Suspending our disbelief

I have a confession to make.

I am a fantasy nerd.

Let me explain. I grew up on Tolkien’s world; before I was a teenager I’d read all three installments of The Lord of the Rings, became the typical obsessed fan girl of all three films (the extended edition, if you please), and before that, Grimm fairytales (and their Disney interpretations), Sailor Moon, magic, fairies, and warlocks littered my life with fantastic stories and fanciful imaginings.

I suspect the majority of us remember a time in our childhoods when we imagined and enacted incredible adventures. The possibilities literally were endless, as was my capability to suspend my disbelief. Who cares how it’s possible? What matters is that it IS possible, and gosh darn it, I’m going to have fun with it! I could be anything, and anyone, let my imagination transform my bedroom into a mining town from California’s Gold Rush and play a plucky girl named Kate, making a name for herself, and finding gold for her mother back home.

There are two major branches of storytelling that we as human beings most commonly come across, or weave ourselves. Stories used to escape reality, and those used as metaphors for reality. Sometimes the line between the two is so blurred they become one and the same, but it all depends on two things: what was your intention, and what was the result? Stories have the power to either draw us away from whom we really are, or pull us closer and closer until we break through our conceptions and assumptions and take one bounding leap into what is Possible.

As children we are masters of imagination, make believe, and fairytales. At some point most of us stop believing in the fairytales and stop believing we are something special. We stop believing in ourselves. The fairytales we weaved as children were merely metaphors of our soul’s desire to fly. All the characters and demons were aspects of our lives and ourselves; the epic quest to slay the dragon and save the princess? What happened when I found out that the princess and the dragon were one and the same; my enemies turned out to be my greatest teachers!

When we stop believing in fairytales, when we stop believing in ourselves is when our story, our fairytale, really begins, because it's the hero/heroine's journey towards redemption, rediscovering who they are and how beautiful and precious their light is. Your life is the biggest, most elaborate, most fantastic fairytale there is, and ever will be, period. Your quests are real, the magic is real, the romance is real, and the journey towards self-discovery and love is so very, very tangible and real. YOU are the hero, YOU are the heroine whose destiny and duty it is to BE on that path, and wherever you are in your story, you are just getting to the best part.

The Cocoon

My year began with rip-roaring speed, pummeled with family health emergencies, death, and the inevitable dating dramas (despite our best of intentions). Even the warmer, drier temperatures this winter seem to signal the acceleration into spring. Either that, or I'm just crazy thinking that it's March or April outside.

All of this is to say that we are not even two weeks into the new year (and only a hair shy of three weeks since the solstice), and already I'm feeling a huge push towards reawakening. We've all heard the cliché: it is always the darkest before the dawn. I would challenge a rewording of this: it is often the darkest before we choose to strike the match and light the candle what was in our hand the whole time. Because it is through feeling, and feeling alone, that we remember the flame. The ache that pulls us towards recalling that there is no other way BUT to shine. And it is good.

It is SO good.

There is a very real risk in numbing, or stopping our reactions prematurely under the guise of equanimity. Let me be more specific: it is counter productive to try to rush and achieve equanimity because I think I need to be there. That is ego, because, bless her heart, my ego finds certain strong emotions, like anger, to be terrifying. My intention for the next few months is to come out of the winter cocoon as a raw and trembling being. We've all played the game, some of us more convincingly so than others, of keeping a calm face and disregarding what we feel as a way to protect ourselves. And there's no judgment to be found here, it's a survival mechanism in most cases. Instead of shedding the cocoon entirely to expose our naked, delicate (yet astoundingly resilient) selves, we punch out holes to stick our head, arms, and legs through and proclaim: “Well, I'm out!”

We are out in a way, certainly, but if that becomes the norm, the numbness becomes the norm, too. The Good Enough. The Look How Stoic and Calm I Can Be.

Newsflash: we are not statues. The last time I checked, we were very fleshy and squishy. The squeezing ache in your chest is your heart struggling to break open again, not an attempt to hold itself together using old, fraying stitches. There are many wounds in this world, just wanting to be heard.

There is nothing more lovely, nothing, no where, no when, that is more beautiful than a Being as it Is. So even as life rushes at us, demanding to be broken open, may we continue to weep, to laugh, to feel anger, and love so hard we almost shatter, taking care of ourselves along the way. If there's anything I pray for, it is that I wake up tomorrow still able to cry.

