Bliss & Heartbreak

 Joseph Campbell encourages us to “follow our bliss,” to pursue what makes our heart sing. I’m feeling blissful these September days as I write and teach yoga to teens and beloved Barefoot Works  students. I’m in a swoon for emerging Fall. I relish the calm that comes with the sweet chill.

The appearance of Fall also brings a melancholy, a feeling not too far from heartache. This heartache intensifies as I read and listen to the news. I’m reminded of my heartbreak as I read about the escalation of Iraqi women raped and sold into slavery.

“Follow your heartbreak,” is Andrew Harvey’s  mantra. Harvey advocates for us to become “sacred activists” in our local communities by committing energy and purpose to the injustices of the world that break our hearts: Animal abuse, child neglect in the foster system, the lack of affordable nutritional food in grocery stores…the list goes on.

The trafficking of the innocent and the vulnerable breaks my heart: Youth runaways seeking a safe haven only to be controlled and pimped out at truck stops on I-75 and in advertisements on backpage.com. Immigrants’ dreams of a better life - a life made by an honest wage, free from civil war or an abusive home – become a web the traffickers use to ensnare their innocent victims.

I followed this heartbreak through college, studying, researching and presenting on trafficking abroad and here in the Bluegrass.  And this Saturday, I feel blessed to have the rare opportunity to combine both my passion and my heartbreak: teaching a yoga class that benefits victims of human trafficking in Kentucky.

I’m delighted to be co-teaching with my wise and beautiful friend, Delia Rose at the Plantory, a recently remodeled office space for non-profits and other sacred activists. The proceeds benefit the HOPE Campaign , an outreach program aimed at directly helping victims out of trafficking.

A former victim once realized that her only alone time was during bathroom breaks between johns. This insight sparked an idea to place critical, life-saving information on soap bars in hotels and truck stops where trafficking frequently occurs. S.O.A.P. outreach succeeded during the Kentucky Derby in reaching victims of sex trafficking.  Inspired by S.O.A.P, the HOPE Campaign distributes chap sticks (featuring the national human trafficking hotline number) in Lexington hotels, laundry mats, parks, and surrounding truck stops.

The Polaris Project , an advocacy organization based in D.C. runs the national hotline for human trafficking and since the implementation of the HOPE Campaign has reported a significant increase in calls from victims in Kentucky. Calls from victims are a rare occurrence; typically, a concerned witness calls the hotline.

Preparing the indie-inspired playlist for Saturday’s class (Sylvan Esso is my new music crush), I think about pairing yoga, a practice geared toward self-realization and self-love with the heavy heart topic of human trafficking.  I believe the two, like bliss and heartbreak, can fit perfectly.

Yoga is not about escaping the world. Yoga is learning how to live and be in the world. This begins by whole-heartedly embracing yourself. I can easily embrace my joyful, sparkly side, but yoga also challenges me to acknowledge and embrace my fears, my insecurities, my moments of jealousy and meanness. I mirror the world and the world mirrors me. I can connect to myself and from this place of connection reach out and express compassion, understanding, or simply be a presence of peace in the world.

Bliss and heartbreak are present as I prepare to teach. Bliss delights in designing a fun yoga flow and while I choose alt-J songs for the playlist. Heartbreak appears when reviewing the statistics about trafficking victims in the state. Heartbreak gives rise to anger and a determination to do well and do my best. The two share my heart space, prompting me to follow both my heartbreak and bliss.

Busyness & BEing

Sunglasses and car keys in hand, I mentally repeat my day’s to-do list as I head out the front door. I shout a bon voyage to my dad who suddenly appears, asking where I’m headed (I’m a true  millennial, I’m living at home with my parentals), and I cut him off, quickly launching into my day’s planned errands, schemes and yoga classes scheduled to teach.

Busy, busy, busy.

My dad kindly listens and then goes on to say he just wanted to give me a heads up about a plumbing crew coming to the house that afternoon. He wishes me luck as I go on my way, and I feel rather silly for giving such a grand speech about my “busy day.”

