om time WOW

In my early years at college, I had a difficult time with panic attacks.  Without controlled reminders to breathe in and out on a regular basis, I feared my breath would simply leave me.  As I fell asleep at night, I would wake up each time I felt my body sink into sweet slumber, afraid I had felt my heart stop beating.  I couldn’t even sit and read a book quietly, because the act of relaxing would spring my mind into a state of anxiety.  I wasn’t trusting enough of my own breath and beating heart for fear that it wouldn’t know what it was doing without my guidance.

Wow! Can I say I love practicing yoga? I really love practicing yoga? The way I feel during and after. Mostly after. It changes, the “why” I practice yoga. Sometimes the “why” changes many times within a practice. Sometimes it is many reasons at the same time. Sometimes it’s just one reason. Lately, there is so much more peace and love and joy in my life. Yoga is a part of creating that experience.

I returned to yoga last year. It had been a particularly difficult year. It was downright crappy. One that sent me back to a place of deep depression that I am genetically predisposed to. A place I had hoped to never return. Life has that quirky way of giving us what we least expect…or want. Changes needed to be made. Somewhere I’d lost my way. Lost myself. I’d been successful, before, leaving the dark place, returning to the beauty of life.  I had all the tools. Just had to remember where I’d put them and dust them off. Okay, the checklist.  Therapy? Check. Meds? Check. My incredibly awesome supportive family of friends? Triple check. iPod? Check. (Difficult to not smile while listening to Mary Poppins soundtrack or Barbie Girl, even while in the depths of despair.) What else? Exercise. My bike? Check. Yoga. Been meaning to get back to that.

I used to practice yoga as another form of exercise and although an Anjali Restorative junkie, the practice was simply relaxation for me. Embracing the whole mind, body, spirit thing wasn’t on my radar at the time. In retrospect, though, I can see that some aspects did sneak in both on an off the mat.  I think that’s what I missed the most about the practice. The being of wholeness and peace and love that regular practice brought me.

Despite the desire and need, it was difficult to return to the mat. Excuses were made. There were promises to dust off the DVDs and start later. There wasn’t a studio close by that I really liked. My eyelashes hurt.

The time came when I had to stop making excuses and take a look at what was really going on. Self-judgement and fear. The judgement for leaving the practice and essentially having to start again. The fear was scarier.  I recalled how emotional yoga can be. How some poses would elicit intense emotional response. Sometimes anger or rage. Sometimes sadness. Sometimes giddiness. After the insanity of the past year it wasn’t giddiness I was afraid of. Facing my demons, my fears in therapy was one thing. Having a breakdown in yoga class? Ugh! I knew though, the return to the mat would help the healing process in ways that other paths would not.

Anjali Restorative was easy to return to. Yes, there were some tears, but nothing that was waiting for me in the more active classes. I finally bit the bullet. I began taking Anusara classes with Chris and Leah. It was their kindness and compassion and patience that kept me coming back. Not that there was a question that they or any teacher would be anything less. It was my inner critic that needed to be silenced. Yes, everything I was afraid of, happened. Chris would kindly offer his shoulder as I would fall over while trying, well, any pose. It is from Leah I was inspired to adopt “stepping into grace” as my mantra. Yes, there were some classes when some poses would elicit strong emotional response and provide fodder for the next therapy session. I kept going.

That now seems so long ago. Yes, I’m still using most of the tools in the mental health toolbox. They are all a part of managing this challenge in my life.  However, it’s the yoga practice that connects it all for me on and off the mat. On the mat, the fear of emotional response is gone. I welcome them. They give me an opportunity to ask “what’s going on here”?  The balance is greatly improved and I’ve accepted that becoming more balanced may be a slower journey than I’d like.  Lately, by the end of Savasana, the feeling of love and being in love with life, is a frequent experience. Off the mat, I’m learning to live more consciously; to be more gentle with myself and others, compassionate, learning how to act, rather than react to situations and have this strong desire to live this life the best way I can. Ghandi, I’m not, but he is a good role model. Life is exciting! Yoga is part of my daily life, even if my mat goes untouched.

And now for the moment of gratitude. Warning: This may sound a bit like an Oscar acceptance speech. I absolutely LOVE practicing at Omtime! It is here I’ve found community, a tribe. It is comforting to practice with new friends and familiar faces. Every teacher here is an inspiration and I’ve taken something from each that has helped me get to this point in my life. Joyce, Joy, Colleen, Shannon, Michelle, Elizabeth, Ryan, Chris, Leah, Rebecca, Roger.. love you all and Thank You!

Did I mention I love my yoga practice?

And sometimes, you fall in love.  It’s unexpected how you come across it - it’s never planned.  But when you find that perfect fit, that perfect compliment to your Self - there’s no denying it.

