Live performance

Megan Griswold: Lost and Found. Stay tuned every wednesday and friday for a new video blog!




Megan Griswold- Lost and Found

http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan
http://www.youtube.com/megangriswold20
http://twitter.com/megan_griswold

What was it like to be a commentator on PR?

Made for the gyspy in all of us! 
Thank you for watching and joining me in my personal video blog! 



Megan Griswold- Lost and Found

http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan
http://www.youtube.com/megangriswold20
http://twitter.com/megan_griswold

New site launched in January 2011!

Feeback on my new site! Hope you like it.







Megan Griswold- Lost and Found

http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan
http://www.youtube.com/megangriswold20
http://twitter.com/megan_griswold

What's my least favorite part of moving?

New video!



Stay tuned every wednesday and friday for a new video blog!

Megan Griswold- Lost and Found

http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan
http://www.youtube.com/megangriswold20
http://twitter.com/megan_griswold

on Writing & Performing

Megan Griswold- Lost and Found

http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan
http://www.youtube.com/megangriswold20
http://twitter.com/megan_griswold

Living on a Yurt

In this video blog, Megan Griswold sort of addresses the question of why she likes living on a yurt.

"Hope you enjoy this video and thanks for joining me in my life journal!" 

So far, what do you think?   Megan does a video blog twice a week, is there anything you would like to ask her? Stay tuned every wednesday and friday for a new video blog!

http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan

I am a creative type by nature and kind of a jack of all trades attitude

I’m a late bloomer who took a long time to learn to become the kind of writer/artist I want to be and that I think is of use. 

In this episode, I respond to a question sent by a fan "What was your childhood like?"

So, thanks for joining me in my life journal!

This is Megan Griswold, Out & About!

So here it goes....

Stay tuned every wednesday and friday for a new video blog!


http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan

Sometimes its hard to say "no".

I definitely do not consider myself a chef! :)



Stay tuned every wednesday and friday for a new video blog!
Input needed! Let me know what you LOVE and what you don't! Things are changing quickly and would love to get some feedback! Thanks guys!
I look forward to hearing some feedback!

My thoughts on Yoga

Why does my forward bend suck so hard? Could someone look and see if there's like crazy glue in my back? Or is it because I'm holding my grief there? Is that grief that's making me look like the hunchback of Notre Dame? And Tracy to the right of me of course. She doesn't look like a hunchback. She's a goddess. And look at that tattoo. God that's sexy. Should I get a tattoo? What if I don't like it later? Am I rooting my feet evenly on the floor? God I'm fat. I wish I was already in savasana. Wait, no I like this part. That feels good when my body feels more elastic. Oh rats, I hate Warrior II. Was that five breaths? I’m not sure. Let's call it five breaths. Maybe that was four...what's wrong with me that I care if it’s four or five. Why am I in a rush? Oh god. The guy to my left is making some weird noise. What IS that NOISE? Seriously what in the WORLD is that noise?

 Those thoughts aren't all of ‘me’ -- more like a part, a pattern, a conditioning – the firing of synapses that will fire, now, and again. And when I'm lucky I can see it as such. And with each time on the mat, I get to recognize how crazy it all is. And that feels sane. Incredibly, marvelously sane. 

            You hear a lot of people out there talk about how "relaxing" yoga is. But that's not how I would describe it. It reminds me of learning to hike off trail. Like bushwhacking, the internal terrain can be confusing, with dense vegetation, where you find yourself stuck in the trees, where even a good map is of no use to you. And sometimes there are objective hazards that you have very little control over—rock fall, big rivers, avalanche.

            With experience, the terrain doesn't get any less complex -- there are still thick patches, and you are guaranteed to lose the clear ridgeline and bottom out landing in some thorny rosehip bush cursing like a sailor. But over time you can move more smoothly through that same messy terrain.

            As I can see looking at the details of my life, the terrain hasn't gotten any less hazardous, but a practice like yoga provides an opportunity to lay down new clearer pathways. Now I don't know if any hard research has been done about this, but here's my assumption: yoga practice actually helps lay down new neuronal pathways—where our minds (not just our bodies) become stronger, more adaptive and better suited for life’s demands.

            Because, lets face it: whether life is more like a bushwhack, a kickball game, or high stakes poker, each has the potential to both exhilarate you or knock the mula right out of your bunda. It could go either way. But yoga helps me keep my eye on the ball, crawl out of the bushes, and deal.

Megan comments on....herself?

In this video blog, Megan Griswold sort of addresses the question of does she have a favorite part of herself, eyes, etc.

Megan Griswold Out and About Video Blog #2

The video blog series of Megan Griswold. http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan

Megan Griswold: Out and About Video Journal and Blog is Here!

For those of you who don't know me, this is a new way for us to get to know each other better...

Instead of writing about life experiences, I decided to mix it up a bit and integrate a video journal making everything a little more dynamic! This way you get to know me from more than just words.

This is the first of many to come. Comments of my first day in Africa!  I will be putting out one new video blog per week on Wednesdays, so stay tuned!

First Day in Africa

Ok, so now that you have seen my first video blog, what are your thoughts? Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, especially because this is only the beginning!

 

This is Megan Griswold, Out & About!