Busy: My hot button word. Lately, I’ve become sensitive to saying “I’m busy” and conscious of how I schedule my time. I’ve even become aware of the “busy rant”. This is something I’ve witnessed friends and family do. And I’m totally guilty of it, too. During a “busy rant”, I list to-dos, scheduled musts and elaborate on the day’s details in an effort to prove my self-worth.

Here’s the flow of logic: If I’m busy, then I think I’m doing enough, and if I’m doing enough, then I am enough, meaning I am a whole human being.

This logic could be the result of a busy-obsessed society. We are all busy. We all are pursuing passions while fulfilling obligations and crossing things off and adding things on to the never-ending to-do lists. We are in the midst of a busyness epidemic. We live in a caffeinated, pill popping society that pressures us to be constantly busy because if we’re not busy, then what are we? How do we define ourselves without our full calendars?

I know that one of the main reasons I busy rant is because I’m seeking validation. I want external validation from my friends, family and peers about my worthiness, a worthiness determined entirely on the external. My ego wants to purr.

The ego feeds off of busyness. The ego craves recognition, superiority, success. The ego pushes us to have full calendars, to go and go and do and do until the brink of exhaustion. The ego taunts us, hissing that we are not enough until we achieve this grade, this position, this type of car, this status. In the greedy eyes of the ego, we will never be enough, and happiness will always exist in the next step, in the next achievement, always in the future, never in the present.

My busy rant to my Dad stemmed from insecurity around not having a full-time job. I want to prove that I am doing enough and therefore, that I Am Enough. The ironic thing is that I busy ranted to a person who loves me unconditionally. My agenda for the day does not determine how much my Dad, or really my parents, love me.

I’m blessed to have parents who fully and lovingly accept and support me, and all my bohemian-like decisions (like taking a year off before I went to college. The “gap year” was one of the best decisions I ever made and I had the full support of my parents to do it). Their pride and belief in me does not stem from my academic achievements, my VISTA year, or how many yoga classes I teach – they love me for me. And true friends and romantic partners love me for me and not my resume.

And frankly, I don’t want to be busy. I want to be intentional. Sometimes being busy truly can’t be helped, and I get that. I’m concerned with the always on the go busyness. And I’ve done that busy, busy, busy routine and in the end I always erupt in tears. I feel foreign to myself because I haven’t granted myself the time to reconnect and nourish my creative, introverted self.

My schedule dramatically changed since ending VISTA and I’m curious about my reaction to blank space. It doesn’t necessarily need to be filled. I’m teaching more yoga and I feel fabulous and passionate about my classes (!!!), but it also calls for more downtime. For an introvert like me, teaching, really any type of public speaking engagement requires downtime because I am giving energy to students and taking time to thoughtfully create and plan. This blank space is not for others – it is for me. The blank space in my planner stays free from scheduled to-dos.

This time of non-doing is time of great doing. It’s a pause that creates clarity. Purposeful action emerges from the pause. The blank space asks me to check-in and make sure I say “yes” to opportunities and people that light me up and politely say “no” to events that feel heavy and limit time with people who consume and leave me exhausted.

As Rumi says, “Be with those who help your being.” I whole-heartedly agree.

September promises to be a full month, so I’m consciously taking more quiet time and investing in relationships that truly nourish my soul. This is my life right here and right now, and I don’t want to spend the majority of my existence feeling busy and stressed, especially if this busyness means not nurturing relationships, manifesting my dreams into reality, and caring for myself.

This Fall I’m taking busyness off my to-do list. Time to get comfortable with simple blank space. 

You CAN Wear White After Labor Day

This blast of August heat has sent my fashion self in a craze for creamy lace and white tulle skirts (no wedding bells, I’m actually in mourning for the now taken Ryan Gosling who is Eva Mendes’ baby daddy).  

“Better get your white clothing fill,” I hear that inner critic say, “because no white after Labor Day.”

There’s a flashback to middle school (those high-water pants days): “Meredith is wearing WHITE shoes after labor day,” a friend proudly taunted, pointing out my white strappy sandals.

I can still feel the hot flush of embarrassment. I’m returning to this experience now to rewrite the fashion faux pas. Also, this moment is relevant to similar societal and self-inflicted pressures I’m feeling to “fit in.”

