It’s a bit hard to even know where to start on this blog. One weekend in, three days, nineteen hours, I write from a humbled and grateful perspective. I marveled all weekend at how intuitive our inner voice can be, and thankful that the universe is always, even though we might not recognize it, offering up what we need. Sometimes I think we just need to slow a bit to receive the message, as even if the sign is huge with red arrows and large letters saying “SUE TURN HERE,” traveling at a hundred miles an hour, I have been known to miss it.
I can only thank a higher power that when I found myself drawn to the little old-fashioned store front window of Eastwind Yoga in Auburn, that I paid attention to that small flash of recognition that some might call coincidence, but I call a knowing. At this point in my life, I no longer need an earthly explanation for some things, as there have been far too many coincidences to write off. I simply don’t believe any longer in random coincidence.
The beginning of this training definitely lived up to its hype. Amazing weekend … transforming already in three days … what will six weeks bring? So many self-realizations in such a short time. I think the best way to describe the class is that it was like having a huge mirror placed in front of you, a mirror not so much of your outward physical appearance (although that too) but one showing your soft sweet underbelly. And my phrasing might sound pleasant here, today, Monday (as I write this), but that warm feeling came after two days of enormous upheaval in my soul. And I think I can speak for the group when I say, I don’t think anyone was exempt from giving themselves a hard time this weekend.
Friday was surprising for me, as I had been anticipating this class for months, and the day had finally come. But instead of being excited, I found such resistance in my heart while I gathered my belongings for class. As I drove from home, I actually felt like crying. I thought to myself, “I don’t want to go to this class. I want to be home with Rick this weekend working in our yard. What did I get myself into?” I thought the feeling would pass as I drove through our beautiful canyon, but it did not pass. As a matter of fact, it just kept building. I fought back tears the whole way to Roseville.
It was my first time visiting the Eastwind Roseville location, so I found my way, and also found that there’s a really popular little Mexican restaurant right next door. As I walked past seeing all the jovial-appearing people inside with their delicious looking meals and sparkling margaritas, I again thought, man, let’s scrap these plans and have Rick meet me here for dinner. I did not enter my class with an open heart. I arrived blocked and scared and very resistant.
As I walked through the doors, I realized perhaps my biggest resistance was that it’s been a long time since I’ve truly been vulnerable. And the teachers made it clear in no time that this class would be nothing but being open and raw and vulnerable. I’m quite sure I wasn’t the only one who left a bit shook up.
On my way out, I passed by the same quaint little Mexican restaurant as the crowd was thinning, still wishing to call Rick and have him meet me here and take me out of this fine mess I’d gotten myself into.
The drive home was filled with thoughts like, “how will I tell my bloggers that I quit one day in?” (Holy cow … no, holy shit, not good. Check out my p.s. for a cute story about my mom and shit. I think of my mom now whenever I say that word.”
Saturday began much the same, up at 4:30 to arrive by 6:00 to begin another day, a drive through the canyon seriously out of sorts, which is so not like me. I usually love my drive through God’s country, how can you feel badly? (Oh, but I did.)
But when I arrived, I felt my kindred spirits around me all suffering from the same affliction of a serious case of self-doubt. And within an hour, we were all sharing our feelings (sitting in our circle, all eyes on you, just sayin’). It was in that moment that I let down my walls and explained truthfully how I was feeling (not the rosy picture I so like to share) and found I had plenty of expressive understanding eyes staring back at me (we speak so much more honestly with our eyes than we ever will with our mouths).
The weekend unfolded from there and by Sunday, as I left, I drove through the canyon with gratitude in my heart, an excitement for the next five weeks, and an understanding that I’ve entered a chapter in my life that will stand out from the rest. I believe in anyone’s Book of Life, there will be probably three to five chapters that will be pivotal in the story. They will be filled with the moments that change your life, that point you in a new direction … and fill your gas tank for the journey. My guess is I’ve just started one of those chapters.
I will digress just to say, on Friday, what I felt I was crying about as I drove to Roseville (which I think was only a small part of it) was my mom. I just felt so sad thinking of her, and the realization that I would not be in this class had my mom not passed. It all felt so connected and I felt so melancholy.
When I drove through the canyon just two days later, Sunday morning, on my way to the last class for the weekend, I passed through a thin wisp of fog before I began the descent into the canyon. I love the pockets of fog on the road down to the river and all along the riverbank … they always transport me to such a peaceful place. My thought as I drove through this mist was, wow, such a beautifully sheer fog pocket.
As the fog cleared, I felt that same flutter in my soul that I spoke about in the beginning of this post; it can only be described as recognition … a memory, past, present or future … a knowing. And I could swear I heard my mother’s voice … “Good luck, honey. It’s your time.” I actually found myself looking in my rear-view mirror, not really realizing what I was looking for until I got a mile or so down the road, and then understanding that my mom felt so close that I expected to see her with a smile on her face waving goodbye.