On Eggs

My grandmother Deany was wild about Easter eggs. Add to that her absentminded ways in the kitchen and you’ve got CHAOS: boiling eggs, dye cups, and 15 grandchildren armed with crayons. Spry despite her bow legs with ankles the size of grapefruits—even speed couldn’t prevent her from forgetting her eggs in the pressure cooker -- exploding a dozen all over the kitchen. From then on, I kept a closer eye on the eggs.

Now, 30 years later, I’ve got an eye on my own. But they’re not so much exploding as approaching their expiration date. The thing is, I’m at a scary age -38—with no baby in sight. With every laugh line or gray hair I picture my eggs withering by the hour - an exaggeration. But hey, that’s how my mind works. So I’ve frozen more than a dozen-- fourteen to be exact. But these eggs aren’t in a crate from Whole Foods. These eggs are mine.

Since I can’t put my eggs in a nest, I opt to pump my body full of hormones, have my eggs surgically extracted and then cryo-preserved. Sounds easy enough right? By freezing, I’ve tried to make up for lost time: being a late bloomer, spending too much time in graduate school, and waiting too long for my “real life” to begin. And while the technology is deemed experimental, with no guarantees--I don’t know of any guarantees in western medicine. DO YOU?

Haven’t I been fertile since I was like TWELVE? I’m mean, REALLY, what have I been DOING? I’m ready to take this womb out onto the open road to see what it can do. But you’re supposed to have all your ducks in a row before having children: the mate, the 401k…And a few of my ducks are stragglers.

Growing a batch of eggs takes about two weeks. People talk to their babies in utero. I talk to my eggs: “Okay ladies, let me go over the particulars. A nice doctor is going to come get you and put you in a freezer where you can take a long nap. If you’re awakened, that means I’m asking you to help make a BABY. But only come if you’re eager for a BIG adventure…”

The truth: I’m hoping not to need these eggs, that I’ll get pregnant naturally when the time is right. These eggs are my back-up plan, but I’m not going to tell THEM that.

In the clinic, the lobby is full of couples with fertility problems or women preserving their eggs before chemotherapy. But here I am, healthy with all my parts in order. It’s just that my life hasn’t lined up perfectly with my body’s abilities. Statistically--by 41-- over ninety percent of my eggs will be toast.

People ask how it feels to have preserved my eggs. I’ll tell you: it’s fantastic, like a weight has lifted. No matter what happens, I feel extraordinarily lucky to avail myself of the most advanced technology. Medicine aims to optimize health. And for me, reproductive longevity is an important part of that picture.

So now I’ve got 14 eggs living in something that looks more like a propane tank for a barbeque, than a home for my children to be. But I think of them like hope - like hope in a petri dish.

While Megan Griswold is on the road with her one-woman show ‘Fix It’ her eggs reside comfortably in Boston, Massachusetts.

