just say, "I've done all I can do."  I've compromised.  I've changed. I've grown.

I don't want to be treated this way.  I want to return to the things that I love and I want to be loved unconditionally.

The End and the Beginning of Things

I've been instructed to write more about my life, if for nothing else, to practice the art of writing.  The progression of my life has changed in so many ways since I last posted to a blog.  There is no effective, intuitive way to catch up on 5 years.  I wandered in and out of my marriage.  After a having daughter,  I gave birth to a son.  I sought refuge in the practice of yoga.  I found and lost myself dozens of times.  That is the progression of life.  One can only hope that a person can become wiser and more efficient at learning the lessons we're given.

Last fall began the first season in a long time that I had the time and the opportunity to go back to academic work.  It is a part-time job, but it was a huge step in the direction of my future self.  The week of my birthday I began working as a writing tutor. I feel like this position in so many ways speaks to what I've found to be my life's work.  Helping people.  Inspiring students to think independently. Attaching little wings to their dreams and letting them fly about the world with a new sense of self. It's all freakishly good-hearted stuff.  It's the stuff I hoped I could always do.....do for others. What else is there?

What's most critical these days is the fact that I'm deep in the trenches of that place where most couples find themselves after so many years of marriage. It's this area of life where a person looks around and tries to redefine what it means to be an individual, as well as, part of a relationship.  Many times, years will pass and there's nothing left of what a person once was.  Part of that is just growing into something better, something wiser, something even more fulfilling.  But oftentimes, it means the person is stifled by attempting to bend and flex life into the shape of their "other." This is all to say that, my self as become unrecognizable to me now.

And so it may be the end of the road for some things I've been holding onto, bending until my whole self aches to return to what is important to me:  art, love, writing, breathing life and courage into this world, feeling safe, feeling romance.  Oh god, this is way too serious.  It's not a way to start a commentary on my life, but it's just the beginning of things.