Last stop, Nicetown.

Bad day at the office

Nicetown, PA

For the past year, I've been schlepping to a job in a shithole of a place called, absurdly enough, Nicetown. And I'm here to tell you that it is one of the most despicable shitholes on the planet. Today is my last day on the job in this dump, a day I would like to commemorate with this photo, which was taken on my very first trip to this barbed wired wasteland, once home to the now abandoned Tastycake factory. You see, Nicetown is no place for humans, animals, or even weeds. Or chocolate covered krimpets, apparently. Mannequin heads, however, they seem to do okay.

I am leaving my job, once and for all. And from this day forward, I vow to myself and to the world, that I will never ever never work in an office again for as long as I live. It's that simple.

Always desperate for the silver lining, it occurred to me recently that maybe Nicetown is actually the perfect last stop on my stupid resume, which I will now burn, for it lists a string of PR jobs, where I floated from one circus to another, wore many masks, played the parts well enough, as woefully miscast and miserable as I was. Let's see... there was corporate cubical hell, government dog and pony show hell, elitist academic hell, and finally the mind-numbing nonsense of non-profit hell.

In some ways, Nicetown, in all it's rusted rancid rot, epitomises the feeling you get when your soul is stuck, you feel completely lost and there is no joy or beauty on the horizon. So, I'm beginning to realize that Nicetown was the just the right backdrop, the perfect springboard off which to launch a personal transformation. At least for me, there's no urgency to move, change, and grow when I'm coasting along in beautiful surroundings. And I take comfort knowing that as I'm leaving Nicetown behind, things can only get better.

In preparation for my departure, my boss, very concerned that I will be homeless in a matter of weeks, has asked on several occasions, " Will you be able to feed yourself? How will you live?" Now, I'm well trained to handle this belittling brand of maternal skepticism, which would usually leave me feeling enraged and insulted. But instead, I took down the last piece of paper from my office cork board, handed it to her and said, "This is how." On it was written the following quote:

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth that ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raining in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidence and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.

-- W.H. Murray

It seems I'm meant to heed these instructions as they've been following me around these last few months. I found them in my grandmother's notebook just after she passed away. And when I began my journey to yoga camp in Bali, I first stopped in LA , where on my way to a yoga class there I came across a vintage flea market where there, amid bric-a-brac, Elivs posters, poodle figurines, and beat up barcaloungers, on a gigantic dry erase board were the words from this very same quote.

I took a picture, for posterity.

And because I was sure no one would believe me. But wait, the magic continues: when I arrived in Bali, this same quote was written on the inside of our nifty little yoga teacher training manuals, meant as a mantra of sorts. It seems there truly are no coincidences.

But I've resisted this quote and its radical suggestion that when you follow your bliss, all the details fall miraculously into place. I have not been conditioned to accept the idea that things "just happen", that opportunities just present themselves, and problems solve themselves, deus ex machina-style. I come from the ever self-affirming "Money doesn't grow on trees", "Don't come cryin to me" and "Let's see you pull this one off, Miss Bigshit" school of hard knocks.

But the practice of yoga has insisted that I reconsider this notion of divine providence, of the universe providing abundantly when you're "in the flow" -- that is, not resisting who you are, offering compassion to yourself and others, being grateful for every detail of your life, breathing, meditating, keeping your mind peaceful and your heart open.

Much much easier said than done. We humans are much more inclined to sit back is smug judgement, wallow in our mysterious darkness, indulge our self-pity, cynicism, anger-- pick your poison. But the sentiment that things and people and opportunities literally fall from the sky when you're doing what you love and using your talents for a greater good does truly happen, and not just out of sheer luck and good timing. You do have to do a bit of work to surrender your past for the sake of possibility. And that's part of what yoga helps us to shed, day by day, little by little. But once you start peeling away the layers of your self that are no longer serving your higher purpose, you'll start to find some more space in your life for rich and fulfilling things to take root. You'll start to get unstuck.