How Yoga Keeps You Sane

 First off, the title of this piece is based on one very large assumption. So let’s just clear that matter up completely. The assumption is that I—the author of this article about yoga and sanity—actually am sane. It’s tempting to say the jury's still out on this, but to qualify to write this article I submitted to a battery of tests, went before a panel of experts, and just to be thorough did a few quick self-tests in some self-help books. I didn't actually buy the books, but I spent a good two hours tucked in the aisle of the Boulder Bookstore.
And apparently I did great. I was amazing. Spectacular. Record breaking. In fact this article was a bit late, simply because some of the experts who tested me wanted to speak with me privately about how extraordinarily balanced I am. I swear.
Honestly, though, if life were like the selection process for a fifth grade kick ball game—and the qualities they were selecting for were the extremely calm balanced mellow looking individuals—I would be that awkward embarrassed kid left sweating it out to the bitter end until finally—thank god—one of the two captains picked me. But you know how that goes. Everybody knows they kinda had to.
But no matter. As I understand it, each of us is a totally unique evolutionary, genetic, spiritual experiment. No one else is exactly like us. Some of us quiet, some loud, some more sensitive and wish we were less so. Some more stoic and wish we could feel more. And then some of us are pretty darn comfortable exactly where we are. But here's my second assumption: a lot of us would like to feel more balanced than maybe we routinely do. And because of this, we somehow find ourselves standing at the end of a yoga mat, listening to some tall guy with extremely long legs and a nice voice, who appears unusually concerned about the soft palette.
So why yoga?
No matter our make up, yoga is one way to learn to love the cards we were dealt. Why not love them, eh? I can tell you that the thirty some years I've been actively not loving mine, doesn't seem to actually have changed the cards. So now I'm working on the other direction. Trying to like them. Some of my cards I do actually like, then others I just as soon hide in the backseat of my car, in the seams of the seats where plastic wrappers, pennies, and dirt go to die. But sometimes those same cards we struggle with, also simultaneously contribute to the best of who we are.
Here are some of my most challenging cards—nothing extra special, they're just mine—the part of my deck that brings me to yoga:
I feel a lot. I feel a lot a lot of the time. I have a lot of energy, which gives me a lot of time to do stuff and then feel a lot about it. It appears one of my life's passions has been the following: I seem to like to worry, then criticize myself, then worry some more. Occasionally I think a couple of really solid thoughts, then I worry some more, then I worry about worrying...then I judge myself for being a worrier who worries too much. Then I worry about how I judge myself about worrying that I worry too much. Then I worry that I judge that I worry about worrying. Then I just worry. Then I get sad that I wasted so much time worrying. Then I get sad that I feel so sad. Then I am disgusted that I felt so sad about worrying. Then I fantasize about a couple of things about myself and then about a couple of other people. Then I work for a while and have a couple of really good thoughts. Then I notice I'm hungry. And then I start thinking about death and how we are all going to die sooner than we'd like. Then I think about how I hope I don't have cancer. Then I have a bunch of thoughts about how I wish my mother didn't have Alzheimer’s. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I pick the callous on my thumb.
And here's a scary thought. They gave a person like me a bachelor’s degree. And a master’s. And a job. And a driver’s license. And I'm allowed to vote. Run for office. Run the PTA.
Then I step on my mat. And you know what happens? It’s magic.
I start to worry.
Why does my forward bend suck so hard? Could someone look and see if there's like crazy glue in my back? Or is it because I'm holding my grief there? Is that grief that's making me look like the hunchback of Notre Dame? And the woman next to me of course. She doesn't look like a hunchback. She's a goddess. And look at that tattoo. God that's sexy. Should I get a tattoo? What if I don't like it later? Am I rooting my feet evenly on the floor? God I'm fat. I wish I was already in savasana. Wait, no I like this part. That feels good when my body feels more elastic. Oh rats, I hate Warrior II. Was that five breaths? I’m not sure. Let's call it five breaths. Maybe that was four... what's wrong with me that I care if it’s four or five. Why am I in a rush? Oh god. The guy next to me is making some weird noise. What IS that NOISE? Seriously what in the WORLD is that noise?
Now what's the difference between that and any other part of my day? It is a commitment to myself, working with my nervous system, my particular random combination of genetic material, to witness being a person. Being a person who wants to be successful at this stuff called living. And by success here I don't mean putting big numbers on the scoreboard, or being picked first for the million different versions of adult kickball out here in the world. By success I mean being comfortable in my own skin—which also means comfortable with the discomfort. Yoga teaches me to be the person who can recognize those thoughts about whether I should I paint my toenails or not. Or why doesn't he want me? All those thoughts are just one part of the passing show.
Those thoughts aren't me. There's not actually anyone there with whom to talk. Firing of synapses that will fire, now, and again. And when I'm lucky I can see it as such. And with each time on the mat, I get to recognize how crazy it all is. And that feels sane. Incredibly, marvelously sane.
You hear a lot of people out there talk about how "relaxing" yoga is. But that's not how I would describe it. It reminds me of learning to hike off trail. Like bushwhacking, the internal terrain can be confusing, with dense vegetation, where you find yourself stuck in the trees, where even a good map is of no use to you. And sometimes there are objective hazards that you have very little control over—rock fall, big rivers, avalanches.
With experience, the terrain doesn't get any less complex -- there are still thick patches, and you are guaranteed to lose the clear ridgeline and bottom out landing in some thorny rosehip bush cursing like a sailor. But over time you can move more smoothly through that same messy terrain.
As I can see looking at the details of my life, the terrain hasn't gotten any less hazardous, but a practice like yoga provides an opportunity to lay down new clearer pathways. Now I don't know if any hard research has been done about this, but here's my third assumption: Yoga practice actually helps lay down new neuronal pathways—where our minds (not just our bodies) become stronger, more adaptive and better suited for life’s demands.
Because, lets face it: whether life is more like a bushwhack, a kickball game, or high stakes poker, they all have the potential to both exhilarate you or knock the mula right our of your bunda. It could go either way. But yoga helps me keep my eye on the ball, crawl out of the bushes, and deal.

Classical Five Element Acupuncture

An Introduction
Classical Five Element Acupuncture is a powerful means to improve your health. Most patients experience a resolution of specific health concerns, as well as increased vitality, energy and an improved sense of well-being. Acupuncture is a comprehensive health care system that can complement concurrent work with a physician, psychotherapist, physical therapist or other health care practitioner. Many physicians refer their patients to acupuncture. For some patients, acupuncture reduces or eliminates the need for prescription drugs.

Acupuncture originated in China and developed over thousands of years. Early practitioners identified pathways of energy, called meridians, that enliven the body. They saw a similarity between the varied energy of an individual and patterns found in nature-providing insight into people and the conditions that lead them to thrive. What followed was more than two thousand years of careful observation and practical experience. Those of the Naturalist School, as it was called, developed new means to cultivate thriving health in the same way one might discover optimal conditions to raise a rare orchid. The five elements—fire, earth, metal, water, wood—describe, in metaphor, the harmony and cyclical quality of the natural world. These elements also describe characteristics and functions within the human body. 

How Yoga Keeps You Sane

From “The Laughing Elephant,”

April 2007 Issue, Boulder, Colorado


First off, the title of this piece is based on one very large assumption. So let’s just clear that matter up completely. The assumption is that I—the author of this article about yoga and sanity—actually am sane. It’s tempting to say the jury's still out on this, but to qualify to write this article I submitted to a battery of tests, went before a panel of experts, and just to be thorough did a few quick self-tests in some self-help books. I didn't actually buy the books, but I spent a good two hours tucked in the aisle of the Boulder Bookstore.

