Holding Space

By Sunday, I was overloaded. You know that bone aching exhaustion that leads us by the scruff of the neck to a restless, wobbling sleep? So tired that you don't sleep well. I rolled and jerked all through the eleven hours I lay sprawled in bed Saturday night. Come Sunday morning, the weight behind my eye sockets had only softened to an ache, and my bones fared no better.

I speak about “holding space” and “creating space” almost obsessively, in my classes, in my life, in my own head. But while I can talk about “creating space” until I'm all colors of the rainbow in the face, until I feel it, or feel the lack of it, I don't GET it.

Holding space: The intentional acknowledgment that something is important enough to devote time or physical space to. When we create an altar, we must hold space for that. One of my ex boyfriends had an altar next to his bedside, and even the household cats knew the rule: anything that didn't belong there must not be placed there. That altar was an intentional, holy space.

Everything we intentionally choose to make time for is holy. Every. Single. Thing. Me writing this is holy, you reading this is holy. Even when we experience grief, and we acknowledge that it is important to FEEL that, to go THROUGH it. We make that grief holy.

That is why I say there is space for all things. ALL things. The good, the bad, the pretty, the ugly. What happens when we ignore something, when we don't give space to something? It either disappears or gets stuffed, constricted. Grief and pain that isn't acknowledged is still grief and pain, and it continues to fester, to boil, until the kettle sings and the universe MAKES the space for us. All that hidden feeling overflows until we fear it might consume us.

I did not hold space for rest, for quiet, for silence, for recuperation last weekend. So the universe made the space for me. I felt the electricity in my skin, the irritability in my face and in my chest. Claustrophobia is not just a physical fear, it's an energetic need. My body was physically unable to do anything but the minimum requirements until I felt rested enough to return to a normal schedule.

How we choose to hold space speaks great volumes about what we value, and there is a difference between making the time and holding the space. We usually make time to brush our teeth, and we do this on auto-pilot. We hold space when a friend needs us to listen. Usually. But even then, we must be watchful. That conversation you just had with the grocery clerk, with your best friend, with your partner? Were you really present with them?

I've lost count of the moments, the conversations, the interactions I wasn't present in. I used up time for those moments, sure, but I didn't hold space for those. Those are the moments that slip by, ignored.

The things we do not hold space for either drop away, ignored, or blow up. Does that serve us? Does that serve the ones we love?

How will you hold space for yourself?

~

So much LOVE for all of you! Thank you for continuing to read these stories, and welcome to anyone new! Always know if you ever have a reaction, a thought, a feeling, a question, or a story to share, this blog is not just my space. This is yours, too. Let your voice be heard!

Love,

Tasia

Stronger.

I have been having crazy dreams lately. Seriously crazy awesome dreams. They've all been circling around the idea that I am stronger than I take myself for. In the dreams, it manifests as physical ability. I need to infiltrate the hidden castle in the rainforest? No problem. I'll just climbs trees, jump between branches, scale stone walls with the tips of my fingers digging into the smallest crevices, and sneak around the castle staff until I find the jeweled box I'm looking for.

I blame the details on the video games I play, but the patterns hit me square between the eyeballs. I brought myself through a cleanse, juicing for a couple days, master cleanse (which I just call the spicy lemonade cleanse), and one more day of juicing before transitioning back into soups and stews. Through these five plus days my only intention was to pay attention. Notice how my body felt, when I was hungry, when I wasn't, how much sustenance I actually required. Now my brain may not have been functioning at full capacity for all five days and I definitely felt a little woo-woo, especially near the end, but my body loved it.

I committed to it because I knew I could. Not believe, not “try it and see,” I knew I was capable of it. I had no other motivations, I wasn't trying to jump start losing weight, I just wanted to hold the space for my body to talk to me.

If I promise myself anything, may I promise to listen.

It can be as simple as a decision. The days to follow? We don't know what they will hold, and while I can make goals and plans I recognize that goals evolve over time and that's okay. I can't beat myself up over that. You can't beat yourself up over that. The goal is important, but it isn't what is important. Like addictions, goals are never ever about the actual substance, or the achievement.

What need are you trying to fill?

