Tuesday, September 28, 2010

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.
            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.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

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.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

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!


 

Enjoy!

Megan

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

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.



Monday, September 20, 2010

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.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

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/

Friday, September 10, 2010

Man of My Dreams

The Man of My Dreams dreams of a woman who nurtures him with food, greets him with a lovely glass of wine when he walks through the door.

I do not do this naturally. I want to fix this about myself. I can learn this. If I learn this, he will know that he can trust me. And then he will come back to me. I will benefit, because I will learn to cook. He will benefit because food makes him happy. Food to him is more dependable than people.

He also dreams of a woman who is kind. I am kind. He also dreams of a woman who is intelligent. I am intelligent. He also dreams of a woman who is beautiful. I am beautiful. He also dreams of a woman who loves to socialize. I can hold my own and then some. He also dreams of a woman with a beautiful singing voice. I have a beautiful singing voice. He also dreams of a woman with whom he can share a loving home. I come installed with a lovely, homey-home. He also dreams of a woman who stimulates his mind. I am quite stimulating - or so I’ve been told. Certainly not dull. He also dreams of a woman with whom he can have easy conversation and easy laughter. We have both of these. He also dreams of a woman who loves him. I love him.

He also dreams of a woman who loves wine. But sometimes I forget where I put down my wine glass, and he hates this, or it pains him. Now I am paranoid that I will forget my wine and that he will be hurt or mad. So I am vigilant about the wine glass.

He also wants a woman who is relaxed almost all of the time. When I am trying to remember not to forget my wine glass, so that he will know that I love him, I am not totally relaxed. So I try to remember to be relaxed when I am looking for my wine glass, but this is not totally relaxing.
But he also believes that the woman who truly loves him would not forget her wine glass. If I forget something as simple as a wine glass I might forget him.

I might forget my wine glass. I would never forget him. Sometimes I forget my wine glass because I am concentrating on him, on what he is saying or doing.

He wants a woman who is open to changing one simple thing about herself. I am open to changing myself.

He wants a woman who is open to changing one simple thing about herself, but only if it is effortless to change. When he means effortless, what he says is natural. It takes a lot of effort to change yourself, without effort. But I am still trying. I am trying to change with effortlessness. I try to make natural effort, effortless.

He also wants a woman who loves touch. Loves to touch his body. I love to touch his body. But sometimes he does not want to be touched, and he doesn’t like to say when these times are.
And the woman he dreams of would know when to touch his body and when not to. She would just know, because she is attuned to him. They move in perfect concert.

I do not always move how he wants me to move. But I am open to hearing how he would like it.
But the woman he dreams of does not have to be told how to touch him. She just always knows. If she can’t sense where he is at, she might not be safe enough for him.

I am watching, I am trying, Sometimes I ask for him to help me understand when I don’t do it as he needs.

The woman who he dreams of does not need instruction, does not need help in understanding him. He also dreams of a woman who appreciates and loves food and makes it a priority.
But he is the Man of My Dreams, and cooking seems doable. But he doesn’t want just cooking, he wants cooking in a relaxed and spontaneous way. But cooking well is new to me, and about it I feel neither completely relaxed nor spontaneous. But I will learn and prepare and I will try. I will fix this about myself, so he will remember all that he loves about me.

We are broken up, and he is open to being courted, but I need to court effortlessly, and not be attached to whether we are together again. I can court him if I remain unattached.

I invite him to come over to have light fair: soup, braised greens and a bit of wine and cheese. Soup is simple. I can make soup. But I don’t want to make just any soup, because I want him to feel thought of and considered. He feels under the weather, so I will make a garlic soup. A garlic mushroom soup. That sounds simple and elegant. But there are a lot of mushrooms I must choose from, and I think that there are some mushrooms that would make one feel more considered. A chanterelle sounds like a mushroom of the considered. A button sounds less considered. I will go with all the mushrooms that sound the most special. The chanterelles, the oysters, the shitakes, the abalones. I will avoid the mushroom that costs fifty dollars a pound. And still, my casual soup is going to cost a fortune. But I think of all the times I didn’t cook for him that he would have appreciated being cooked for.