And apparently I did great. I was amazing. Spectacular. Record breaking. In fact this article was a bit late, simply because some of the experts who tested me wanted to speak with me privately about how extraordinarily balanced I am. I swear.

Honestly, though, if life were like the selection process for a fifth grade kick ball game—and the qualities they were selecting for were the extremely calm balanced mellow looking individuals—I would be that awkward embarrassed kid left sweating it out to the bitter end until finally—thank god—one of the two captains picked me. But you know how that goes. Everybody knows they kinda had to.

But no matter. As I understand it, each of us is a totally unique evolutionary, genetic, spiritual experiment. No one else is exactly like us. Some of us quiet, some loud, some more sensitive and wish we were less so. Some more stoic and wish we could feel more. And then some of us are pretty darn comfortable exactly where we are. But here's my second assumption: a lot of us would like to feel more balanced than maybe we routinely do. And because of this, we somehow find ourselves standing at the end of a yoga mat, listening to some tall guy with extremely long legs and a nice voice, who appears unusually concerned about the soft palette.

So why yoga?

No matter our make up, yoga is one way to learn to love the cards we were dealt. Why not love them, eh? I can tell you that the thirty some years I've been actively not loving mine, doesn't seem to actually have changed the cards. So now I'm working on the other direction. Trying to like them. Some of my cards I do actually like, then others I just as soon hide in the backseat of my car, in the seams of the seats where plastic wrappers, pennies, and dirt go to die. But sometimes those same cards we struggle with, also simultaneously contribute to the best of who we are.

Here are some of my most challenging cards—nothing extra special, they're just mine—the part of my deck that brings me to yoga:
I feel a lot. I feel a lot a lot of the time. I have a lot of energy, which gives me a lot of time to do stuff and then feel a lot about it. It appears one of my life's passions has been the following: I seem to like to worry, then criticize myself, then worry some more. Occasionally I think a couple of really solid thoughts, then I worry some more, then I worry about worrying...then I judge myself for being a worrier who worries too much. Then I worry about how I judge myself about worrying that I worry too much. Then I worry that I judge that I worry about worrying. Then I just worry. Then I get sad that I wasted so much time worrying. Then I get sad that I feel so sad. Then I am disgusted that I felt so sad about worrying. Then I fantasize about a couple of things about myself and then about a couple of other people. Then I work for a while and have a couple of really good thoughts. Then I notice I'm hungry. And then I start thinking about death and how we are all going to die sooner than we'd like. Then I think about how I hope I don't have cancer. Then I have a bunch of thoughts about how I wish my mother didn't have Alzheimer’s. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I pick the callous on my thumb.
And here's a scary thought. They gave a person like me a bachelor’s degree. And a master’s. And a job. And a driver’s license. And I'm allowed to vote. Run for office. Run the PTA.
Then I step on my mat. And you know what happens? It’s magic.
I start to worry.

Why does my forward bend suck so hard? Could someone look and see if there's like crazy glue in my back? Or is it because I'm holding my grief there? Is that grief that's making me look like the hunchback of Notre Dame? And the woman next to me of course. She doesn't look like a hunchback. She's a goddess. And look at that tattoo. God that's sexy. Should I get a tattoo? What if I don't like it later? Am I rooting my feet evenly on the floor? God I'm fat. I wish I was already in savasana. Wait, no I like this part. That feels good when my body feels more elastic. Oh rats, I hate Warrior II. Was that five breaths? I’m not sure. Let's call it five breaths. Maybe that was four... what's wrong with me that I care if it’s four or five. Why am I in a rush? Oh god. The guy next to me is making some weird noise. What IS that NOISE? Seriously what in the WORLD is that noise?

Now what's the difference between that and any other part of my day? It is a commitment to myself, working with my nervous system, my particular random combination of genetic material, to witness being a person. Being a person who wants to be successful at this stuff called living. And by success here I don't mean putting big numbers on the scoreboard, or being picked first for the million different versions of adult kickball out here in the world. By success I mean being comfortable in my own skin—which also means comfortable with the discomfort. Yoga teaches me to be the person who can recognize those thoughts about whether I should I paint my toenails or not. Or why doesn't he want me? All those thoughts are just one part of the passing show.

Those thoughts aren't me. There's not actually anyone there with whom to talk. Firing of synapses that will fire, now, and again. And when I'm lucky I can see it as such. And with each time on the mat, I get to recognize how crazy it all is. And that feels sane. Incredibly, marvelously sane.

You hear a lot of people out there talk about how "relaxing" yoga is. But that's not how I would describe it. It reminds me of learning to hike off trail. Like bushwhacking, the internal terrain can be confusing, with dense vegetation, where you find yourself stuck in the trees, where even a good map is of no use to you. And sometimes there are objective hazards that you have very little control over—rock fall, big rivers, avalanches.

With experience, the terrain doesn't get any less complex -- there are still thick patches, and you are guaranteed to lose the clear ridgeline and bottom out landing in some thorny rosehip bush cursing like a sailor. But over time you can move more smoothly through that same messy terrain.