I fell in love once in Dublin, Ireland.  It was a beautiful fit and I loved it.  My love was fun (but classic), sexy (but modest), strapless, and polka-dotted.

The dress I picked out to wear to the end-of-year ball was unexpected.  I was just going to wear one of my girlfriends’ dresses, but I somehow managed to end up affording a dress that was much too expensive.

Oh, and I loved it.

It made me feel beautiful.

A couple years later, I was packing up my apartment.  In the back of my closet, I found my sweet polka-dot dress.  Ecstatic to put it on again, I slid immediately out of my cut-offs and tank-top right there in my walk-in.

I was going to look stunning in it now, I thought, since I had recently lost almost 35 pounds.  Oh man, and after all the yoga I’d been doing, my shoulders were going to look even more fantastic in the strapless dress.  And the ribbon that ties around the waist, I thought, it’s going to just make me look so slim!  Oh, my perfect little dress…

But it didn’t fit.  I zipped it up, and down it fell.

I should have been excited, right?  Ecstatic that I had achieved a long and lean yoga-body.  Proud of all of the work I had put in to get into such prime shape.

I was heartbroken.  Absolutely heartbroken.

And then I saw the stain on the front from a spilled drink.  The spill hadn’t been my fault, but I couldn’t help but blame myself.  Maybe I should have been paying more attention?  I shouldn’t have even had that drink in my hand.  Blame was pointed in every direction; but none of that mattered.  Nothing could quiet how distraught I was.

I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, trying to cover the stain with the ribbon.  But the silk ribbon had a catch, and suddenly all I could see was that.  I fell onto the bathroom floor, choking back tears.

I will never feel that beautiful in this dress again, I thought.  I can never wear this dress.  It’s ruined.  Everything’s ruined.

The polka-dot dress is still in the back of my closet.  Every now and again, when I am digging around for material treasures in the dark and forgotten depths of my wardrobe, I’ll come across the silky ribbon and my heart will jump at the vision of the pastel colors, like seeing a beautiful old friend after a long separation.  My first thought is something along the lines of “OH!  I could wear that to the wedding this summer!”

And I always pull it on anyway, hoping that maybe I can fill out the top again.  That maybe I can use safety pins and take in the seams.  Buy a new ribbon and maybe get a corsage to put over the stain.  Tie the ribbon super tight around my waist to hold it all up.  I can fix this, I think.  Every time, I hear myself making plans to make it work again.

That dress will never be the same.  It’s time has passed.  It’s time to move on.

But it doesn’t mean I’ll never feel beautiful again.  That dress is not my only ticket to happiness.  I know that.  And I know that if I actually wore that dress and makeshifted it to work, people wouldn’t look at me and think, Oh, how darling!  They would wonder why I didn’t get something that was a better fit for me.  I would probably make excuses and tell stories about the way we were, my dress and I.  Ultimately, anyone would be able to see that I had outgrown the dress.

The mature thing would be to get rid of it.  To let it go and give it to someone that is its new perfect fit.  To keep from hurting myself a little bit, again and again, each time I fumble across it.  I recognize that.  And one day, I’ll be able to let it go.

Just not quite yet.

Also in my closet are my favorite pair of great-butt jeans from when I was 19.  And while the dress is too big now, the jeans fit again - and they’re held up with safety pins and patches and they’re about to dissolve right off of my legs.  But those are too rock-and-roll to get rid of.

Right?

Let go.  It’s time to let go.  Svaha - offer it up.  All the memories, the feelings, the emotions - offer it up to the Divine Grace of the world and let it go.  If it does not serve you anymore, it doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.  Grow from it, but don’t allow yourself to be bound to it.

Besides - at least the shoes still fit.

One of my worst habits is biting my fingers.

I don’t mean biting my nails.  Yes, I do that - but the real problem comes with the fact that I pick and bite the skin around my fingertips until they bleed.  I have scars.  My fingernails grow funny.  This is a severe habit.

Most of the time, I don’t even realize that I’m doing it.  My mom will slap my hand out of my mouth and I will not even have a clue of how long I had been mindlessly chewing away.  My mind becomes excruciatingly loud with fears, anxiety, insecurities, and nothing-in-particular that it manifests all of those thoughts clear out through my fingertips.

Our internal is expressed perhaps most clearly through our hands.  We applaud our approval at rock-and-roll shows.  We gently wipe the tears from our little one’s eyes when they’re upset.  We instinctively grab our head when we bonk it on the corner of our desk.  We wave enthusiastically to friends across the way and wave frantically to hail a taxi.  We protect our eyes from the sunshine with our hands, we reach out for a hug from a dear friend, interlace fingers with our lovers as we walk down the street.  We build houses, type business proposals, plant gardens, cook dinner, drive stick-shifts, text our friends dinner plans, and sometimes maybe even pray…all with our hands.  When was the last time you appreciated all that you can do because of your hands?