I begin cooking at two pm. He is coming over around eight. I bought all the ingredients the day before, and wanted to have it done the day before. The braised greens still need to happen. I need the sherry and the cognac and the two kinds of wine to go with mushroom soup. The Italians have special medium bodied wines with their soups. We will have this wine. We will have wine and cheese. And I will build a warm fire so he will feel welcomed. I buy extra wood so we wont run out. I build the perfect fire that I will light in an instant.

I will have dessert. The last time he was here he queried about a possible dessert. I had no dessert for him. This time I will have raspberries with heavy whipped cream. But I can’t find the whisk. I think when he left, he left with the whisk. I try whisking it with a spoon. I try whisking it with a fork. It splashes out of the bowl and Isabelle licks it up.

My fire is stacked and built. My table is set. I have bubbly water and a candle, and two choices of wine, and two types of cheese, and two comfortable chairs. I have the porch light on. A long time ago I forgot to turn the porch light on more than once, and he took this as a sign that I wasn’t considering him.

The woman of his dreams would remember to turn the porch light on. If she forgot to turn the porch light on she might forget him. Because to him a porch light is easier to remember than a person. A porch light is simple.

Porch light on. Table set. Fire now lit. Not too many candles. Candles make his asthma flare up. I have one candle burning and it is a low scent. My mushrooms are almost finished. They have taken three times as long as the book says, but I cooked twice as many as they said. I want to make sure it is nourishing. I want him to know he can be nourished here. That I am capable of this. That there is something for him to receive here.

I greet him warmly. I decide I need a glass of wine so that he cannot see that all of these new tasks take effort. They take effort. But the woman of his dreams does all this effortlessly. I offer to take his coat.

The woman of his dreams remembers to keep the porch light on, but perhaps does not ask to take his coat. Because to him taking his coat is not gracious, it is trying too hard. And trying too hard is not effortless. And effort is not sexy, and trying to meet his need is not attractive.

But not trying means to not learn how to offer all that he needs. So I am in a jam. But I proceed. I offer him his seat, while I putter in the kitchen. He has his full-bodied red for the cheese. The fire is raging. The table is beautiful. But he would like to watch TV. He no longer has cable. Watching TV is a regular thing to do. What he means by this is that watching TV doesn’t take any effort. He does not like that I have gone to this effort. The woman of his dreams does not do this.

The woman of his dreams knows when it is the time to watch TV, and when it is time to sit in front of the fire. And this is not the time to sit in front of the fire. The woman of his dreams would know this.

I walk to the kitchen and take another sip of wine. I am trying not to care. I stand in front of the fire to find that place that is effortless. He notices the tiniest signs of disappointment. The woman of his dreams can adapt seamlessly, effortlessly. The woman of his dreams would know that he is tired, and would know that TV, more than anything right now would lift his spirits.

Somewhere between the asking for the coat and something else, I lost him. He cannot trust me. I did not take care of him. Another sip of wine. It is easy to keep track of the glass now.

Another show that he likes is on, so I bring the food to him. The woman of his dreams would have brought all the food during the first show, not just the appetizers. She wouldn’t have resisted the change from the fire to the TV. He sees the plates and says this is too much. I take them back and cut the food in half.

The second show is over. I ask him if he would like dessert. The woman of his dreams does not force dessert. I do not force. He only wants the littlest bit. I think he is being polite now. He suggests we take the raspberries with their unwhipped cream to the fire. I offer him a piece of dark chocolate. His favorite. He only wants the littlest bit. It is not clear he really wants it. He takes a smidge.

The woman of his dreams senses when he wants to go and does not want him to linger when he wants to leave. He mentions he should go, so I get up and begin clearing the table. I am signaling that I know the evening is over. But the woman of his dreams doesn’t do it this way. I don’t know how she would do it. But it isn’t like this.

He offers a hug. It feels stiff. He laughs. I don’t know what this laugh means. But the woman of his dreams would hug until that perfect unified moment of letting go.

M. Griswold 
http://www.facebook.com/griswoldmegan

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Deep Water Post

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