I’m transitioning from my first “real world” job to…well, the Glorious Now. I’ve purposefully carved out this time to be one of self-exploration. I’m taking time to center and tune in to what makes my heart sing and makes me feel utterly alive. I’m a student of yoga again, eager to take and learn from other wise instructors and passionate about crafting playful and meaningful classes and thoroughly enjoying teaching. I’m reading Brene Brown and Susan Cain, journaling and writing. Fall is a sweet blend of additional yoga teaching opportunities and schemes for trips, but there’s also a voice saying, “You’re not enough; you’re not doing enough.”

This voice is kept on the back burner, but bubbles up when I get asked from more traditionalist folk: “So, what are you doing?”

“Teaching yoga.”

“Teaching yoga and…what else are you doing?”

“Breathing deeply.”

I want to live an intentional and soul-satisfying life. I feel content about my life as it is right now because it is my sweetly gorgeous life and I have the privilege to decide my next step. Sometimes I over-think about what others think and say about me wearing white jeans after Labor Day, or my “bohemian” decision to be open to wandering for a while. I’m back to being the sixth grader easily embarrassed by standing out and not following the rules.

So, I'm standing up for that sixth grader to say: This no white fashion rule is way out of date. Remember:  “On Wednesdays we wear pink.”   Basically, Victorian era mean girls got together and thought up, “After labor day we don’t wear white so we can tell who and who not to socialize with tonight.” I’m not particularly keen to revive that archaic fashion rule.  

The traditional guidelines to navigating a young gal’s twenties also no longer apply. I’m not getting married and having kids (at this rate, I’m thinking mid-thirties, maybe forties…). I’m not on the academic track. I hope to return back to school to pursue a graduate degree, but I want to be crystal clear about the program I decide to go into and have it align and feed my life’s passions. And that exploration will take time, which is what I’m granting myself.

I’m struggling with fully granting myself permission to take the time to listen and figure out, or simply be in the building of the next step. I honestly feel a bit guilty about not throwing myself crazily into the next big job, but a higher-self believes that taking time now will manifest in me being a greater help to others sooner rather than later. Also, stressing out about not doing enough or being enough takes up too much mental space and throws me into analytical thinking instead of deeply listening.

I know better than to stress about what is next. An achy tiredness descends when I give up too much energy and time to stress. The things in my life that have worked out with such wonder and fabulousness happened with great ease: enrolling and getting certified as a yoga instructor, going to Denmark for a summer abroad program, and working at one of my favorite non-profits. Before the beginning of each life-changing event, I was calm and grounded and ready.

Now is the time to be calm, get grounded and be ready. It begins by shedding off rules that no longer apply, such as wearing a beloved fairy-like, lacey cream dress to greet the September days. Wear white after labor day  if it fits your mood and let your life style be dictated by the number one fashion designer: YOU. 

A Thank You for Iyengar

My morning routine pauses when I see the news headline: Yoga guru dies at 95.

Suddenly, the rush to get ready - to fold the laundry, text my friends, check facebook while putting on lipstick and blow drying my hair – disappears. The internal time clock to do!do!do! turns off.

The news of B.K.S. Iyengar’s passing brings me into the present. I become aware of my breath, of the soft song of birds, of my beating heart. I feel a deep well of gratitude for this man, this wise yogi whose inclusive approach to yoga opened the practice to anyone, not just the physically fit. His passion for sharing his teachings with others and the West made yoga accessible and soon widely popular in the US.

And somehow, his teachings rippled out to reach me: a scrawny, brace-faced, fifteen-year-old growing up in the Bluegrass state who just happened upon a Wednesday teen yoga class.  

My first yoga instructor, a spirited young woman named Madeline taught Iyengar based classes: focus on alignment, incorporating the use of props, such as blocks and straps, to assist in safely moving into and experiencing a yoga pose. Under the kind guidance of Madeline my love for yoga flourished and her ego-less, playful manner of teaching is something I hope to emulate when I teach my classes.