Be well, in all your stages of transformation. You are Good, Holy, and Beautiful where you are.

Namaste, lovelies!

Hard Times

“One moment, face flat on the ground, reminded me that these hands were made for pushing strings and feeling thunder in my bones. So if lightning strikes me, what did I expect?”

If I pray for anything, I pray that I continue to tremble, that I continue to weep, that I continue to laugh, and that I continue to become inspired.

And I pray the same for every one of you.

Sometimes, when we talk about life, we talk about how hard it is. Trials, tribulations, dangers, toils, and snares. Among the numerous possible responses to these hard times, there are two in particular that crop up quite commonly: falling in love with our problems, or shying away from them.

Both are instances of victimhood. I’ve played both cards on different occasions: “Oh yeah, I went through this terrible trauma. You would never understand, you can’t even begin to dream of comparing your grief to mine,” “I will avoid becoming vulnerable because I might be forced to delve into my supposed issues, which would be painful and challenging. Not that I have any issues. I just mean if I did. You know?”  It’s either too dangerous to confront, so we continue the pattern and disconnect from others, or we are so proud of our suffering that we, well, continue the pattern and disconnect from others.

Now, it’s very likely that a lot of us have met with our demons, have looked them in the eye, and do not glorify or hide from them. And yet, many times we say, “It’s just so hard.”

Here’s the deal. What are we comparing? We are comparing our current situation with an ideal: an ideal stemming from memory, projected fantasy, or what we suppose another person’s superior situation is. WHY are we comparing? Because we don’t want to be where we are.

Think of your least favorite hip-opener, or any pose that you mentally brace yourself for. Be aware of your reaction. It’s such a hard pose, why am I putting myself in this situation? I would much rather do this other pose, it’s so much more comfortable for me right now. I can’t relax into this, I’m putting stress in other parts of my body, and it’s just so frustrating.

If it wasn’t hard, chances are I wouldn’t need to be there.

If it didn’t evoke such a strong reaction in me, chances are it isn’t where my growth is.

Perhaps a change in vocabulary is necessary. To say something is hard also implies a battle, a fight, something we need to conquer. When in reality, the greatest challenges are our greatest mentors and advisors. Is it work? Heavens, yes! It is beautiful, gritty, joyous work. I count myself lucky and blessed to be faced with such a challenge. It keeps us inspired.

I invite you to be courageous, beautiful yogis. You are worthy and capable of true growth and connection. I see you, and I see where you are. Blessed am I to be a witness to such grace.

I say YES!

“There will always be moments in life when I stand at the end of an experience, look back, and wonder how the hell I got myself into such a beautiful situation.”

~

November. The weirdest thing to me about November is that sudden shift when the sky is enveloped in blackness by mid afternoon. It may also be for that reason that I'm having such a hard time finding my feet again after finishing Veera's teacher training this last weekend. I am a creature to loves and thrives on routine, but get me off my roller coaster, and it's a challenge to try and figure out how to clamber back onto something that's still going fifty miles an hour.

Last month I wrote about connecting with our story of origin, and I feel like I'm still on a similar track. But not so far back. I want to talk about the importance of saying yes to yourself, and the powerful wisdom in thanking who you were three months ago, six months ago, a year ago, ten years ago.

Between three and six months ago, I planted a kernel in my brain that would lead to me feeling more unstable than I have in a long time. That's what happens when we start to dig, whether it be looking in the metaphoric mirror, or hanging out in half pigeon, wondering how our hip joints could be so much like legos mummified in plastic wrap.

Now? Insecurity. Completely uncomfortable to the point where my skin itches and my body feels anxious like there's miles of energy compressed inside my muscles and my bones, and it's a GOOD thing. I'm 'suffering' from what I like to call creative constipation. I go so long without expressing myself in a creative way that I eventually reach a point where when I try to get back into it, I notice how much unnameable stuff is shoving a battering ram against my heart, trying to break through a rusty lock.

So I would like to take the time and thank my former self, three to six months ago, for saying yes. Saying yes to taking that left turn that led my path here. In honor of that former self, I opened up a folder from a chapter in my life where I wrote some form of creative writing once a day without fail. Sometimes you take a look at a thing you produced a long time ago, and in that moment it's a gift to yourself in the present. Exactly three years ago, I wrote something I needed to hear right now.

Namaste, my beautiful yogis. I am thankful for each and every one of you. I challenge you, and encourage you, to say yes. Start this new day with vigor.