And getting unstuck is contagious. Your energy and new found ease with who you are is powerful. People will notice. People who know you might be confused ( You? Teach yoga?). Your family won't know what the hell is going on ( Whaddya mean you don't eat meat?). And you will notice that you've loosened your grip on the life you thought you should be living, and instead you're just being who you are, authentically navigating your life's course with purpose, ease, and joy. I can hear my mother now, " Enough with the happy horseshit, what the hell are you gonna live on?"

This is not a plea for you all to quit your jobs and become yoga teachers (though I highly recommend it) and live on a wing and a prayer, planning for nothing, hoping for everything. It's just about giving yourself permission to experience another dimension of you, one that may have been hidden from view, one that has not been able to breathe. Probably because you are suffocating it out of fear, practicality, comfort, or a stack of unpaid bills. The practice of yoga, by uniting body and mind, helps us to move bravely into the world, because we feel more whole, more intact. The mind isn't racing uncontrollably, the body feels calm and strong and together they can provide a happy home for the soul that needs a bright, open space in which to be honored and nourished.

As for Nicetown, if you're ever in need of a place to shake you up and spit you out, to fuel your wanderlust such that you end up half way around the world searching for your higher self on a yoga mat, maybe you should make it your next stop. I hear there's a job opening -- corner office, with bars on the windows.

It's so good to be free.

Breaking Up With Joe

We keep getting back together, me and Joe. We try to break up for good, but I always go back for more. It's just that he's so hot. So strong. So complex and bold. And he smells so damn good. I honestly can't help but love him.

But it's time. I know he's no good for me, and we need to let each other go. He messes with my mind. Makes me all nervous and jittery, an anxious wound-up wreck -- a state of being I often mistake for productivity, or more delusional yet, "creative energy".

He just doesn't bring out the best in me. Or maybe he does, sometimes, but overall I'm pretty sure our relationship makes me feel like shit. For starters, when we're really spending time together, I tend to lose a lot of sleep. Sometimes my stomach churns. And I get headaches. Headaches when we're together and migraines when we're apart. This can't be good. I mean, what does he really bring to my life? Besides stained teeth? He's my drug-in-a-mug, he is. And I must put an end to this vicious cycle. Or at least try.

It's so un-Italian of me to break up with Joe, a quintessential Italian delight. And I'm Italian, so people will talk. I can hear it now: "Whatsa mattah with a little espresso? Not even decaf?" they'll say. "Nope," I'll say, "Chai, I'm afraid."

But I'm ready. I'm ready to be that girl who orders Yerba freakin Mate while inhaling the intoxicating aromas of 76 varieties of organic fair trade blends from Peru to Timbuktu. I can handle it. It will take some time to grieve this loss, but I think I'll be okay. I've done the research and experimented with his absence long enough to know its worth it.

The most interesting piece of research I've stumbled upon on this subject is a pamphlet published in the 1920s entitled Evil Coffee is the Scourge of Modern Womanhood by a freakazoid doctor named Dr. Stockley who predicts "a state of complete mental and physical breakdown is almost inevitable" for women who drink coffee for most of their lives.

Of course, on some days I could imagine this happening in my future, with or without coffee. And I'm not putting too much stock in dear Dr. Stockley's "scientific" research, but his assertions, however absurd, do force me to think about the long term affects of pouring caffeinated acid into my intestines, day after day. (For the complete Evil Coffee article click here: http://www.utterpants.co.uk/fiction/evilcoffee2.html)

But this blog is about yoga. Connect coffee to yoga, quick. Um, well, the only connection I can come up with is this here vintage advertisement:

It appears that our friend here, perky Polly Pinup, is enjoying (ecstatically, I might add--I'll have what she's having) a variation of Pinchamayurasana. Saywhatchermindurasana? Ok, English, if you insist. Feathered Peacock pose, my friends. Granted her neck is gonna be all kinds of f'd up if she keeps it like that, but other than that, this looks a helluva lot like yoga to me. Maybe Mr.Lyon's had some Tantric enterprises up his... grinder? But don't follow Polly's lead, if you're looking to make like peacock, please consult this article from Jivamukti for instructions about the real pose: http://www.jivamuktiyoga.com/asana/p_mayur.html which looks more like this:

We'd probably all be a lot happier attempting this pose if we, like Polly, had coffee steam heating up our nether regions. But then again, that could cause a girl to loose her balance. Still, Polly does look like she's having a bit more fun, with Joe at her side. But then again, she is doing yoga al fresco, in her underwear, next to a hot cup of coffee, smiling devilishly, which does make me question her mental stability. Dr. Stokely may have been onto something.

