Galveston-Fiction

It's early enough that the Texas air isn't yet straining my lungs. Walking along the beach my gaze is forced down by the wide brim of my straw hat. Occasionally I lift my hand to the back of my head, 

holding the hat down in the wind I glance up to survey the flat stretch of sand that unfolds in front of me. 

Cars dot the beach as Garth Brooks drifts over the top of the breaking waves. 

I reach a place where pylons push back the cars and the beach opens up.

Kicking through the surf I glance to the right and notice carnations, red, green, white, it crosses my mind to pick through the debris field, plucking up the intact flowers to create a ragged bouquet, but I pass without stopping and continue to make my way toward the designated marker in the distance.

On this morning my companions have chosen to stay back in the condo that we're sharing and lounge over steaming cups of coffee rather than join me. At first I was disappointed; conversation speeds up a long walk exponentially for this extrovert, but this morning I find peace in my solitude.

My feet glide through the foamy water when I notice, just out of reach of the lapping waves, what appears to be a brain. My head cocks to the right as I near the object and I see that it's actually a head of green cauliflower. Pulling my gaze away from the cruciferous veggie too late I step down hard on a jagged shell, pain radiates through my foot. Instinctually I lift the foot, grab it with my hands and turn it over to assess the damage. Blood trickles out from the wound. I lower the injured foot into the water. Balancing, I rinse the cut and once more raise my foot to examine it. It's not too deep, but I decide I better turn around and make my way back to the condo to clean it up. The salt water stings the open wound and I think about how quickly things can change. What started as a peaceful walk has turned into a minor moment for a triage nurse.

Nearing the dead fish that acts as the marker for where I left my shoes I begin to favor the uninjured foot. I pick my way across the jetty rocks that stand between me and the condo gate, sweat trickles down into my eyes, the world blurs. At the gate I strain against the rusted hinges. I hobble to the elevator that will take me to the fourth floor. I can feel the sand grinding into the wound and I relax into the discomfort. Waiting for my lift a thought arises: it's always possible to find the positive, it's just a matter of perspective.        

New Mexico So Far...

Pete leaves each morning for work and in this tiny box of a house I wait. Letting the dogs out I'm greeted by dead cockroaches on the back porch. I fritter away hours on the patio surrounded by an assortment of mismatched aluminum and plastic furniture. In my mind's eye, I picture an ashtray filled with butts smoked to nubs sitting on the table beside me, lending a nice touch to the

rundown atmosphere in which I am existing for now.

The dogs are happy for my company though, and the exploration of new territory excites them. Gobi trollops over and plops his pudgy front paws onto my thigh for a quick check in; as I lean down to scratch his ears the smell of sage hits my nostrils. Ginger, our old girl, mostly rests in her bed at my side, looking up periodically to reassure herself that I'm still there. This trip has taken its toll on her and I try not to question our decision to bring her.

Like my mother's arms, fear and doubt wrap themselves around me at every turn; questions burble up from the dark. Was moving a good idea? Will I teach yoga again? Will our house sale in CA finally go through? Will we have a place to live next week? So much unknown leaves me feeling unmoored.

With all of this time on my hands I force myself to write. Sometimes the words crash together in poetic perfectness, yet other times the words form misshapen piles of shit feeding the

insidious doubt that follows me like a shadow.

I remind myself that I chose this path with eyes wide open.

I had become too attached to my students and the accolades I was receiving. Too attached to all the comfort and love surrounding me. In Vedantic philosophy, freedom is defined by one’s happiness not being connected to any external agencies, i.e., people, places, jobs, money, etc. I consciously chose this path in order to find freedom/happiness without attachment, not that I have high hopes of actually achieving that, but I want to try.

I'm approaching this as another opportunity to become a little bit more comfortable in my own skin. A lifelong battle, and with fifty just around the corner, what better gift could I give myself? 

Uncomfortable Being Comfortable

For the last six months I’ve been thinking I was bored with my life, but the reality is that maybe I don’t know how to be comfortable. Growing up there was always a crisis, then came marriage, numerous moves, a child, a death, teen drama, graduate school, marriage therapy…it seemed like there was always something to work through.

Now it’s all been worked through and still I’m ill at ease.

I’m bored with myself, my partner, my dogs.  Everything feels repetitive.

I want to run away. To hide in a cheap hotel with the blinds pulled closed

and to mindlessly watch television.

Yet, the reality of this fantasy is that I would miss everything that I was running away from. I am fulfilled by my job, I adore my husband, our daughter is living out her dreams in Europe, 

and the dogs each have a piece of my heart.

So what is my problem?

