credit: Kim Jones Photography

On Saturday, my almost-five-year-old tried to be quiet. And sneaky. And a secret keeper. He sat at the kitchen table, spooning up his honey-sweetened yogurt and cereal combo, and I could see his little wheels working. His thoughts are like carbonation; you can see them bubbling up as he wiggles and fidgets, and then he just lets them spill right out. He is just not a good container for all of that thinking to stay on the inside.

I was not very far away from him when I heard him “whisper” to my husband, “WHEN ARE WE GOING TO GO PICK UP MOM’S FLOWERS?” My husband looked at me with disbelief, which turned to an apologetic face, which finally resigned in a grin.

Sometimes, you just gotta go with it.

Rewind a day before to the “whispers” in a postpartum class that I am oh so honored to teach. Whispers-turned-sighs, slight smiles on the faces of new mommas who uttered soft phrases like, “Oh, I needed this,” and “This feels so good to my body.” Some of those whispers turned to tears. Little quiet tears that told stories of “I’m tired,” and “I’m so in love with this new person,” and “I’m really glad to be here.”

credit: Kim Jones Photography

Fast-forward to last night, deep in the middle of it, when I heard across the baby monitor little whimpers and lots of shifting around. There was a fever taking over the body of our 14-month-old. Those bottom molars are coming in and there were whispers of “something’s not quite right with me” and “please, please, wrap your arms around me and snuggle me away from this pain.”

Whispers are our way of releasing the deepest stuff. Stuff perhaps too fragile to weigh down with loud words. Stuff perhaps too precious to yell. Stuff, like tiny butterflies needing two hands to lift them up into the breeze and open their wings to the sun.

What would you whisper? Tell it to the wind…the grass…your best friend…your dog. Be brave and bold and really dig down deep into the stuff that is just trying to wrestle itself out of you. Ask the questions that need to be asked. Let out what needs to get out. And ever so importantly, beg to be held by those who are waiting to hold you.

Go on…

credit: Kim Jones Photography

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I’ve taken a couple of days to digest the experience of the intensive. And I suppose there should be a preface to this post with a little background information.

I’m a wrestler.

I’ve wrestled a lot throughout my life with spirituality, duality, non-duality, alternative lifestyle, Christianity, yoga, and philosophy. I wasn’t raised as a yogin. In fact, I practiced asana diligently for about six years before becoming comfortable chanting the sound, Aum, though I’ve always loved being in a class when everyone else was chanting. I’ve never been to India and I don’t foresee a pilgrimage there in my near future, but I love to read about all of your journeys out there and vicariously live through you in secret.

I am what is referred to as a “householder yogin.” One who cannot afford the time or resources away from family for months at a time for immersions with teachers. One who balances soccer games and gymnastics for preschoolers, baseball games because I love them, and who colors her hair, and not with henna, because I’m afraid of going gray.

I wrestle a lot.

But on Sunday morning, I walked. In the words of Thich Nhat Hanh, I walked as though my feet were kissing the Earth. No wrestling thoughts; just the gentle stir of a breeze, the sweet, sweet smells of spring, and the soft quiet of morning. A pause here and there. A peek over a railing and down into the water flowing by, which I couldn’t quite hear since the snowmelt in the mountains hasn’t happened yet. Passed by a furniture store that I’ve driven by for years to finally notice its name: Joyful Furniture. Joyful Furniture! Amazing.

And it brought me to this. This workshop was an honor. An honor to learn with new eyes how to see what people sometimes can’t say verbally yet shout through their bodies. An honor to sit with another’s joy and sadness and to taste curiosity and sweetness. To see strength, surrender, and innate wisdom. To become aligned with what is. Whatever it is. Whenever it is.

And, as one woman put it, to trust the dive.

Here are some photo highlights of the day.

De assisting a 3rd trimester momma in Upavista Konasana.

I love this picture.

Demonstration of Vrksasana in the 3rd trimester, using the wall for balance and opening in both the chest and hips.

Postpartum demonstration, showing how to twist in Jathara Parivartanasana with bolsters.

An explosion of heart! Can’t you just feel it? Upavista Konasana partner work.

Beginning to quiet down for closing the workshop.

Peaceful momma, peaceful baby.

To see the entire gallery of photos from the intensive, please click here or go to the Photos page.

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The stomach bug hit our house this morning at 5:15 a.m. My poor preschooler, who always gets hit the worst, is the first man down. And, as always, I start praying.

“Dear Lord, please spare me from this.” “Dear Lord, please help my children stay healthy.” “Dear Lord, please, please, please don’t let my husband or me get this…please???”