"beauty manifests itself in its one million skins

shaping words poured from flexing fingers.

cry! they whisper in the ears of little children wandering by:

dirty faces and wide eyes—

tears dropping in unpredicted patterns

are no less lovely than that silly little smile you keep

perched beneath your nose.

don't be quick!

your simple minded states rest easily between overwhelming joy

and heartbreak clinging to your ankles.

to sit and stare, not so wasteful

as the times you went by forgetting all you saw.

notice me! they beg, weaving between the hollows of your face,

and the human being sitting next to you—

I emerge in moments, lingering only as long

as you watch."

by Tasia-Ray Weatherly, October 28, 2008

What are we creating?

Ever since I was a child, Autumn has been a season of magic to me. I was born right around the fall equinox when the weather began its transition: the leaves grew brittle and turned a brilliantly rich orange or maroon, the crisp air threatened to bite your nose off, and everything and everyone stood trembling on the edge of something new, a fresh start.

Autumn is the epitome of transformation, of resurrection. Even my name echoes the everlasting cycle: Tasia, meaning “the resurrected one.” Thus, this has always been a powerful force in my life. Each time I come to my yoga mat to meet my higher Self, my former skin crumbles and flakes off, and I seek to understand the new transition that has come to commune with me.

We break open. Again, and again.

It occurred to me today how important our Creation Story is. Not as a fixed state, or definition that writes out our past, present, and future in permanent ink. No. As a place of origin, a beginning, where we always have the choice to go a different direction. Congratulations, you pass Go and collect $200 dollars, and oh, by the way, the board is completely different than the last time you came around.

I use the term “Creation Story” loosely, in hopes that you, you, and you may interpret it in whatever way speaks to you. In so many spiritual traditions, religious traditions and family histories, the reverence held for the Beginning, for a Birth is absolutely astounding. Equally as astounding is the number of shapes, stories, symbols, and metaphors the Creation Story takes on. And the impact, oh! The look in my mother's eyes when she describes giving birth to me, it is unlike any other look. I liken the Creation story to oral storytelling traditions. The Creating truly comes in with the telling, with the new details, the new symbols, the new connections, the new ah-has. Where we come from is not important because of the where, but because of our changing relationship with it.

I rediscovered the story of my birth, and it completely shifted my conception of who I am. I am the leaf, torn from the tense branch of the tree, whipped and twirled, reveling in in the feel of the wind and the stunning beauty of my dance, while wondering where I will land. I will always land somewhere, and I know that my resting place is where I make my temporary home, until the wind plucks me up again.

Creation is never fixed. Never. It is pure intention born from infinite, reoccurring possibilities.

Let me say that again. Pure intention.

I realized, with new intensity, that my Birth arose from careful planning, pure awareness and presence. My ancestors purposefully crafted my existence, though they did not know who I would become. This has never ceased. You see, creation is a continuous practice and tradition. It is my tradition, it is YOUR tradition. It is a gift, a set of crafting tools that has been passed down to us from every living thing. When I say it is important to be in relationship with our Creation Story, I mean we are the shepherds of the intention we were born from, and the intention we are born with. With this tradition comes tremendous responsibility.

You may have found yourself, once or twice (at least), in a difficult pose, trembling, doubting, wondering what the hell the teacher is thinking. They're crazy, right? When it going to be over? I don't have much strength left.

What keeps you in that pose?

Not the teacher.

What are YOU creating?

Gripping

     As I finished writing my story for the month, I suddenly realized that this is a very appropriate topic for the upcoming season: fall. I know technically we're still in summer, but fall will be rounding the corner quickly. I've long held great reverence for the autumn season, not only because of the transitioning weather and the excuse to wear striped, knee-high socks, but because of the symbol of the falling leaves. What a perfect metaphor for letting go to make room for something new. And, as I find tends to happen, I'm finding this concept is very, very, relevant in my life right now.

     It's strange to me how attachment manifests itself in my life. Or, rather, funny and startling. There will inevitably always be something that surprises me, no matter how long I continue my journey towards awareness. That's the cautionary tale I tell myself: “You don't know everything.” You don't have to know everything. Believe me, that's a hard lesson for me to accept. But, as I've been kindly reminded by others (and myself), the most important step is to notice, acknowledge. Hello, my name is Tasia. I have attachments.