You can change the world with your own two hands, as Ben Harper says.  But the desire to make the change comes from within.  It is from a deep desire inside the heart, and our hands are our greatest tangible tool for making it happen.

Our energy flows from our hearts and straight out of our fingertips, and sometimes we’re absolutely clueless.  I tend to be very observant of people’s mannerisms - in college, I won an impersonation contest by mimicking one of my history professors.  I bobbed my head up and down like an excited cockatoo, paced in circles, and said “interestingly enough” at the beginning of every other sentence.  But the part that really caught her off guard was how I emulated her manual gesticulations.  I drug my hand across the desk as I paced by, nervously pressed my glasses up my nose, habitually adjusted my hair behind my ears, and passionately ran my fingers along the chalkboard underneath words that held the most importance pertinent to my mock lecture.  After the laughter subsided, she wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes and asked, “My God.  Do I really do that with my hands??”

Lorin Roche calls these automatic movements Spontaneous Mudras.  Mudras are very specific hand gestures (or sometimes even entire body gestures) which can translate into feelings, thoughts, or emotions.  As yoga students, we are perhaps most familar with Anjali Mudra, or hands-in-at-heart-center.  This mudra is one of devotion and introspection, an offering as you seal the left side of the body to the right through the gesture of your palms pressing together.  There are numerous other ancient mudras.  So a Spontaneous Mudra would be a gesticulation that we don’t plan on making, but rather comes naturally as an expression of our most subconcious of feelings, thoughts, and emotions.

Notice, next time you speak with someone - do they move freely as they speak?  Do they cross their arms as a way to keep from expressing something they perhaps wish to keep within?  Do their arms fall to the side, lifeless, as they tell a story (a habit I fought for a long time as an Irish Dancer)?  Or do they flail their arms around in the wildest of mudras, talking with their hands more than their words?

If you are curious about studying the most sacred of mudras and incorporating them into your yoga practice, check out Mudra and Universal Energies with Ellin Todd and Tina Romanesko, April 18th at om time Boulder.  More information can be found on our Events page.  What a wonderful opportunity to direct mindfully to your most beautiful of extremities the clearest intention of your heart!

And the next time you’re so angry, you curl your fingers up into a fist…  And maybe want to punch a wall…or strangle someone…

Or you’re so joyfully elated that you enthusiastically shake someone’s hand in congratulations…

Or someone cuts you off in traffic and in utter frustration, you flip them the most sacred of modern mudras…

Or the next time you’re so distraught, upset, and torn apart, how much you crave the touch of someone’s hand on the back of your heart…

…recognize that all these movements are your Spontaneous Mudras.  They give your most secret of heart away.  And it’s through your beautiful hands that you are gifted the opportunity to make a change, to express your Self embodied in this Being.

From the bottom of my heart with the purest of intentions - I offer you a pat on the back, a high-five, and blow you a kiss.

And recommend you avoid actually punching a wall.  Or strangling someone.

Who would’ve thought a 78 year old Jewish woman from the Bronx would be the love of my life?

Three years ago, I was working at a doctor’s office as a part-time aide. I pulled patients’ charts for the next day appointments, scanned medical documents, and organized incoming faxes for the doctors. But undoubtedly, my favorite duty was calling patients to remind them of their appointment. Most of the patients were well past retirement, and sometimes I would have to yell for them to hear me. Sometimes they would think I was their daughter. Other times, they would tell me all about their incontinence, flatulence, son or daughter – or their son’s flatulence and their daughter’s incontinence. Some would hang up without saying goodbye or thank you, and others would simply not understand why I was calling them.

Then there was Roslyn. She was my favorite. She would call me Booby, tell me I’m a doll and that she loved me. And for whatever reason, she turned into one of my favorite people in the history of the world. She would come in about every two weeks, and her appointment was always at 3pm. Every time I’d see her name on the schedule, my heart would jump and my hands would shake as I went to call her number. I wanted to talk to her for hours, and just listen to that quintessential NewYorkJewish accent call me affectionate names I’d never even heard of.

I always got off work at 1, so I had never met her – until my last day of work.

I waited around for two hours after my shift. When she arrived, everyone knew I was anxiously awaiting her, so they hollered at me to go meet my best friend. I peered around from behind the shelves of patient file folders into the waiting room – and there she was. I walked up in front of her and nervously stammered, “Hi, Roz, I’m Elizabeth, I’m the one who…” and she interrupted with a, “I know who you are, doll,” grabbed my hand, and pulled me to sit down with her.