And are you coming from a place of lack or abundance?

If we come from a place of lack no substance or goal will ever satisfy that craving. The more we crave, the more we yearn, the more we believe we need more.

What if you already have everything?

What if you're stronger than you think you are?  

Being Real

Are you Real in your relationships?

We could take that question a lot of different directions, and we're meant to. It's one of those queries that we can ask every once and a while, and the answer will be always shift. On our yoga mats, what's the immediate relationship there? Yep, with ourselves. It does not matter how many other people are in the room, the moment we roll out our mats and step onto them, the moment we start listening for our breath, it's about our bodies and our breath, baby. We are Living, and whether it's “good,” “bad,” pretty, or ugly, this is the real thing. Some poses feel great, some poses we want to run away from the moment we hear the cue, and that's just a symbol for our daily life. Being Real isn't about being an optimist or a pessimist.

This is about making space for all of what we experience, and celebrating how beautiful it is.

If we don't cut our own bullshit and be honest with ourselves, what will our other relationships look like?

Now I am not advocating that we all go around being unnecessary drama llamas (people who throw their drama on others in the way a llama randomly spits). That's part of being Real, too. Maybe we need to look at not what our actions or reactions are, but where they come from, what they're fueled by. If you come out of a pose in a yoga class, are you taking care of yourself, or stopping just before the breakthrough? In my relationships, in my yoga practice, in my daily life, I've used my own drama to hide behind the truth: I. Am. Terrified.

And that's okay.

Because we all are. Are you new to your yoga practice? Are you new to your life practice? You know what I'm talking about. You are exactly where you need to be.

When you talk to yourself (we all do it), your family, your friends, strangers, are you speaking from the heart? Are you aware of your boundaries (some things don't need to be shared with everyone), and can you respect the boundaries of others? This is a practice in mindfulness and vulnerability, and we're not gonna get it perfect every time. But I know deep in my gut that my most profound moments of connection are when I foster the relationships in my life that feed my soul. What feeds my soul? The reassurance that I do not have to ignore or cover up who I am, what I feel, and what I have to offer to this world.

This video is a part of a creative project started by a man known as Ze Frank. He asked the people who watch his videos to record themselves singing a song about themselves. They weren't worried about melody, rhyming, they were just making it up as they went. The more we bare our soul, the more we find our joys and struggles aren't so different from everyone else's. You are not alone. 

Love,

Tasia

what is your Path?

So, here's the deal. We can talk about chanting, meditating, life changing workshops, creating space, setting intentions, and doing the “work” until our heads feel as fluffy and enlightened as a bunny rabbit floating in a cloud. Not only is the image fantastically adorable, but hey, we might actually be doing some of that stuff, too. We make the time to show up on our yoga mats, commit to ourselves and our practice. We experience breakthroughs, breakdowns, we have revelations, and we feel better after we practice, meditate, and eat mindfully. It's the real deal.

But there is a question that keeps nagging at the back of my mind: are you, am I identifying with the image of our path, or with the actual experience of walking it?

I have trouble relating with the idea of being on the “yogic path.” Or really, “any-adjective-I-can-think-of” path. For some people, it works great, and that's awesome. Others? Maybe it makes you want to run for the hills. For me, the inner rebel wants to kick and scream at the thought of labeling or putting a tag on the brand of “life” I live. As soon as I hear “____” path, “____” philosophy, mentally I hold up my hands and say, “Hey, that's great for you, but it ain't me.”

But do we sometimes allow the language to prevent us from hearing the underlying message and intent?

What are we striving for when we decide to show up on our mats? We made a choice. We're walking the path. But whose path is it?

On either side of the coin, we can attach too much power to names and images and forget that regardless of what we identify with or don't identify with, this is real life. Whether we're running towards a particular life style and embracing it wholeheartedly or running away and keeping it at arms length, we can still miss out. At the end of the day this life isn't a matter of which path you choose; it's a matter of remembering that it's a miracle this is your life at all. That is sacred ground beneath you. Whatever names you choose, whatever images you seek to identify with, do you remember what the earth feels like underneath your toes and what the sun feels like on your face?