All I know is that I don't need my Joe fix anymore . I don't need it driving me crazy. I can do that all on my own, thank you very little.

Keep in mind, I'm fully looking forward to my relapse, come holiday time, when nostalgia and cravings for comfort are strongest. I mean, Joe and I have a long history together and I'll need to check in and say hello once in a while. I'm just moving him to the back burner. The tea pot's got center stage for a while.

Yoga When You're Yearning

Bacon. Cigarettes. Sex with the ex who messes with your head. New clothes you can’t afford. A new job. A boob job. You name it, we yearn, usually for things to be different than they are.

It’s normal (right?): we humans crave earthly delights and typically find ourselves nice n’ happy once we’ve satisfied our carnal pangs for things like pork. Or porking, for that matter. (Yoga Police: I don't eat pork, it was just a good punch line.)

There’s no trouble succumbing to these cravings, really. The trouble lies more with the underlying restlessness that motivates the urge in the first place. Coupled with the compulsion to overfeed the yearnings, we humans have the miraculous ability to turn otherwise innocent hankerings into full blown addictions. Our addictions, all forms and expressions of them, are simply desires to escape from the present, to be somewhere else, to feel like someone else, because we have been conditioned to believe that who we are right here and now is somehow not good enough. It’s a mad race away from the mirror, away from our true selves.

The Tibetan Buddhists have come up with an elegant little term for this very subtle element of the human experience. The word to describe these cravings or “hooked qualities” is: shenpa. I love when a word sounds like nothing else I’ve ever heard, such that it bears no associations in my mind. Sure, it’s one letter away from sherpa, but its still very much its own animal, this word. Its sound is strong yet soothing, much like the quality it describes. Shenpa is strong because it hooks you—it adheres to your mind and your mind to it, Crazy-glue-style. But it’s as soothing as it is strong, because it’s usually familiar, like an old friend who can find his way around your house in the dark and knows where to find light switch.

But what if you’re a goody two-shoes whose lips have never touched liquor? What if you really don’t have a run of the mill addiction, such that there is no group for you that meets in the basement of the Lutheran church?

You self-proclaimed emotionally stable straight edges aren’t getting off this easily.

You see, shenpa doesn’t always manifest itself as an addiction to material things or substances. You can just as easily be hooked to your own thoughts about who you are and who you are not as you are to hashish. You can be hooked to thinking certain thoughts about yourself and your place in the world, thoughts that ultimately limit your ability to authentically and intimately relate to others. So there, all you self-righteously sober intellectual brooding types. Try surrendering your thoughts. For like a whole week. I dare you. Who would you be then? Huh? Huh?

I jest. We’re all in this together. The point is that no matter what your shenpa looks like (an image you just might want to keep to yourself) , the force that pushes it to the surface of your consciousness is often an intense longing to get out of pain, to run away from anything that might require you to get really honest with who you are.

So what-in-the-Samhita has yoga got to do with it? Well, yoga is the ultimate grounding practice that insists that you inhabit your body fully, all the while emptying your monkey mind of thoughts. Remember that stupid old expression “ Make like a tree. And leave”? (jeez that’s bad). But in yoga, it’s pretty much the opposite directive. Yoga insists that we learn to stay, by cultivating presence of mind and body. Our thoughts will wander, as thoughts do, but moving the body in and out of poses leaves little room for the mental masturbation that feeds the hungry shenpa. (The Hungry Shenpa—could be a massive and furry googily eyed sci-fi creature, no?) Yoga is a practice that teaches us to stay present with your yearnings, to observe them with compassion and to quiet the inner dialoges of self judgement. Something to the tune of, "I'm so stupid. I have no willpower. I'm a stupid lazy slut" is not so helpful when you're trying to guide yourself away from addiction. But yoga gives us permission to turn the volume down on our inner critic and let go of the need to feel numb to the world or our own weakness. Shenpa and its many manifestations, is very good at clouding your vision, keeping you stuck, or just leading you farther and farther away from the life you want to live, the person you want to become. The remedy that yoga offers is a chance to weaken shenpa such that it has less power over mind and body.