We sat and held hands, like old friends, or family, or even some random 70something sitting with some admiring 20something year old super-fan. She asked me why the hell I was leaving and I told her I was working two other jobs and she promised to come visit me. We talked about school and the future and how her granddaughter is about to write her master’s thesis and how her late husband used to teach plant pathology at the university. She pointed to her oxygen tank and told me she was coming from her lung therapy appointment – only to cut herself off, mid-sentence. She squeezed my hand extra-tight, and looked me square in the eye with so much genuine love.

“Darling, I wish you all the little bluebirds in the world.”

And it was at this point, like a goon, I started crying. Why? I don’t know. Couldn’t tell you. Call me my emotional mother’s over-emotional daughter, but sitting there holding hands with my idol, she was everything I’d hoped her to be (minus the blue hair, diamond studded cat-eye glasses, and sequined sweater I’d always imagined). She told me this job at the office was too boring for me because I was too smart for it. And she told me she always talks about her peaches-and-cream that calls from her doctor’s office. That she’d miss me something awful. And that she loved me.

Turns out, I meant as much to her as she meant to me, however that happened and under whatever weird circumstance.

And maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop crying. Why even now, a few years later, I am overwhelmed with unexplainable emotion when I speak of her. I met this strangely amazing woman who gave me a kiss on the cheek and called me her dear, dear friend, and I never have ever, EVER doubted her sincerity or love.

At the time, I was in need of the realization of the person I wanted to be. I was a mess of an existence; maxed out working five months without a day off, sixty hours a week between three jobs, stressed out, on edge, depressed, and coming to a boil. Meeting Roz was like popping a zit of emotion or something gross like that, with all of this nasty stuff I’d been bottling up inside of me for absolutely no reason coming to a head and struggling to be freed.

I want to be like Roz. When it comes to the rest of my life, I want to be like Roz. I want to be that person you know nothing about other than notes in their doctor’s chart that you sneak peeks at every time you pull it to make sure she’s doing okay and find yourself so moved by her genuine kindness and whatever magic little spark there is inside of her that you feel it in those two minute phone conversations and it makes you infinitely better for holding her hand for five minutes.

As I sat there next to her, I couldn’t even find the words to tell her she was my favorite person – or maybe I did, but I was so wrought with emotion that I may have not said a single word the entire time. I called my mom crying to tell her I met Roz, tried to mask my emotion when my boyfriend answered his phone briefly, cried while I filled up my car at the gas station, cried while I drove home, cried on the couch harder than I’ve cried in a long time, and am even crying again now as I write this.

It was the week after meeting Roz that my life began to shift and change (see: A Chronic Pain in the Butt).

Have you ever fallen deeply in love with a stranger? Even if it was only for a brief moment – like watching a little boy tenderly kiss his baby sister in the shopping cart at the grocery store. Or seeing a married couple in their 80s holding hands as they walk down the sidewalk. Or making a new friend and connecting with them so passionately, that after a week you can’t imagine living your life without them in it. I happen to believe that we each have a series of Soul-mates that we are meant to cross paths with in our lives. They each have a different lesson to teach – sometimes with a beautiful feeling, endless fits of laughter, or an inexplicable  familiarity; sometimes in the most painful of ways. They touch us in a way that can’t be put to words.

These Soul-mates aren’t here as missing pieces to our life’s puzzle. They’re mirrors – they reflect back to us pieces of ourselves. Sometimes, it’s the part of us that we don’t want to be reminded of, and those are the people that usually drive us nuts. But what Roz reflected back to me of myself was powerfully touching to me. She showed me the compassionate, powerful, loving woman I longed to be. The way she spoke of her late husband made me realize I was not in the relationship I wanted to be in. That I was too smart for all these random mindless jobs I was trying to distract myself with. Her kiss reminded me of the pure love I have to share with so many people yet in my life.

And she reminded me that dammit, I’m worth all the little bluebirds in the whole wide world.

Who has touched your life?  Pay reverence to their memory, and know they’re always with you.

And at the same time, recognize you may have touched someone’s life in such a way you never imagined…

I’ve been thinking a lot about Devotion lately.  Maybe it stems from the travel mug I got for Christmas from my work - it has the image of Hanuman, the little monkeyman, and I picked it because it says “Tame your monkey mind.”  And if you know me, you know my monkey mind.

One tale of Hanuman is about the Leap of Faith he took, jumping from the shores of India with one giant step, landing on Sri Lanka, where his teacher’s beloved was held captive.  So then I began thinking about the significance of Hanuman in my life as a reminder to take that Leap of Faith.

But WHY did Hanuman take that Leap of Faith?  I overheard my teacher Chris talking about how Hanuman signifies Devotion.  Devotion is a word I’ve shied from in the past.  To me, it has negative connotations of blind faith in scary religions.  Or in retail selling manuals  - “Welcome to the team!  We’re DEVOTED to finding the greatest over-priced, poor-quality outfit for our customer!!”  It’s a word that I’ve never been comfortable with and have mostly avoided.  Same of the word, Dedicated.  And I never was consciously avoiding these words- it’s only been in the past few days that I’ve discovered my aversion.