As I can see looking at the details of my life, the terrain hasn't gotten any less hazardous, but a practice like yoga provides an opportunity to lay down new clearer pathways. Now I don't know if any hard research has been done about this, but here's my third assumption: Yoga practice actually helps lay down new neuronal pathways—where our minds (not just our bodies) become stronger, more adaptive and better suited for life’s demands.

Because, lets face it: whether life is more like a bushwhack, a kickball game, or high stakes poker, they all have the potential to both exhilarate you or knock the mula right our of your bunda. It could go either way. But yoga helps me keep my eye on the ball, crawl out of the bushes, and deal.

Castor Oil Packs While Drumming

Look, if I’m going to journey in the underworld in a shamanic tradition, and a drum is key, I think it’s a fair enough (and frankly cheaper) option to wear some headphones and let someone else who owns a drum, drum. I’m not going to buy a bunch of equipment prematurely.

I’ve been wrestling with this hormone crap for a while now. I’m doing my Ashtanga yoga, eating large quantities of vegetables, trying various supplements, boiling herbs (a.k.a. still stinking up the house), getting good sleep, working hard, mowing the yard, getting Five Element acupuncture, being loving to my husband.  And while my spirits have improved markedly, my breasts are still a bitch. I’ve tried loving them, talking to them (Come on now guys, what do you need? How can I help? I appreciate you both, but what’s with the pain?). I’ve tried being accepting of my body, every suggestion I’ve been given frankly. And still they KILL (less often, but KILL when they do). So I’m busting out the packs and the drum.

My main mission today is to experience a Shamanic Journey. In my acupuncture discipline they also do with plants what they teach to do with needles. It’s called Plant Spirit Medicine. But to select the plants for treatment (stay with me here) you have to journey to the plants and let them tell you what they would be best used for. And before I journey to an actual plant (like mullen, say or mugwort) I am supposed to journey down to the underworld and make a proper introduction. At best, I will run into my Power Animal, if I have such a thing.

Headphones on, I have spent the last half hour getting everything ready. I have the rags properly saturated and they are now on top of my breasts. Castor oil is known to sooth inflammation. And breast tissue – hormonally caused or not – is aided by decreasing inflammation. I’m laying on about seven towels. I only have one really nice pair of sheets and I’m not going to ruin them with Health Experiment #45.  

I hit play on my cd player. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. This is an awfully expensive CD, for the rather simple melody. I am supposed to close my eyes, relax, and drop in. I’m a bit distracted by the castor oil. I might have over soaked the rags. I feel a tickle of oil dribbling down my flank. This is all harder than it looks.

I am supposed to picture a cave or tunnel, and take my time crawling down into it. It’s dark, and rather like ‘Lord of the Rings’ meets ‘Alice in Wonderland.’ Somebody needs to turn on some light.

It’s rocky all right-- dark black wet rocks. Water droplets echo through the passage. And as caves go, this feels pretty sacred. I crawl out from the cave and enter the forest. Before me stand tall trees, gnarled with a dense canopy high above. The light that dapples through is rather blue, illuminated by moonlight. I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. Surely somebody must show up. What are the animals I always hear about in Shamanic talk? A raven, a bear, a wolf. Hell, I’d settle for a fish.  I walk around for a while. It appears a rather empty neighborhood. Maybe everybody’s out for drinks. What do shamanic animals drink anyway? I’m guessing something with absinthe, or G&T’s from foliage. Certainly some of this gnarly bushy stuff must be Juniper. Maybe there’s a pair of little squirrels making moonshine down a hollow or two. I’ll have to ask around. 

Hellooo! I think to myself. Anybody here? Maybe I’m trying too hard. Maybe I’m scaring him/her/it off. Ok, I’ll try less hard. Less hard. I walk and walk. Hey are those some tracks? I feel like Winnie The Pooh searching for Hefalumps – maybe I’m just following my own tracks in a circle. I don’t want to get lost. Get lost? What am I talking about? Shit. Isn’t anybody around? I come upon a little toadstool thing. It’s big enough to sit on. Jesus, is this a mushroom? Come on, a bluish-lit mushroom toadstool thing? How predictable. If I turn around and see blue fairy wings on my back, I’m blowing this joint. Should I just wait here? I start tapping my feet.  Must not be impatient, must not be impatient. I’ll focus on the drum. Yeah the drum. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom.

I don’t see a single creature. Not a bird, not a cricket, not a rabbit. No squirrel speakeasy. Maybe I’ll just relax here for a minute under this stool. Just for a minute. And you know, well, conveniently for me I am already lying down.

I’m so very…very…well, yes, I’m asleep. Not that I know this is what’s happening. But the 45-minute CD is over. Maybe I did go somewhere I tell myself. Maybe it was one of those sleeps like those mysterious half sleeps I’ve had in sivasana.

I’m tired. I have no idea who my power animal is. My classmate Coco’s power animal is a horse named Shanti. She must have a gift. I just have stained sheets. I hear Tim coming in. I gather up my swaddle of blankets. Total mess. But my breasts feel better.

The problem with doing so many techniques: it’s a shitty scientific method. When I land on the one that works, I’m going to have no idea which discipline was responsible.

Tim pops in while I gather. He’s been at another meeting. Since the wedding he just seems to get busier and busier.

“What are you up to?”

“Oh, you know,” I say.

“No. What’s up?”

