Shoes

"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 lightening strikes me, what did I expect?"

Upon the completion of my very first teacher training, ever, I was raw. My spirit dragged me kicking and screaming into unfamiliar territory, dropped me on my ass, pointed to a distant mountain and said: "Well, off you go!"

At first I thought myself a warrior, when in reality I felt more like a fierce, stubborn child playing dress up. The act was a way to protect myself; with so much going on within me, I was a wailing kettle: under pressure, scrambling to escape. But teaching yoga required that I show up anyway and go through; my experiences were my strengths. I had heard the calling, and I had responded. There was no turning around.

In truth, there is always a part of us that fully believes that we can accomplish anything. The beautiful moments I've been a witness to, the inspiring spirit that reverberates in my soul and in yours, the mistakes, it is all so worth it. My hope is that we continue to believe that we are courageous, beautiful, and stronger than we ever thought possible.

When the starting gun fired, I spent the first few miles tripping over my own shoelaces. There were three options: keep tripping, tie my damn shoelaces, or kick off the shoes to feel the earth beneath my feet to truly know, connect, and feel.

I chose to go barefoot.

With Love,
Tasia

A Letter to Ourselves

You’ve been wandering for quite a while now. You know it, I know it. The path through the forest seems to be taking a suspiciously circular formation; you think this because this seems an awful lot like the same mud hole you got stuck in last time.

I know what you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. You have become intimate friends with the self-deprecating gears grinding away in your skull. And by friends I mean, of course, sworn enemies attached at the hip.

You’ve come to the point where you’ve collapsed on your ass in the middle of a strange, cold wilderness, thrown up your hands and declared, “What the hell am I doing here? Why?” I know you have done and said these things, my love. I know because I was there with you, by your side and in your heart. Thinking you were alone, you were frightened and ashamed, putting on a proud, brave face whenever passersby came near, intent on their own twisting paths.

Amidst the wilderness, you felt your body had become an even more terrifying place, a war zone. Alien and uncomfortable, what should have been your home, your safe and sacred place, was nothing more than a reminder of all the mistakes, and all the left turns you made when the simpler path was to the right. And even in that moment, knowing clear and well, you turned left yet again.

“I am lost!” you sobbed, pounding your fists into dirt, into stone, “I am lost, I am lost!”

Stripped bare of all external defenses, you have guarded your heart well, finding it better to carry the heavy wall than to let it drop and leave the burden behind. Stronger this wall became, and heavier, until you were forced to slowly drag it behind you, pulling and straining, forgetting not only where you were going but why you were headed there. Frustrated, it was this moment your knees buckled under all the pressure, and the self-loathing you created.

But here is the beginning of your story, and the moment you open your eyes to gaze around at the wilderness you found yourself so hopelessly lost in. In the moment you realized how lost you truly were, you also discovered you knew exactly where you were. There was no other place you could have been, as you found yourself: dirty, exhausted, broken, disillusioned, and utterly, and completely REAL.

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?