Hanuman took that Leap of Faith because of his love for Rama. Previously, Hanuman’s devotion to his teacher, Surya, meant that he traveled around the world - BACKWARDS - so that he could face Surya, the man whose chariot pulls the sun across the sky.  I mean, this little monkey was Devoted.

That’s what I lack in my life.  Devotion.  And I believe it’s exactly what I need right now.  I have my career that I am so happy in… and the more Devoted I am, the more work I complete.  The more Devoted I am, the less likely I am to turn away when it gets difficult, or when I get overwhelmed.  I believe in what I’m doing.

I’m becoming more Devoted in my yoga practice.  I work my butt off in exchange for some of the most incredible opportunities to further my yoga practice.  I find Devotion to my body, to learn how to push myself further but not be too hard on myself when I don’t go as far as I’d like.

I realized this morning that the best example of Devotion that I live with every single moment of every single day is the relationship I have with my Breath.  It continually exhibits its Devotion to me -rushing in without invitation, pouring away without suggestion.  No matter how much it deserves my acknowledgment and respect, it does not always receive my full attention - but even still, in and out it moves.  And when I do call upon it in my practice, in difficult emotional situations, or even while simply sitting on the bus - there it is.  As if it’s been waiting for me like a puppy, dying for the chance to prove itself faithful to the master.  “I’ve been here, all along, waiting for you to realize you need me,” my breath says gently. ”And here I am.  Without hesitation.  I am bound to you.”  Breath never asks for a pat on the head or a rub on the belly.

And really - I’m more Devoted to my breath than I realize.  If someone came up to me and said they were going to take my breath away (literally, not like the song from Top Gun), I would say, “Excuse me, no, you may not do that.  I can’t live without my breath.”

Dedication has had the same difficulty in my vocabulary.  People say “I’m a Dedicated yoga practitioner.”  Someone might even say that about me - I’m on the mat a LOT.  But then, my mind begins to whisper insecurities about how I am not worthy of that phrase.  Sure, I may SEEM Dedicated because of how much work I put into my job/practice/relationships, etc, but I always feel I could be doing more.  I may practice every day for a week - but I didn’t meditate as much as I should have, or I could’ve taken TWO classes on Tuesday, or even I didn’t drink enough water - all of these excuses come up in my mind as to why I’m not worthy of the title of “Dedicated.”  …but maybe, instead, it SUPPORTS the fact that I’m Dedicated…

The fear of taking a chance and declaring my Devotion to an intention keeps me from taking on that intention.  The fear of how worthy I may or may not be inhibits me from Dedicating myself to that intention.

But Breath keeps moving.  And if something as simple as Breath can be such a beautiful, vital thing that is impertinent to my existence, then surely my simple acts of Devotion and Dedication are acknowledged by That Which I am Focusing the Energy Towards.

I guess it’s just a matter of holding on to the fact that I AM worthy and I AM enough.

And I have to believe it for myself.  I keep searching for that validation from other sources - and in the mean time, feel terribly let down when I don’t hear the words I long to hear.  And then I feel foolish for having become so Devoted and Dedicated to that relationship, to that job, to that practice.

But it’s really the THING beyond the thing that I am Devoted to.  I’m not Devoted to my job; I’m Devoted to Tapas - Dedicated to creating the fire of austerity.  I’m not Devoted to my yoga practice; I’m Devoted to Svaha - Dedicated to offering myself up to the Sacred Fire.  I’m not Devoted to a relationship; I’m Devoted to Divine Love - Dedicated to feeling it move through all things.

The job, the practice, the relationship - they’re all just like the Murtis, the little statues on my altar.  They represent something more than what they are.  I may find myself chanting to the image of Hanuman - but I’m not really just singing to a monkey.  I’m chanting to Devotion, Dedication, Faith, Hope…

And while I’d really love my very own monkey - I would be much better off with Devotion, Dedication, Faith and Hope in my life.

What are you Devoted to?  What do you Dedicate your most true Self to?  What is it that it the most important thing to your life?  What is your Breath??  What do you feel surge through every cell of your body?  What is behind your every movement?  What do you bow to?  Raise up and receive it, so that you may take it back within you.

Dressed handsomely and possessing an amazingly charming air, he sat down next to us at the mahogany bar. I remember saying to myself that he was hubba hubba, in the same genre of Michael Douglas and Kevin Costner perhaps. Being avid foodies and self-proclaimed wine-lovers, my man and I had chosen to have a decadent dinner at one of the city’s best restaurants during the infamous “Restaurant Week.” We have been making our way around the city’s food spots and decided it was high time we made it to the restaurant noted as one of best spots in town.