I entered class Sunday morning emotional, but a good emotional. Happy to be there, and knowing I was right where I was supposed to be.
More to say next post about the class … so friggin’ amazing. I just couldn’t bear to skip ahead, as the story is all in the moments, always.
As I close this post, I thank God that many months ago I was moving slow enough on my way down the little main street in our small town in the foothills to hear that tiny voice telling me … look at that storefront, 922 Lincoln Street, Suite 100, Auburn, California … it’s a place you will need to remember some time soon.
P.s. My mom was certainly a character, probably always, but I understood that more in her last years. She had an amazing group of caretakers … you all know who you are if you are reading this blog … but they came to me with the funniest of stories on a weekly basis.
One in particular, my mom needed to go to the bathroom, so she told her buddy/caretaker/Tyler that she needed to take a shit. He laughed and suggested to her that maybe it would be more appropriate to say she needed to take a crap.
She answered him in no uncertain terms, NO, she needed to take a SHIT. 98 years old. Clear. True. No uncertainty finally for my mom. And since I wish she could have always owned that clarity in her life, I will always love the word SHIT from here on out.
My British peeps will have to understand if they don’t favor the word. It’s here to stay.
A final P.S.S. With class underway and an understanding of what’s on my plate workwise/blog wise/class wise, I am hoping to post twice a week going forward, with maybe a small side note for fun here and there. This will be the only week that might be hard to get two in, but I’m still going to try.
Thanks, as always, for tuning in. If I was Carole Burnett (look it up youngins’) I’d be pulling my ear sending love off to my family as well as all of you reading this blog.
Wait for it … you ready for this? I have been welcomed by my peeps! At 10:10 a.m yesterday morning, I was viewed 10 times in (drum roll) Great Britain. If I can do that in one day, what might I accomplish by the end of this blog?
I decided I better do a crash course to be ready for my British followers, so I did some research, read an article on the internet called “50 Awesome British Slang Terms You Should Start Using Immediately” (brilliant, right?) I will be trying them out on my readers from time to time to get used to the jargon.
Feel free to correct me if I become a bit of a damp squib. See, if I had to guess what that meant, I would have said something from the sea. Turns out that’s it’s something that fails ignominiously to satisfy expectations; an anti-climax, a disappointment.
I was thinking on my short hike after work, this blogging is right up my alley. I come from a long line of (apparently British) talkers. I travel back to my earliest memories of school, kindergarten to be precise. They used to lay out towels for us kids to take a “nap.” (Seriously that wasn’t happening, at least not on my towel.) I remember finding my towel slowly sliding away from my little pal, Joannie, to some remote spot in the room as far away from her as possible. Bye “Jod.”
And remember those report cards, you either got a + or – in the box, and then there were the comments, mine usually was a minus and said “needs improvement” in the citizenship category. As an adult, I take exception to that, as I was being social and friendly. Isn’t that what citizenship means? Apparently not in second grade. It means you talk too much. Giving me flash backs to my doctor telling me I weigh too much. (not for long, Doc)
Let’s get back to my topic, long line of talkers … (that’s right. I remember now) I was going to tell you about my mom. My mom could talk anyone under the table, maybe except her brother, Ken.
In her younger days … before we had to remove the phone from her room because she insisted on calling 911 every time she hiccupped (I wish I was exaggerating) seven hours later returning from the emergency room with a clean bill of health in hand, along with the ambulance bill, we decided the next time we changed her room, it just did not come with a phone. We had a few discussions about that, but I assured her she could use the home’s phone any time, and that seemed to do the trick. Problem solved.
Breathe, Sue, and finish your original thought (ADD makes for interesting conversations, it stretches the listener’s abilities. Trust me, I’ve been stretching Rick’s abilities for years). Years before when my mother did not have dementia and lived on her own, she would call and talk “at me” as opposed to “to me.” There is definitely a difference. These one-way conversations would go on for anywhere from 30-60 minutes. My mom obviously needed to talk, and as hard as I tried to interrupt her at 15-minute intervals to say there was something I needed to do, make dinner, drive the kids here or there, work, whatever, she simply wouldn’t hear it.
So I figured out a system that worked pretty well. I would lay the phone down for 10-15 minutes intervals and get my work done. I would pick up the phone, say “uh-huh” and put the phone right back down. She never skipped a beat, and we both were the winners. So when I say I’m a talker, I guess I truly do come by it naturally.
Life certainly challenges us in so many ways with our loved ones. But as I tell this story, it makes me smile and miss my mom.
And see, here’s where I should have been starting to actually finally tell you about my yoga meet and greet, but instead my writing time is coming to an end tonight. It’s a more serious topic anyway, so today just needed to be a celebration of my visit to the UK and a nod to my mom. Thanks, Mom, and Namaste.