 “I just thought I’d try a little shamanic journeying and figure out this Plant Spirit Medicine stuff. And these…” I say pointing to a pile of towels, “are for my breasts.”

He looks at me quizzicall .  On our wedding day, I looked like a real life fairy with a crown of flowers and a gossamer train. Now I look like greasy t-shirted, messy haired, boxer-wearing junk show in need of a comb, a personal shopper and a decent bar of soap. 

“You realize,” I ask, “that things are likely just going to get weirder around here, right?”

“Yes,” he says with a wry smile. “I do.”

In his own quiet Mary Oliver reading, clean-shaven, proper southern grooming, straight and narrow way, Tim really does understand me. Most of the time he just embraces me. He doesn’t say a lot at times like these, but I can see it in his grin. I think my oddness gives him a little permission to not try so hard to follow the straight and narrow. I really hope I give him that.  

Do your practice and all is coming.” --Pattabis Jois

Motivation: Yoga is something one can do that doesn’t require strapping your breasts into an industrial strength jog bra when PMS rears its swollen head.

It’s 6am. The room is dark and warm. Walking into practice is like burrowing into the sound buried in a sea shell, as the Ujiai breath technique of the students as they begin their sun salutations sounds like the ocean.  Every morning I place my mat right next to Tracy. Our friendship exists largely in our daily proximity -- breathing and twisting into all sorts of postures side by side. She’s farther along in the Second Series than I, which means she spends more time with both of her legs behind her head. We will be next to one another for two hours. And while I will stuff my leg behind my neck, and drop into backbends, and bind my hands around my torso this way and that, I’ll tell you what my actual practice consists of. Regardless of the warm room, the burning candles, and the rumbling of a roomful of heavy breathers, where it’s really firey is on the inside.

            This is the material of my yoga practice: I feel a lot. I feel a lot a lot of the time. I have a lot of energy, which gives me a lot of time to do stuff and then feel a lot about it. It appears one of my life's passions has been the following: I seem to like to worry, then criticize myself, then worry some more. Occasionally I think a couple of really solid thoughts, then I worry some more, then I worry about worrying...then I judge myself for being a worrier who worries too much. Then I worry about how I judge myself about worrying that I worry too much. Then I worry that I judge that I worry about worrying. Then I just worry. Then I get sad that I wasted so much time worrying. Then I get sad that I feel so sad. Then I am disgusted that I felt so sad about worrying. Then I fantasize about a couple of things about myself and then about a couple of other people. Then I work for a while and have a couple of really good thoughts. Then I notice I'm hungry. And then I start thinking about death and how we are all going to die sooner than we'd like. Then I think about how I hope I or any one I know doesn't have cancer. Then I have a bunch of thoughts about how I wish my mother had a partner. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I pick the callous on my thumb.[emp12] 

            And here's a scary thought. They gave a person like me a bachelor’s degree. And a master’s. And a job. And a driver’s license. And I'm allowed to vote. Run for office. Run the PTA.

            Then I step on my mat. And you know what happens? It’s magic.

            I start to worry.

            Why does my forward bend suck so hard? Could someone look and see if there's like crazy glue in my back? Or is it because I'm holding my grief there? Is that grief that's making me look like the hunchback of Notre Dame? And Tracy to the right of me of course. She doesn't look like a hunchback. She's a goddess. And look at that tattoo. God that's sexy. Should I get a tattoo? What if I don't like it later? Am I rooting my feet evenly on the floor? God I'm fat. I wish I was already in savasana. Wait, no I like this part. That feels good when my body feels more elastic. Oh rats, I hate Warrior II. Was that five breaths? I’m not sure. Let's call it five breaths. Maybe that was four...what's wrong with me that I care if it’s four or five. Why am I in a rush? Oh god. The guy to my left is making some weird noise. What IS that NOISE? Seriously what in the WORLD is that noise?

            Now what's the difference between that and any other part of my day? It is a commitment to myself, working with my nervous system, my particular random combination of genetic material, to witness being a person. Being a person who wants to be successful at this stuff called living. And by success here I don't mean putting big numbers on the scoreboard, or being picked first for the million different versions of adult kickball out here in the world. By success I mean being comfortable in my own skin—which also means comfortable with the discomfort. Yoga teaches me to be the person who can recognize those thoughts about whether I should I paint my toenails or not. Or why won't he talk more to me? All those thoughts are just one part of the passing show.

            Those thoughts aren't all of ‘me’ -- more like a part, a pattern, a conditioning – the firing of synapses that will fire, now, and again. And when I'm lucky I can see it as such. And with each time on the mat, I get to recognize how crazy it all is. And that feels sane. Incredibly, marvelously sane. 

            You hear a lot of people out there talk about how "relaxing" yoga is. But that's not how I would describe it. It reminds me of learning to hike off trail. Like bushwhacking, the internal terrain can be confusing, with dense vegetation, where you find yourself stuck in the trees, where even a good map is of no use to you. And sometimes there are objective hazards that you have very little control over—rock fall, big rivers, avalanche.

            With experience, the terrain doesn't get any less complex -- there are still thick patches, and you are guaranteed to lose the clear ridgeline and bottom out landing in some thorny rosehip bush cursing like a sailor. But over time you can move more smoothly through that same messy terrain.