As we looked over the menu and sipped some bubbly, we discussed our dinner selections and listened, half-way mostly, to the sommelier and bartender converse with the man at the end of the bar. He just had an air about him that commanded not just respect, but love and admiration. He shook the hands of the servers and managers alike….waved as if at friends, to the chefs in the kitchen. He hugged the women and updated them about his sons, who were apparently regulars at this white table linens-type restaurant. I couldn’t help but be intrigued about his life…wondering what he must have experienced in life thus far, how beautiful his wife and children must be…how often he must come to know even the pastry chef’s name. He was just so obviously in love with life and just being with friends…and I was awed by the whole energy around him.

And then, my own handsome man almost spit his sparkling wine out his nose as he watched the sommelier present a bottle of wine to the monsieur next to us. With effort, he attempted to, nonchalantly, turn to me and under his breath tell me that the wine was a bottle valuing more than we paid in rent and bills for the month. A bottle he had only dreamed of ever seeing someone pull out to drink.  We both smiled for this bottle represented so many beautiful things, but most importantly, and especially in the economic times we face now, that the man was clearly unattached to the money and was just about enjoying the moment. And instantly, we adored him too.

At some point, my charming man introduced himself to our bar neighbor, Scott. I don’t remember the details of the beginning of our conversation, as I was awaiting the foie gras with a certain, how do you say, impatience, but I do know it included food, wine and a little banter about local restaurants. At some point, Scott offered us a taste of the infamous wine and we graciously accepted and toasted. I silently toasted to him…to his generosity and obvious ability to understand how to truly enjoy moment by moment.

As he briefly stepped out, I whispered to my man, jokingly, ” switch the decanters!” And as we chuckled, I realized how much that man inspired me. He held such a humble, light and loving space and yet exuded wisdom and experience. There was no arrogance…only love.  My man stared off into his glass of wine, and after a moment, said, “this is a defining moment in my life.  I may never have another opportunity to taste such a fantastic wine. They say most wine lovers talk about “that one bottle” that changed everything. This is THAT bottle!” I realized it was a defining moment in mine as well.  It was a reminder that life is truly about ENJOYING each moment; the talks with friends, the purring of the kitty, the laughter with family…the space between you and those you love that needs no words.

I’ve always wondered what it was about those people who seem to have the admiration of everyone they meet - those people you like immediately but aren’t sure why.  Scott ended the mystery for me that night.  It’s simple.  Be present.  Be love.  Be happy.

Scott showed us photos of his adorable children, to whom he now needed to return so they could build an Eiffel Tower out of Leggo’s. As he stood up to leave and we shook his hand, that lovely man told the bartender to pour the remaining wine from the bottle that started it all, into OUR glasses. Our jaws dropped. And I think we both had tears well up as we stood awestruck.

We vowed, as he left with a smile and a wave, that we would somehow repay him.  Then we toasted the last of the velvety goodness, to Scott, and allowed the silky memorable wine float through us one last memorable time.  As we swooned from all of the good fortune and finished a cup of coffee and port, we considered our chance encounter with our new friend with such awe.

As then the time came for us to go so we asked for our bill.  As he opened the book, my man was speechless (a rarity.) I, of course, smiled and asked, “is it that bad?” He just handed me the bill.

I didn’t get it at first but after the shock wore off, I saw that our lovely dinner partner, Scott, had bought our ENTIRE decadent dinner. As I write this, I am filled with the same amount of disbelief, love, and gratitude….the same tears in my eyes. NEVER have I experienced such an expression of generosity from a complete stranger.

And then my companion turned to me and with giddiness says, “thank you woman-at-the-register hours ago who generously handed you her gift card with only 17 cents remaining to be spent!” An act thatI then realized unconsciously led us to later pass off our parking sticker that had a remaining 45 minutes on it to the girl pulling into our parking spot.

What a lovely example of paying it forward!  Never, in my wildest of dreams, would I have imagined that we would be the lucky recipients of the generosity of the man that happened to sit next to us at the bar of my now-favorite restaurant.

So unexpected yet timeless.

Don’t think about doing it - do it.  If it’s in your heart to give it away or do something nice for someone, do it.  Generosity on all levels, including love and time, can change someone’s world.

It did ours.

One of the rooms in my house that I spend the least time in is the Blue! Room.  Aptly named, because it is painted the most BLUE! color you’ve ever seen.  Not, Congratulations-it’s-a-boy! Powder Blue.  Not, Drinking-pina-coladas-with-little-umbrellas-looking-out-at-the-Carribean Blue.  Instead, think: Spiderman Blue.  On four walls.  Pow.