     In this moment it's a passing comment between friends that unearthed information I wasn't aware of. Information I maybe didn't want to know or didn't think I was ready to hear. Information that potentially shakes a core part of me that was gripping tightly to a former sense of reality, a former conception of history. My history. A new friend reminded me recently that we create stories in our heads, and those stories become our reality, even if it's all a bunch of made up shit that has nothing to do with what's really going on. And when those stories get interrupted, falsified, disillusioned? Oh damn, stop the car!

     You see, I am constantly relearning that there is a big difference between my experience, and the story I make up around that experience. Which brings us to an interesting question: what version of our history, and by extension, our present, do we hold on to?

     My past is clearly imprinted on my skin, on my heart, like a tattoo that is continually being worked on, added to. Yet as I feel more, feel new things, the perpetual change creates a vastness to my soul and freedom of my spirit that cannot be contained by my perception of where I thought I was or who I think I am. It's the little things that hold me to old perceptions, too. Tricky things. Instinctive habits. You know what I'm talking about. I've found when I don't let something end, it haunts me as a ghost, whispering in my ear unintelligible words... Yet those words are so very powerful.

     These small things that tie us to made up stories: habits, thoughts, words—they are gateways. In my case, they are literally paths held open so that communication with certain people that were a part of my life might continue in the future. As if my life were in a deadlock, in flat tension that does not vibrate towards new growth, but towards staying in the same place. Static. This is not the nature of living things.

     It is perhaps an odd correlation, but my asana practice has been a mirror to this same concept. Specifically, I've long since held certain assumptions and opinions about what my body could and couldn't do. In part, those assumptions linger because of old injuries and having to be mindful, but mostly because of fear and letting certain time-limited restrictions define my abilities. I get used to how my body is, and feels. I'm totally convinced of my physical capabilities. But! Oh, but! My reality only changes when I let it go. Let it go, let it fly free, think of not what I once couldn't do, but what I might be able to do. Persistence is a fabulous word when put into practice, as I've found through my determination to practice forearm headstand every day. Gripping the floor for so long only to raise my feet to the sky and let them fly. Before, it never even crossed my mind that I could even attempt such a thing. But I say it again, there will always be something that surprises me. Pleasant surprise, or no, they're often nudges to illuminate an old thought that may no longer suit me. Me. Present moment Self. How will I paint myself today?

     I would love to hear of any stories you have! What are some recent moments when you realized you were holding on to something that no longer suited your present Self? Comment below, or leave comment on our facebook page. And don't forget to have a wonderful, challenging, and engaging month, beautiful yogis! Let's bring in fall with a bang. 

Namaste!

Gratitude

How do we cultivate gratitude in the spectrum of our experiences?



As human beings we are often bombarded with such a wide array of changes. Some we effortlessly rejoice in. Others trouble our hearts and minds, testing our eagerness to feel, be vulnerable, and let go. We've all experienced these. They arrive on our doorsteps dressed in many guises, at multiple points in our lives. Yet it is always what we choose to do with these difficult experiences that make the difference. Can we greet every moment, understand them, let them go and... be grateful for them?

I suffered a back injury when I was thirteen, causing a major change in physical capability, and it sparked a journey I could never have anticipated. The best way to keep my pain under control is through physical activity, which is how I tumbled half-consciously into yoga's multifaceted lap. But as I continued my blossoming yoga practice, I discovered something absolutely amazing. While it was chronic, my pain was never the same moment to moment. I realized I could actually cultivate awareness in my own body to better understand it, and myself.

Pain has a funny way of making you hyper-aware of the moment. It's the vivid flash of light that catches our attention. After several years of having to pay attention to what my body is feeling, and understanding the subtle differences, I've begun to recognize what my core feels. Through all of this, I have a more intimate relationship with this delightful, flawed, perfect, intricate vehicle that I am in constant communion with.

This physical experience became a beautiful metaphor and lesson for the mosaic of sensations in my life. If it's possible to feel gratitude for the reality of an injury, and the reality of my body as it is... there are so many possibilities! And it all starts on the mat, with you, with your body, your heart, your beautiful self. In practice, during moments of intensity, I focus on finding a calm attention. My body courageously and humbly builds its strength, limbs shaking, sweat tumbling down my skin like a river, muscles burning. Practicing along side, I cannot help but thank my form, and what brought me to this point, with an honest grace that I'm only beginning to discover.


How do you cultivate gratitude on and off your mat? Have you ever found gratitude in unexpected places? Let us know on our Facebook page!