Our paths will inevitably always be longer and bigger than we expect them to be; do you try to diminish it so it fits, or doesn't fit a certain package?

There is no excuse

Do you make the time to be with yourself?

As you are. As your reality is. No pretense, no stories, no excuses. You don’t need an excuse. Remember? You don’t need an excuse for yourself. There’s a faint echo reminding us there is no need for apologies or explanations to make it right. If we’re still making excuses, we’re still avoiding the chance to meet ourselves again for the first time.

A few years ago, my friend and I started an affectionate little tradition. Whenever one of us would say “Excuse me,” the other would say teasingly and lovingly, “There’s no excuse for you.” It’s true, there isn’t. Why does there have to be one, anyway?

Perhaps you can relate to this: I repeatedly make excuses for how I feel, what I do and what I don’t do. What am I really saying? Two things: I don’t have a right to feel, and in some cases, I don’t WANT to feel or be associated with my actions because I would surely be struck by lightning if I let go.

If you’re feeling silly, can you be so without apologizing? If you’re angry, can you dwell in it and give yourself time to process? If you are joyful, can you express it unhindered? If you are grieving, can you explore the ache in your heart, trusting that you will not be consumed by it?

I leave you with a journal entry I scrawled out recently. Just remember: there is no excuse for you, my love. You never needed one.

Love,

Tasia

My breath and the ache in my chest weigh me into the café booth—woven teal against my back and soft blackened brown under my thighs. Morning sunlight brushes the right side of my head, warming my scalp and the tip of my ear.

I realize this is the first moment in weeks—maybe months—where I have taken the opportunity to sit with myself, feeling free in my own time. It’s that independence not driven by: “I can do it on my own” but rather: “I need to remember and get to know myself on my own terms.”

I imagine I’m sitting across from myself, sharing breakfast, and when I look myself in the eyes I feel the lump build in my throat. I would burst into tears and choke out a humble “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry I haven’t been very attentive towards you.

My breakfast arrives: an elaborate vegetable omelet with a side of potatoes dusted with herbs, and a golden brown biscuit. All completed by fresh squeezed orange juice. The potatoes taste like camping: warm, fragrant and woody. The orange juice is like a crisp fall day, served in the perfect little serving size; just enough to send that shiver down my spine, awakening my nervous system as tart citrus drips across my tongue.

The stress of the last week has finally begun to melt from my shoulder blades and the pit in my stomach, though enough remains to remind me of the work and intention still ahead. The decisions. And the discomfort—good lord, what have I signed up for? Freedom, I guess. Nourishment, even when it comes with a harsh side of bitter teas and spices. I am still angry; I feel that dull twist and pull in my stomach, the black square weight nestled on my chest. I’m not yet able to fully enjoy this new chapter while exhaustion still pulls at my shoulders and fingers.

But it is a moment like this one that reminds me to dwell in my reality as I currently stand in it. The fact that it is my reality at all is Grace in and of itself. “I know that I am like the rain; there but for the grace of you go I.”

That Ellusive "Ideal"

There is no ideal.

The issue of identity and body image has always fascinated me, partly because of my journey with food and weight, but it is also something I studied in college while taking gender studies classes. If there is one thing that experience taught me, it’s that there is no “target weight” when it comes to Body. I don’t mean literal weight.

I mean expression: expression that bursts forth because of what is inside. Our physical body is a direct translation of what’s going on inside of us, and whether or not we are feeding the soul with what it needs: freedom.

While it is one thing to read long, dry, philosophical theories about the nature of self, it is quite another to live it. To see it. To meet it.

I feel like our culture has overdosed on advice for finding the perfect body, and even yoga can fall to this trap. Sure, there’s that “healthy” ideal that we all strive for, the certain weight range that’s healthy for our height, the BMI scale, but I know at least for me, that can be a mask to hide the truth: we are obsessed with controlling our body and controlling our emotions.

Does that sound healthy to you?

I recently heard someone talk about how she put up pictures of certain Victoria Secret models as inspiration for how she wanted her body to look and be toned. Now, inspiration is great. Inspiration can be life changing; if we are not inspired, there is no creative spark to drive us. But I thought about this. In the past I’ve done similar things, even pulled up pictures of myself from a couple years ago. Here are the thoughts that run through my head, “Look where I used to be. Look where she is.”