The other day, I slipped into the Blue! Room with a cup of tea and my favorite book to enjoy some quiet time in my Great-Gramma D’s chair.  It was a rare moment of hush - no television, no people, no email - and I delighted in the faint dinging of my wind chimes on the porch out front.  I didn’t even seem to mind the loud-mouthed pooches next door.

I was absorbed in the quiet noise of the world around me for quite some time - everything continuing on its way as I sat in rare stillness.

…until Heart & Soul began tinkering on the piano just on the other side of the most solidly Blue! wall in the Blue! Room.  I live in a duplex, built circa 1902 - so the Blue! walls aren’t so much “walls” as they are “cheesecloth.”  The little girl who lives next door had begun her daily after-school concert, and I was officially distracted.

The problem is not that she’s playing piano.  The problem’s not that some of her songs aren’t exactly… songs.  The problem is that I just so happen to still speak Eight-year-old-pianist fluently, so every song she is playing is translated as an entire one-sided conversation inside my head.

She sits down and immediately delves into Heart & Soul.  This is her way of getting acclimated to the piano after a long day of whatever it is you do in 3rd grade these days.  It’s her go-to song.  And anyone who has ever learned Heart & Soul probably learned it in a way similar to how I learned it - buddied up with someone who lovingly, PATIENTLY, played the bass part while you tinker away with the keys far on the right.  Oh, and the day - the DAY! – the day you learn how to play the back-up is the day you officially become a pianist.  It makes me wonder who it is she’s thinking of as she’s playing.

Next on the playbill is a song that she knows oh-so-well.  Oh-so-well enough and oh-so-FAST enough that she doesn’t even bother playing it in tempo.  Check out her mad skills!  She’s flying through the parts - the melody moving so quickly that it’s more of a 1-2-3-4-5-4-3-4-5-4-3-2-1 movement that she’s memorized than an actual melody, and the bass rhythm is a hasty and almost over-looked B-B-B-Bam.  But check out how fast she’s playing it!  Pssh.  Anyone would be impressed.

She begins playing a newer song.  I can hear her thinking it through and know she’s hearing exactly how it’s supposed to sound; even though to anyone else’s ears it would sound like painful noise.  The piano abruptly stops and she begins singing the part she’s been working so hard on.  She sings it once, plays it back.  Sings it again, plays it again.  Back and forth over the same four bars, and at this point I’ve set down my book and in my mind, I’m playing the part with her.  You got this, girl!  You got it!  Don’t forget the F#!  Don’t forget the…. Okay, that’s alright. Try again, sweets.  Bum, bum, 1 e & a, ba-duh, duh, BUM!  YEAH!!!!  One more time!!!

And every song turns into a bridge which leads to an endless encore of Heart & Soul.

Suddenly, the music changes.  It doesn’t seem like a song learned in a Little Fingers Beginner’s Piano book. It’s in a deep, minor key.  It’s sullen and slow, and it’s hard to believe those same little fingers are playing something so profound.

Last Christmas, my friend called me on speakerphone from his sister’s house and placed the phone on top of the piano to play a song for me he’d been making up.  It was in a slow, heavy minor key and I was surprised because I didn’t even know he played the piano. In the moment my junior pianist began playing her song, I could almost see an image of my friend, sitting at the piano. I could imagine the look on his face that would appear blank to most anyone – but I know the intricate thoughts that would be spinning in his head. I could imagine his fingers playing so delicately across the keys, looking almost ludicrously light for their size.

I was so overwhelmed with such simple love and adoration of him that it brought tears to my eyes.

The music next door shifted seamlessly back to Heart & Soul.

When we love someone, we experience many songs. Sometimes we get into relationships where we’re so confident that we rush through the easy parts, showing off with how quickly we can move, without taking time to savor our favorite parts. Other times, we find ourselves in relationships that are difficult and almost impossible to read – but we keep trying, time and time again, because we’re convinced we know what it could be like. Then, there are the relationships that we always come back to, because they move from and are so very near and dear to our very Heart & Soul.

The most pure of our love comes from our Heart and our Soul. Therein lies no judgment, no expectations, no fear, no obstacles. And it’s that love that we inherently learn from everyone who has ever shown any method of love to us – your best friend who listens to your five-minute long voicemails, because they know you just needed someone to listen; the cousin who mails you random homemade I Love You! cards for no reason at all; your mom, who holds you while you cuss and cry when you’re upset; the barista that remembers your early morning drink; the friend who calls just as you were thinking about them; the driver in traffic ahead of you who gave you the “thanks-for-letting-me-merge” wave. It’s these painfully simple acts of love that give us a wave of remembrance – the remembrance that love is LOVE is love is LOVE.