I’m not sure yet if my belly is having sympathy symptoms or fighting the good fight, but I’ve been sitting outside of the yoga studio for two hours now. I’ve even taken a little snooze here and there. But oh how I miss being in there this morning. I miss the creaky wood floors. The indirect lighting that uncovers interesting pictures of Guruji, statues of Ganesha, and strategically placed wooden artifacts. I miss learning, and I miss the new connections being made.

But it’s pretty cozy in my car for now. There are soft rain showers today and the sounds and smell of the rain are always soothing and comfortable. Every now and then, I see a break in the clouds over the mountains and can see lots of fresh snow up there. My peppermint tea is helping my plight. And of course, Boulder’s always a good spot for people watching.

So I’ll continue with my “car yoga” as David Bowie rocks on KBCO for a few more minutes and then take a little walk in the rain. This morning I’m reminded of a point yesterday when De prepared us for guided breathing and relaxation by saying, “If you feel sleepy, it’s ok. If you fall asleep, it’s ok. It’s good to rest.”

Sometimes, I swear she’s talking right to me and me alone. This morning, it’s been good to rest. Have you done that lately?

It’s ok, you know.

Here are some pics from this morning’s asana practice and physiology lecture on the stages of pregnancy.

This momma demonstrates softening of the belly for baby in Virabhadrasana II. It’s amazing how much we grip the abdominal muscles until we give ourselves the permission to release.

Keeping the back concave in Prasarita Padottanasana during the 2nd trimester.

De adds support for a momma in her 3rd trimester.

De demonstrates Supta Baddha Konasana using props to give mommas space to breath while opening their hips.

A labor and delivery nurse/doula discusses the physiology of the woman’s body during each trimester.

Students taking notes.

And…my walk back to the car. A little different from yesterday’s picture of outside, yes? That’s Colorado for you.

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For many of us, there is a daily shift in our ability to be and remain open: to be stretched out – mind, body, and spirit. Sometimes this shift is huge, sometimes its so small that we can barely feel a tremor. But we’re constantly being called to it. I am both inspired and brought to my knees by those of you out there who can remain so undeniably honest in that shift and welcome it. I truly strive to be more like you, and I’d like to say that I welcome it but…it’s also kind of scary, don’t you think, because some days are easier than others and some challenges are hard. To remain true to the knowledge that life is this amazing teacher is, well, everything. In the face of those challenges, the author of the blog says, “Nothing else changes from the foundation of who we are.”

Powerful.

“Every time I begin to sink, I remind myself that I’m a rockstar.”

Very powerful.

“And rockstars know that life is beautiful.”

What else could I possibly add?

Well, I will add this: When you’re thinking that you have less, you actually have more. More of what you might ask?

Yep, you might ask that. Why don’t you?

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Ok. Where’s my mom when I need her?

My response: “Well, He’s so big that He can be in all of the churches all at once.”

Immediately, God turned into a superhero. “Oh!” my son went on, “I get it! He’s so big that he shoots out little Gods and they go everywhere!”

Interesting, I thought. “So…He’s like sunshine? There’s one great big sun and it shoots its sunlight out everywhere to take care of everything?”

He agreed. I love his little big mind.

This turned into a fascinating conversation of light and dark, and how even though there are times when we don’t have the sun directly, we have it indirectly in the light of the moon and stars and the reflection of the sun. (We didn’t get into the large balls of gas, because this was a pleasant conversation with my preschooler that for once, was not about gas.)

When he asked why we aren’t able to see the stars during the day, I paused. Sometimes, you need the dark to see, I said.

Sometimes…you need the dark to see.

We’re emerging from our shortened days of the dead of winter. That time of year of introspection, tucking in, being quiet. On these very crisp evenings and cold nights, there doesn’t seem to be anything between me and those stars and that moon; it looks as though I could reach up and pull them down from the sky. It makes me feel really big and important but very small and insignificant all at once. I remember a few years ago getting up at 2 a.m. to climb Long’s Peak, and about two hours into the hike, I looked up and sat down hard. I had never seen so many stars. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. There were so many of them I wondered how they stayed up there without crushing me down here. And then, within an hour or so, they faded away and disappeared, the presence of them gobbled up by all of that sunshine.

Even in our darkest night, there’s light waiting to burst through. It’s waiting, reflecting, combusting. My yoga practice is teaching me this patiently. My cranky back is beginning to welcome backbends again and an intense twist to the right happens more freely. And as this unfolds, my heart center is urdhva mukha-ing (you know, not just upward facing but even lifting toward my top palate!). Those little pinholes of starlight are sure to give way to full sunshine soon, I can just feel it.

And I’m so, so very thankful.

How are you shining?

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