My first yoga home was in an Iyengar styled class, and so, in this moment I thank him. This seed of gratitude begins with Iyengar and then begins to grow. This sense of gratitude expands and stretches like the limbs of a tree as I think of Madeline and all the yoga instructors I’ve had the opportunity to learn from during this yoga journey. 

I am in awe of this family yoga tree. I envision a thread made of breath, knowledge and inspiration connecting me and my yoga instructors to Iyengar and teachers before him, ancient yogis who understood and marveled at the power of the breath and the beauty and strength of the human body.

Yoga reminds me to simply be: to be in my body, to be with my breath, to experience the moment. It was the first lesson I learned when I launched into a gangly downdog and it’s a lesson I am reminded of as I read, process and sit with the news of B.K.S. Iyengar’s death: Be here and live happily.

Purpose and Play

 I’m returning to the magical playground of my childhood in Montreat, North Carolina. The time I spent there a week or so ago is still grounding and nurturing me through this current transition.

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I venture through misty mountain roads and journey down through dark, quiet woods. I follow the luring sound of a bubbling creek meandering through a playground paradise of swings, playhouses built in trees and swirly slides. This is my secret garden, a home of pastel-colored memories and imaginative play. The playground has not aged and it still enchants and fills me with awe.

I choose my old favorite swing and push toward the sky. My feet flying toward the peak of a mountain rising in the near distance. I soar up and ripple back into space. Coming home to self.

Once again, I am in the company of my younger self. The eleven-year-old comes to mind – the imaginative one who played and daydreamed. The playground brought me such peace and such inspiration for stories. I felt so safe and secure here, so very introverted and at home.

Standing on the edge of the creek, I exist in the present and the past. I’m seeking wisdom from my younger self.

As I embark on this transition from my present job to the next life step, I’m curious to ask and ponder on my passions and life loves. As a child, what did I dream of becoming? What did I do naturally and spontaneously that lit up my heart and brought joy?

The memories and answers emerge in a soft light. I read, imagined and acted out stories. I was pulled toward writing and acting. Storytelling held the appeal.

I know writers in love with words and grammar rules are coded in their DNA. For me, that’s not what resonates. It’s the story. A story that can find expression in words, the stage, or maybe even dance and a yoga mat.

I also recall just how quiet I use to be and how at heart I am a true introvert, one who loves to listen and feels utterly alive when I am alone in the comfort of books and music. I do love people. I love sparkling up and sharing time with them, maybe offering a listening ear, but this pseudo-extrovert appearance has fooled even me. I’m deeply introverted and I need to honor that core need for stillness and peace. 

These are small, but significant epiphanies I carry away as I leave the tall, kind trees and this precious space of childhood play. This trip to the past has not left me heavy with nostalgia. This playtime in the mountains has empowered me and I leave grounded and inspired by the wisdom of my younger self.

Now I ask you: What insight and wisdom can you gain from your younger self? How can you honor those answers in your present life?

Coming Home to Self

I'm coming home to self.

I’ve been away. Disconnected. Tangled in thought webs. Taking on the emotional burdens of others. Words tinted with bitterness. Feeling apathetic.  

I operated this way for awhile, placing smiles over the wounds like band-aids and throwing myself into busyness: classes to teach, packing for the retreat, finishing up my VISTA term at work.

Then, I get a bit tipsy. At first, I’m all giggles and fun. Suddenly, I'm swept up in a thunderstorm of tears. I’m sobbing to Ray LaMontagne  on a late Friday night and realize that I’ve not been myself. I’m ungrounded and hurting and need to come home to self.

How do I come home to self?

I return to the embrace of healers and friends, the ones who compassionately listen as I rant, curse and reveal. They let me speak a truth that I’m having trouble owning. Once spoken, acknowledged and held in understanding, I can learn and grow on. I’m blessed to have these listeners. Thank you, thank you.

This homecoming calls for celebrations. 

Tuesday, Babe, wear those high heels and relish the click-clack patter they make on pavement and marble stairs. 

Flash out in hot pink, the color of confidence and self-esteem. 

Find the old Motown playlist and turn it up high on the commute to work. 

Dance wildly to sweat out the day. 

Grant others the gift of presence, fully listen and fully be.