Take away all the fights, all the jealousy, all the distrust, even all the inside jokes and all the good times. Set aside all the angry words, the hurt feelings, the disappointment, and especially the giggly romantic butterflies. Imagine never feeling obligated, rejected, accepted, free, or reluctant. Forget all the adjectives – both the positive AS WELL AS the negative. There are no words to describe Love. The emotions we experience are merely OUR embodiment of Love – not Love itself. It’s all the way Love moves. But Love – as LOVE itself – is that moment where there is NOTHING but Love.

Chew on that.

For that flicker of an almost half-moment that I imagined my friend at the piano –

Before I thought, “Oh, this is sweet…”

Or, “Oh, I haven’t heard from him in forever – when’s he going to call me back?!” …

Or before I even thought, “Oh, how I love him…”

…that was Love.

It always comes back to Heart & Soul.

It has been a week since I stepped foot inside the barbed wires of Tuol Sleng Prison, a former high school turned interrogation center during the days of the Khmer Rouge regime. It was here that an estimated 17,000+ (the educated and their families) were repeatedly herded like cattle into the dark cells of the prison, shackled, interrogated and barbarically tortured until confession. There are seven known survivors. For Pol Pot and his regime, confession was justification to kill. And so he did… over 2 million perished between 1975-79, stripping a once vibrant Cambodia of its culture and people.

When we entered the grounds of S-21, our group of twenty-five was split into two. Each of the groups had an English speaking guide who gave a tour of the center and explained the history of what occurred. My group’s first stop was an interrogation room – the windows were barred and a rusty bed frame with shackles, a small saucer and a torn pillow adorned the center of the room. A black and white picture of one of the victims being tortured hung on the wall for all to see. I noticed a tight feeling in my chest arise as we walked from room to room seeing more and more photographs of the torture that took place on the very ground that I was standing on. I took a couple of deep, audible breaths. The energy was heavy and the mood sullen.

As we were leaving Building A, we ran into an older man carrying a small notebook. His face was weathered and his energy compassionate. Through our translator, we learned that he was one of the few remaining survivors of S-21 and he was at the prison to share his story with those who were open to listening. We listened as he softly spoke of the heinous acts that he experienced and witnessed during his time at the prison. He showed us to his small cell and at one point actually sat down inside his cell and demonstrated how he was shackled to the ground for days on end. As I stood there listening to his words, I felt strong gratitude towards his vulnerability of exposing such a personal experience in hopes that we would go out and share his story with all those we know.

We continued on and soon came across the black and white headshots of those taken into custody. This was intense. The eyes of men, women, children and babies stared back at me like deer caught in headlights. The pictures were endless. I could feel their fear, helplessness and sadness and witnessed my heart getting heavy. I will never forget the face of the woman who held onto her baby as a tear drop rolled down her cheek, or the man who wore a beaming smile with no clue his life was about to be cut short. Deep breaths filled my lungs. Just when I thought the worst was over, I came across the next set of photographs, these depicted the victims being tortured and the aftermath of their experience. I stepped outside and took another long deep breath. Sadness filled my heart.

After our tour of S-21 was over, we boarded the bus and headed to the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek, a site where individuals were taken to be killed and then buried in mass graves. Before entering the site, I bought a piece of incense and a flower and prayed before a skull-filled stupa for the souls of those that were taken. Soon after, we were taken through a maze of mass graves where the bodies of the victims had once been carelessly tossed – literally walking on the bones of those that were murdered. We walked past trees where babies had been beaten and women raped. We stepped over shreds of clothes that had once covered the bodies of many, but were now coloring the dirt filled paths which we walked upon. I felt myself detaching from the experience. I tried taking deep breaths, but instead felt myself gasping for air. My chest got tight and a wave of nausea came over me. As the soft wind blew through my hair – my head felt detached from my body and my voice mute. I needed to get back onto the bus. I was having sensory overload and wanted so badly to get back into my body.

On the way home, I was flooded by a wave of sadness. I felt like I needed to purge the day, but I didn’t want to runaway from the feelings that were looking me straight in the eyes – feelings I knew I was detaching from. It was then that I decided to step into my own shadow – step into the shit that was keeping me from feeling empowered and at my best. I felt raw vulnerability, scared, and emotionally and physically exhausted, but by allowing myself to surrender I felt deeper than I ever thought I could go, witnessed the depth of my own soul, the power of compassion, the strength of courage, and the ability of others to hold the space.

The next day, I woke up and felt a softness in my heart and calmness wash over my body. I prepared for the garbage dump, which would prove to be a whole other experience in itself. -ayo

I reflect back on the last seven days of my time spent in a nation that has suffered one of the most horrific genocides of our time — one that is often overlooked, but will never be forgotten. I have been ripped open and fully exposed to the darkest shadows of humanity and have witnessed in full color the brightest light of joyful existence. I have fully arrived — mind, body, spirit and soul and look forward to sharing my personal journey as it unfolds.

Much love, Annalise