This does not mean that every time I am aware of shenpa, I immediately get on my mat and start saluting the sun. This is virtually impossible, because there are times when, by the time you’ve realized that shenpa is in the house, you’re already three sheets to the wind, crying hysterically because you ate 15 brownies, drank 4 bottles of wine, smoked when you said you wouldn't, and slept with that guy and his brother. Or some version of all of the above.

So when the yearnings advance to a darker place, infiltrate the mind and won’t let go, that is indeed shenpa, doing its dance in your head, waltzing its way to your neurotransmitters, which are at the mercy of its steadfast grip. But thankfully yoga, even off the mat, lets us stay present with the breath and body, still acutely aware of shenpa and the many roads it would have us travel if left to our own devices, but more conscious still of the power we have to master it and let it go.

The Serious Case of Mula Bandha Face (MBF)

It's no laughing matter. For those of you who are reading the words mula bandha (moo-luh bahn-duh) for the first time, please hang in there. At least for a few more sentences. Trust me when I tell you that no one who does yoga really even knows how to tell people who don't do yoga what mula bhanda is. I'm convinced.

This is not to say it's some big yogic secret reserved for an enlightened flexible few. It's just that there is honestly no elegant way to describe the inner workings of the mysterious mula to anyone without sounding like a potty mouthed pervert. Because to engage mula bandha, when all is said and done, means: to contract one's anal sphincter muscles. That's right, folks. Repeat after me: anal sphincter muscles.

Kinda gross, right?

Suddenly the initial awkwardness of learning the phrase mula bandha seems worth conquering when "contract your anal sphincter" is the alternative.

Now, sanskritly (totally not a word) speaking, mula means "root" and bandha means "lock". So, I will leave you to do the math as it relates to the instruction to contract...that muscle that begins with the letter "s". (I just can't bear to type it again.) Here's the problem: while this mula bandha business is really good for all kinds of things like balance and breath and alignment, it can also make you look, if you're working really hard, like a type-A, undersexed, underpaid, overworked, possibly constipated, yoga-achiever, shall we say. Picture that baby's expression on an adult who is doin the yoga, and there you have Mula Bandha Face (MBF).

So, while there are plenty of reasons to incorporate mula bandha into your practice, my feeling is that the instruction "Engage Mula Bandha!" should really be followed with, "But beware of Mula Bandha Face". It's kind of like when your mother told you when you were eight or so, never to cross your eyes or they'd stay that way for life. Same risk factor with MBF. Cause I've definitely seen my fair share of folks whose faces have frozen this way.

I suppose its only natural to loose one's tranquil "serenity now" visage when concentrating on contracting that muscle. But it bears mentioning that minding your mula can make for some serious, strained and scrunched up faces, which can't be good for the spirit, let alone the skin. And if you've ever noticed, a facial expression, contrived or not, can often have a direct correlation with the way your feel. You've heard shrinks say, or perhaps you've read it in a Readers Digest at the dentist's office, that if you keep smiling, eventually you'll start to feel happy. We'll, I am proposing that the same line of reasoning applies with MBF, that beloved expression of constipated concentration. Make MBF long enough, and you'll start to feel mentally, if not physically, clogged.

MBF: it happens to the best of us, but there is help. So, the next time you're inclined to monkey around with you mula, just try to soften your expression, smirk a little, and be mindful of your MBF. Besides, you never know where the yogarazzi might be lurking. And the last thing the commercial yoga world needs are more pictures of serious people doing serious yoga. Seriously.

For an unpretentious explanation of mula bandha, perfect for the yoga nerd in you, check out this article in Yoga Journal by David Life. (BTW, does anyone believe that's his real last name?) Anyway, read on: http://www.yogajournal.com/practice/217