            As I can see looking at the details of my life, the terrain hasn't gotten any less hazardous, but a practice like yoga provides an opportunity to lay down new clearer pathways. Now I don't know if any hard research has been done about this, but here's my assumption: yoga practice actually helps lay down new neuronal pathways—where our minds (not just our bodies) become stronger, more adaptive and better suited for life’s demands.

            Because, lets face it: whether life is more like a bushwhack, a kickball game, or high stakes poker, each has the potential to both exhilarate you or knock the mula right out of your bunda. It could go either way. But yoga helps me keep my eye on the ball, crawl out of the bushes, and deal.

Learn to Surf: I need to learn how to have fun. I’m too uptight.

I’ve just logged 1500 clinical intern hours in record speed, have been going to therapy with Majie for four months. Too bad I can’t get frequent flyer miles for either. I’m headed in the right direction though, right? So before my practice gets started I intend to celebrate not just completing my training, but having pushed through this loss and confusion being in marital limbo for three years.

What do I imagine would feel fun, even if I do it alone? I do a little soul searching eyes closed sort of thing and ask. I will learn to surf. I’ll sign up for surf camp. I grew up at the beach, but was too busy acting as some under-aged, unlicensed, self-elected mediator at dinners out with my parents at California Pizza Kitchen rather than get stoned and enter the green room. Most importantly with this camp setup, I’ll meet new friends, have big group meals -- all social, all the time. The package including all meals with the other campers seems over priced, but I decide it’s worth it. I loved camp as a kid. I pack my duffle bag with books so when I’m not surfing or socializing, I’ll read. The change will do me good. 

 I arrive at the tiny airstrip in Costa Rica.  Tyler the camp leader picks me up. Tan, tall and blonde, every part of him screams surfer. He helps carry my stuff to the camp Jeep. I can’t wait to meet my surf buddies. 

“So are we headed to meet up with the other campers, or do we not get together till dinner?”

“Um…” Tyler pauses. “Well…”

Oh no. I look down at my hands as if I’m contemplating a manicure, while I wait for his reply. I’m nervous about meeting everybody.

“You are kind of the only camper.”

Are you kidding? I am the whole camp? Oh Jesus. Of course. I can’t believe I flew all the way down here to eat alone -- again. But I pretend like it’s no big deal. As we drive toward down the dirt road passed cows and rubber trees, all I can think about is what I shelled out for these big “group” meals. If it’s just me, I just as soon have a street taco. Plus, does that mean I’ll be paying Tyler to eat alone with me every night? Not only is this over priced, it’s humiliating.

I’m embarrassed to ask, but my pocketbook urges. I muster the guts to ask before camp actually ‘starts.’ Tyler helps me take my luggage to my room.

“Uh Tyler…about those big group dinners…Could I um…downgrade from the deluxe package?”

God this is embarrassing. I hate that I’m nickel and diming him. But I will not rent a dinner companion for the next seven days. Buck up. This will be great.  But I’m also freaking out about spending all day alone with myself without work. And surfing with the “group” only happens twice a day. That’s right, I’ll read those books. I’ll read the twelve books I brought. But by day three and five books down, my paddle feels stronger. I’m confidant. I mean aside from the little mishap with the stingray -- the gash in my foot from stepping on his tail, and the shooting foot-to-groin pain from his venom – besides that, things are going really well. And surely, the odds of encountering another deadly sea snake like the one I saw the day after Sergeant Stingray, surely the chances of that must be miniscule.

The good news: Tyler thinks I’m ready to paddle to the outside, beyond the whitewash waves you learn on, which today are bigger than I’ve seen it here. But I can do this. I will do this. So I’m paddling out, paddling out, getting absolutely nowhere. The waves feel like they surround me, repeatedly launching my monstrous board into the air. I’m getting hammered. Utterly.

In the distance I hear, “Megaaan!” “Megaaan!” It’s Tyler.  What in the world does he want? Can’t he see I’m busy getting beaten senseless in some cruel oceanic spin cycle?  I ignore him. I’ve got work to do.

“Megaaan!”

Dude, shut up. Seriously, can’t he see I’m working?  I’m busy paddling.

But he won’t stop. “Megaaaaaan!”

Lest I get in trouble, I turn my board around, catch some white wash and reluctantly head in. I scramble to my feet, dragging my behemoth board to him. He looks irritated.

 “Megan, you were stuck in something we call an impact zone – where multiple waves from different directions crash all together. And you were in the center of it. But you were so busy fighting it, you couldn’t see it. You’re a stubborn chick. When you find yourself struggling that hard, you know you are in one. Don’t stay  in an impact zone. Ever.  Paddling harder is not the answer.”

I drop my board and sit down on the sand. “Impact zone?”

“Yes, and often it’s best to head in, stand on the shore, so you can look back out and get a better view, find a smooth line to the outside. So look right now. See?  That sort of passage just ten feet over? The water is much calmer there.”

“Oh goddd…”  Nobody ever told me about an impact zone, let alone that I could opt out. 

“You mean I’m not supposed to get sucked down, chewed up, and spit out with my swimsuit on backwards?”