Come home to favorite films, partied out playlists, sun salutations, revisited pieces of poetry, and back to the blank page. Revel in the breath, greeting and grounding.

I reconnect to self here in this coffee shop nestled in the mountains of North Carolina. 

Though traveling away from my Kentucky home, I feel grounded. I am rooted to self. I am brought back to center through journaling, sipping a vanilla latte and enjoying this precious time to write truthfully from the heart. I'm happy to be back. 

Thank you for listening. For self-discovery fun I offer you this: a vein of gold writing exercise. Make a list of 3-5 of your top favorite films, musicians, books and passions. Jot down whatever or whoever pops in your head, there’s no need to impress, only to explore and see what is sparkling up your heart and creative energies. There may be a thread connecting the categories together in rather curious ways. Or this may be a go-to list when you’re having a rather off day and are in need of a homecoming celebration of your own.

P.S.- Learned the vein of gold writing exercise from the very talented Sarah Combs. She's a brilliant and beautiful Kentucky author whose recently published Breakfast Served Anytime  is a magical read and a vital part of this summertime homecoming. 

A Blog on Blogging

Hello! Hello! So happy a dear friend and fellow blogger, Misty Pittman invited me to be part of a #mywritingprocess Blog Tour! The prompts encouraged us bloggers to think about the writing process and why we write what we do. Well, here’s a little piece about the tango between journaling and blogging. Enjoy and treat yourself to the exquisite writings and awe-inspiring photos featured on Misty’s beautiful blog www.lifecreatedblissfully.com.  

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Recently I discovered a diary I kept when I was nine. A thoughtful Winnie the Pooh occupies the front cover.  The bear is a childhood favorite who serves as the journal’s guardian. The few carefully preserved entries detail my emotional reaction to being called mean at summer camp, (because I stole my sister’s snack), express utter excitement over shopping at a dollhouse store (the blooming days of a small fashionista), and I lament a torn down tree swing (“this broke my heart very badly”).

All in all, I am the same. The entries I wrote as a nine-year-old mirror the ones I passionately write today. In beloved PAPAYA! Art journals,  I continue to explore and question my sensitivity, and my charged emotions to people and events. I journal to look for meaning, to find the lessons, and pinpoint my patterns. I journal about my passions, what makes me feel alive and the small, ordinary moments that leave me breathless.

This journaling is my everyday therapy. It’s messy, repetitive, a Faulkner stream of conscious with no paragraphs and commas in revolt. A tug of war between a complainer and a gal striving to see the positive.

Blogging tidies up the words urgently spilled across a journal’s blank page. Blogging captures a jewel glistening in a chaos of ink. Blogging shines off a thought, polishes an emotion, and presents it to the online world to see in the hopes other readers can see their own reflections in that sparkle and shine.

Journaling is intensely personal. The blank page provides space and acceptance for the initial, knee-jerk reaction. After the tears have been shed and the curse words spit out, I have the clarity to pause, listen and write with intention. In the pause, I glimpse the life lesson, I gently observe myself and lovingly embrace my imperfect, but oh so very trying self. Pieces of poetry, or kind words spoken by loved ones return to me.

Journaling guides me back to center, and from that place of connection and understanding, I blog. I write about life’s sparkles and struggles in the hope that others can find some comfort, inspiration, or a parcel of truth that resonates with them and gently guides them back to self.

My Winnie the Pooh journal is safely tucked away. As I write this, I think of my nine-year-old self and I thank her for writing, for gifting my older self with forgotten treasures of my childhood and providing insights to self. And I thank you for taking a moment to read about this quirky writing process and for being my listener. Whether or not you write, may you be a good listener to your True Self, and gift yourself with the time to explore, express, create and celebrate who you are because you’re rather perfect and your story is worth being told.

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Now, happily passing the writing baton to Julie Ransdell. I’ve fallen in love with her blog  . Here’s a sweet intro, you’ll fall for her, too!

Julie Ransdell :

I am a mama, wife, yoga instructor, prayer warrior, and lover of all things fine food, fine wine, and fine music to my ears. I cherish living a simple life and strive daily to bloom right where I am planted.

http://bloommamabloom.blogspot.com.