It’s not where I am now. I could be, but I’m not.

Shame on me.

Inspiration is great because it gives us a glimpse of the mystery of what is Possible. But what are we aspiring to be if our only source of reference is either in the long distant past, or someone else’s story/body? No matter how hard I try, while there may be many similarities, my body will never be your body. And if I do try to make it so, what am I sacrificing in the process?

I’m sacrificing my relationship with myself as it is now. As it needs to be. I’m no longer interested in what my body needs or wants, whatever I put it through is just a means to an end. I am drawing arrow after arrow, trying to get the perfect bullseye. In the end, it doesn’t matter if I train, if my form is “good,” or “bad,” the time I spend trying to reach my goal is lost to me. And if and when I do hit the bullseye, what then? Does my life only begin when I’ve reached the perfect ideal?

What if, instead of the comparison, we focused each moment on what we need? What does the body crave, what does the soul crave? What nourishes us? If we sacrifice nourishment, in any of its forms (not just food; pleasure, laughter, pain, healing), how will we be “healthy?”

Part of this means slowing down. If we push, push, push, we are still on auto-pilot. Each moment we ignore what we feel, we are disconnected. There is no ideal. There is only what the soul craves, and whether or not we choose to answer the call, without shame and without guilt.

What is the "ideal" you've been chasing? 

Remembering the way Home

Despite my impatience, I do see that it is sometimes necessary to repeat the same actions and lessons until we realize we no longer find pleasure or enjoyment in them. Suffering may be optional, but it sure is a good teacher, and a necessary one depending on our choices. We know this. Your story fills its own pages, but mine is filled with food and eating “disorders.” But even binging on sugar, fat, and salt loses its taste; especially when I recall the flavor of a fresh summer peach bursting open in my mouth and down my chin as tart and sweet blend on my tongue, making the muscle curl in on itself.

I have a question.

What do you want?

Sometimes we will talk or hear about the difference of want and need, letting go of desire, etc, etc, etc.

Let me be candid: I think that's a big load of bull crap, and I'll tell you why.

I'm slowly starting to realize that my Growth, my path, is in part a journey towards understanding the difference between need, desire/want, and compulsion. Compulsion is the war we fight when we are afraid to claim what we need and have forgotten what we want. Compulsion, craving, insanity, whatever. Indulgence does not equal enjoyment. We know the difference, our bodies know the difference. One leaves you empty, the other leaves you filled to the brim. Filling up a car with air instead of fuel. Here's a (not so) secret: Happiness is the best damn fuel you will ever find (and the cheapest), so long as we remember where to look for it.

My story is a saga of trying to figure out what I want (where are we looking?), and feeding (literally) the compulsion to fix something that ain't broke.

As I sat meditating this evening, I asked my guru, my spirit guide, to sit with me. Usually she comes to me in the form of a beautiful crone, wise eyes, hands a pattern of softness and calluses, cloaked in a woven blanket. But this time she took a different shape, an image that I only recently have begun to get back in touch with: my inner Arist, One Who Creates:

I hold the hands of my Artist self as I sit and breathe, picturing her long, dark brown hair framing a pale white complexion and soft eyes and lips. She smiles and reminds me to Come Back. I realize, as part of my journey, I have forgotten my way home. Her phrase does not refer to coming back to the breath or the moment; her call is to come back to the beginning. Retracing my steps and trail of bread crumbs until I find myself, kneeling at her doorstep, cold and shivering. I have found home, my big bang, my moment of conception that spurred forth infinite color and light, just as the Artist (I am You) presses a brush, thick with paint, upon a surface and gently pulls down, smearing Matter onto Space and Time.

When we allow them the space and the time, Need and Desire begin to mix together like Yellow and Blue, forming a rich Green. What the body needs and what the heart desires are not so different, and if, through grace and openness, I listen, I will find my way Home.  

Always know that if you feel the Desire to share after reading my monthly posts, I encourage you to do so, even anonymously. What resonates, what doesn't resonate, what is stirred up inside you?

Much love,

Tasia