Tyler shakes his head. “Megan, it doesn’t have to be that difficult. With practice you learn how to exit those clusters in one swift stroke, and eventually you can avoid the trouble entirely. Don’t worry. Today was your first time in those conditions.”

            “Well, Tyler,” I say looking out at the water shaking my head. “I didn’t know I had a choice. You know when I look at the bigger picture of  li…”

            Tyler looks a little befuddled, that I’m choosing right now to get all metaphoric.

             “Look, I don’t know about all that. Just grab your board and get out there. Stay to the right this time.” 

            I grab my long board and put it over my head. The thing is unwieldy. I craved to be skilled enough to ride a short board that I could tuck coolly under my arm. But that was happening no time soon. I start to paddle out again. I’d always thought giving up the struggle would mean I was a quitter. Or would it? I mean, just because I’m capable of treading water to the point of near-drowning, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. Maybe sometimes, sitting on the shore with a mango iced tea, is the bravest choice you can make.

The nest of nests!

Nest is a project i'm working on. a family farm we're turning into a retreat spot/wedding destination/create-your-own-rural fantasy sort of place. it's on south whidbey island. the best part of perhaps the best island in the sound. one old farm house, on mod-barn by the fabulous Shed architects in seattle http://www.shedbuilt.com and a large yurt 800+ sf to come. For now the place sleeps 20!

 

Click here to see more photos! 

Enjoy!

Megan

Feel Better: Classical Five Element Acupuncture

I had the privilege of training with one of the foremost experts in

Classical Five Element Acupuncture, Hilary Skellon at the Institute of

Taoist Education and Acupuncture in Colorado. As an acupuncturist

licenced in the state of Washington, I am a Diplomate in Acupuncture,

awarded by the National Council for the Certification of Acupuncturists.

I also hold a Master’s degree in International Relations from Yale

University and a Bachelor’s degree in Political Science from Columbia

University. I’ve spent extensive time in remote wilderness settings

domestically and internationally, conducting ethnographic research

and leading backcountry expeditions for the National Outdoor 

Leadership School. I find Five Element Acupuncture

endlessly fascinating. I respect its poetry, exactitude and the unique way 

it uses an understanding of the natural world to guide its practices.

A little bit about me...

Not to brag (and I’m not sure this is really something one would ever brag about in the first place) but if it’s out there and in English, I’ve probably tried it. And technically speaking I shouldn’t even limit it to English. I’ve tried a few things in Portuguese. What’s the ‘it’ you ask? That remedy, that discipline, that modality, that unexplainable thing it ain’t cool to admit you’ve done at the Ivy League mixer.  So it’s not pretty, but it’s true. I’ve logged some 15,000 hours ‘in search of,’ spanning thirty years and four continents. My search has included but is not limited to:  ways to become less neurotic, to become less of a romantic, to develop my emotional intelligence, get over childhood conditioning, get out of my own way, find my place in the world , be successful in love and relationship, become more evolved, and so on. Malcom Gladwell suggests something nearly alchemical happens right around the 15,000 hour mark – you become an expert of sorts. So I suppose in an unintentional way, I will declare myself one – in the ‘searching department’ that is.

Whether the drive was due to particularly odd/searching parents or my own sensitive nervous system and an anxious mind, I found myself at a young age with an emotional sensitivity that for a good long while felt more liability than asset. And I was trained early– for good and for bad – to look outside myself for something that might help me have a smoother relationship between me and me. At birth my parents assigned me a Christian Science practitioner, by age seven I asked Santa for my first mantra, by 12 I had begun taking weekend workshops on personal growth. By 27 I indoctrinated myself into the traditional halls of Yale. By 32 I was a Classical Acupuncturist. Freak show? Maybe so. Perhaps just an over-the-top-existential curiosity. 

The point: at my darkest hour, if somebody told me the sure fire way out of my predicament was to ditch my clothes and run naked around Balboa Island backwards under the full moon singing ‘God Save the Queen’ in Castilian Spanish, I’d have done it.

And I’m not joking.

Oh, and one last thing you should know about me: I hate, and I do mean hate, the spiritual expert. You know that person. They have a really regal air about them. And from the way they tell it, they know what’s what. Every time I hear somebody start speaking in that ‘wise’ voice and assert their authority about how they know EXACTLY what it is I need, that is the moment I stuff my fingers in my ears, and run screaming in the opposite direction. As in my experience, these puffed-up opinions don’t make for the best of advisors in tough times. So I want to assure you I am not this person.

            Instead I am the person who would rather like a dog splay open every one of my flaws like a belly to be inspected. The only authority I have is that I’ve tried a lot, stared down my dark places, and just want to save a fellow traveler a little (ok more than a little) time, effort and money.

INTRO of SORTS

This is just a way to share myself with you! 

“Sometimes it breaks my heart to watch my mind.

 Sometimes it breaks my mind to watch my heart.” – Stephen Levine

  This is a love letter, a guide, a testimony, a log, a document, meant for anyone who ever got into  a jam, and was curious about resources outside the familiar. Anyone who ever dreamed of growing out of their stuck tight places, and wondered how to get there, anyone who was ever afraid to face loss and faced it anyway, anyone who’s had to take it on the chin and still find it in them to stand back up again. This is for you and its only the beginning!

Megan Griswold

http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan

http://megangriswold.com/