Oh spine, you Judas...

Alright. So I finished my 200 hour teacher training to be greeted with a ruptured or "sequestered disk". Two of them. My practice has taken a sharp turn into Bloatsville, passing through Self-pittyshire. Being forced to pull back from a vigorous practice, I am reminded how much yoga had been doing for me in in its previous incarnation. I am reticent about practicing gently, and taking days off. I'm kinda all or nothing and so this injury shit does not suit me well.

*BUT

That's not what a true yoga practice is. A mature practice presents itself through all of your injuries, woes, heartaches and joys. It is something you must cultivate with or without permission from the nonexistent god of health. Yoga will do me the most good now that I am hurt, it is just going to be more challenging to schlep my spine to the mat. Once I get ole' spiney-sides there, it will be even harder to listen to her, and not necessarily the instructions presented in class. My spine is notoriously quiet, until she gets pissed; at which point she becomes Ursula the Sea Witch, (I figure I deeply admire mind you)

'Prolly cause I love Divine. But I'm getting off track.

The long and short of it is,

If you see someone in class rolling around on their mat, not doing the same three-legged dawg as you, they might have a Judas body. They might be rehabbing an injury, or they might just be doin' their own asshole shiz. Either way...stay on your own goddamn mat. That's where the interesting stuff is anyway.

For what I have done, and for what I have failed to do... Reflections on a practice in purchase...

I had about 13 reviews for various and sundry yoga products I wanted to tell you about, but lately I cannot stomach the idea of writing about products...because the real thing I want to talk about is the impulse to acquire the products themselves.

I gave up alcohol 6 months and 5 days ago. I have a lot more lucid time, but my addiction is  a hungry adolescent. The hole in my chest is still contracting and expanding, sniffing out any way to avoid the sensation of well, sensations. I come home after working, yoga practice and I am confronted with the ghost of my medicine and meadows of hours ripe with emotional tripwire. I fight hard to fill the want with something admirable...my guitar, viola, reading, writing, painting, netflix, puppet shows with my cat...but more often than not these past few weeks I find myself lurking on eBay, Etsy and various brilliantly branded sites designed to temporarily satiate my unending desire to acquire. Shopping is a palliative replacement MSG.

I do not know what I want. I barely know why I want. Not much new there, we are all aware of this deformity of the nesting instinct. What I wonder is , is why we aren't talking about it more?  Sure, we all exchange knowing eye rolls, and the occasional self-aware barb about our financial indiscretions, but rarely do we talk slowly, and seriously about purchasing goods. Perhaps because the only thing more personal is what and who we put in our mouths.

This past weekend Christine Raffa  (the  brilliant owner of Rhode Island's Raffa Yoga) taught our teacher training on anatomy. I am not exaggerating when I say the ease with which she presented this dense material was inspirational. I believe her approach should be mandatory in public schools for basic anatomy (but that's another post). Our class evolved and meshed in an entirely new way after our time with Christine.  Something broke open, and we all saw each other, and I have been more than a little haunted since. I bring this up because I think the hunger I am filling with the researching and acquiring of various commodities has to do with a brittle loneliness. I am surrounded by loved ones, but the truth of the matter is, I spend more face time with my own reflection in my laptop monitor. Some of this is choice, most of it is the architecture of this particular moment in history. We don't often get together to hang out without food or alcohol sitting between us. Not that I don't adore being alone, eating and drinking...(cause the good and sweet lord knows I do, lord does he know)

And so I am writing you to be honest, and tell you I want to see you more, spend time with you. I want to be in public more, outside listening to you tell me things that are hard to say out loud. I want to tell you what scares me, I want you to tell me why you are scared too. Then let's chase some squirrels and cut the crap with the lululemon talk...before the snow comes and claims what little Pitta I have left.

Forgive my rambling preachy disclosivities,

I just needed to tell someone besides my credit card.

I survived the week intensive. I ate peanutbutter.

I thought I would be able to blog after each day of yoga teacher training, but I was *woefully wrong. After 8 hours in the studio, I came home and melted onto the couch with the good company of some hummus and Parks & Recreation on Netflix. I just didn't have it in the tank.

The week's highlights:

I met some amazing peoples. I am always floored at the mercy of circumstance in handing me kindreds upon entry into all my ventures. My mat was next to that of a brilliant kind lady- who I shall call J. She held my hand through the vertigo (yes, Nana was spinning like a drunk co-ed at Iowa State...a sensation I am all too familiar with.)

In down dog- The room began to spin and I fell to my side with the grace of a water buffalo on ambien. It reminded me of my hard drinking days. I am thankful I get to wake up everyday NOT HUNGOVER. That is a victory. A teacher at the studio, and the owner of the studio (also my teacher for YTT) were incredibly sweet after the episode. They explained that this kind of work can bring up lots of physical and emotional detritus. They gave me some cranio-sacral therapy in front of a gathering Forrest yoga class. It looked like light as a feather stiff as a board. I wept. It's not often people you don't know all that well come to you with that much compassion. I was so moved.

The days were long and the practice was challenging. I found myself ready to debate everything from Veganism to CBT/DBT. I imagine it had more to do with my blood sugar, heart melting exercises and lack of coffee. It certainly shed some light on my knee jerk reaction to defend my world views. All of them. There are so many. I don't even know all of them but they just keep spilling out of my yapper like so much verbal dia-ritahs. I exhaust even myself.

I find myself on guard for comments about my body type and yoga, and rightly so. Being "Fit" comes in different shapes. Ultimately; it is not my cross to bear. I can only shed some light on the subtle discrimination of lowered expectations, and do my very best with what I have. This week my body served me well. She was a glorious shining sweat-covered Clydesdale, and she even gave me a wheel pose for the first time in my adulthood. (Thanks to Ame)

I am really looking forward to the reading, Sanskrit, History and Philosophy to come. I am getting excited about meeting my future students, and playing some Yoga in a safe space.

My assignment for the week is to get to all my yoga classes. The assignment I gave to myself is to check out Aerial Yoga at South Boston Studio. That's correct. I plan on foisting my sweet pale ass into a low- hanging red satin swing and practicing some yoga. They assure me there is no weight limit for the swings, but that remains to be seen. I shall report back soon.

Love,

Kate

It's about time I started bitching to even more people about the state of Westernized (Boston) yoga. Tomorrow is my first day of teacher training at Boston's Back Bay Yoga Studio. I am at once thrilled and horrified. I have taken stool softener to ensure a thorough evacuation before I must publicly rotate my pelvis over my fupa. I am scared.

More importantly I am fuelled by a bit of anger. I have spent my life in a larger body, and paid the price for it. I will not bore you with the details of how our culture insists that larger women are undeserving of love, how we are somehow less than, and treated as a sub species. I want to bring yoga to a population of women that have felt scared, unwelcome or excluded by a practice that tends to favor the *ahem* rich white and thin. I will be teaching special modifications for those of us with larger breasts, belly owners and hip-havers. I'm also going to be taking special training in Trauma Sensitive Yoga from Kripalu after my initial certification. I'll teach some free classes at Rosie's place, and some free public modification workshops.

It will take me swallowing my fat shame to take my rightful place on my mat and in this training. I will be the only woman of size. I will not have the right clothes, the right body or the right moves. I will have the right heart and a clear, sober, open mind.

 I will also be keeping tabs on yoga products, teachers, modifications, personal diatribes, benadryl induced rants and perhaps some coconut water tips.

Wish me luck, and I will let you know how Mama Rosa fares on day one.