Comfort…quiet, peaceful comfort…has not been a regular part of my life and I believe 

that this sweet spot that I find myself in is weirding me out. 

I don’t know how to BE.

This realization, I hope, is going to be the moment of my turning this funk around. Now I’m going to turn off the computer and curl up on the sofa with my husband and appreciate how happy football makes him and just BE.

Owning Our Femininity

     It’s Saturday morning on a holiday weekend, so when I met my friend at a local coffee shop I wasn’t surprised to see her show up in ratty jeans and a baseball cap.  What surprised me was that when she got closer I could see she had cut her hair. Think Annie Lennox with a Hispanic twist. 

My friend is owning the aging process and has decided to stop coloring the gray; 

cutting it short made the process less awkward for her.

     

I felt it a bold move to cut her hair so short. As we spoke about her decision, she said she didn’t feel feminine anymore. I get that, but it just seems messed up to me. I started thinking about our society and why I have never had the courage to cut my hair “too” short. As a society we revere lush, flowing hair. I don’t think it’s too extreme to say that there are many of us out there who directly correlate our femininity with hair. Which, quite frankly, is bullshit. Being feminine is so much more than the length of your hair. I would argue it’s not even related to one’s gender. It’s a state of mind, an internal knowing. It’s the tilt of a head and a soft smile when you spot your lover gazing at you from across the room at a party. It’s the way one’s skin smells after a luxurious soak in a bath filled with lavender sea salts. It’s getting all snazzed up in something that makes you feel pretty, 

earrings falling on a long, elegant neck.

     

All of these things and so much more make up our femininity. It’s up to each one of us to own both our masculine and feminine sides without allowing society to put parameters on us. I have always wanted to be as bold as my friend. Someday I hope to go all Buddhist monk on the world, but I’m not there yet.   

Practice and All is Coming

We have had some challenges arise this year and this summer; with little work for me, I chose to wallow a bit in my misery. What that meant was late nights drinking too much wine and eating food that I knew perfectly well didn't nourish me. Four weeks ago I went back to work, as well as began a class called the Psychology of Yoga, which was a study of the first chapter of the Yoga Sutras. With a more rigorous schedule, I told myself enough self pity, it was time to clean up my act.

I needed to immerse myself in the lectures that accompanied this class, to read the guidance of the gurus that came before me, and to once more apply these principles to my life. It has been wonderful to roll out my mat, to sit quietly in meditation, and to return to a more balanced existence. To practice my yoga as it was originally prescribed, at home, alone, in silence. How many of my yogi friends have thought about this group class phenomenon?
Before the 1950's group classes didn't exist.

We've Americanized yoga.

Don't get me wrong, I love a group class. At a group yoga class I feed off the energy of others; I am literally energized by my fellow yogis' company. It's how most of us here in America find our way to yoga.
However, it takes tapas, self-discipline, to practice at home. Alone.

This summer I found myself falling into mudha, a space of lethargy and dull mind. The longer I allowed this to go on the harder it was to get back to my practice.

Yet, when I practice, I am more balanced, my mind is easier to quiet, and I suffer less.

This morning I ignored the laundry waiting to be folded, the dogs begging for a walk, the floor that desperately needed to be vacuumed and I stepped onto my mat. I began with three Om's and then moved into a vinyasa flow to wake my body. I took my savasana and sat for a meditation afterwards. I wanted to ease my suffering this summer, I wanted to be happy again, yet I was doing nothing positive to help myself. The sutras reminded me that yoga's aim is to both discover and reduce the cause of my suffering, and to do that I must return to abhyasah, 

a persevering practice.

 Pattabhi Jois said “practice and all is coming”...I think I'm ready.  

Loving a Racist

My father was born in 1948 in a hollow near the Missouri River. To get to the set of trailers that made up my grandparents home you had to traverse a steeply rutted dirt road that cut through the trees that surrounded the hollow. In the winter and spring snow and mud made it impassable so the family would park at the top of the road and walk down. My father dropped out of high school when he and my mother became pregnant with me, not an unusual set of circumstances in their part of the world. What got me reminiscing about my father's origins is the race issue that we are (thankfully) dealing with in a more open forum right now.

You see, my father is a racist.

In the part of America that I grew up in there are plenty of people who still think the white race is superior. I grew up with words like coon and spook readily bantered around. My father had always voted Democrat until President Obama was elected, when he decided he was no longer going to vote. We have had numerous disagreements over the years about his world view, but the reality is you can't change anyone else's mind.

I got a call from my sister this week warning me that if I talk to my dad I should know that he is “freaking out”. My nephew got his girlfriend pregnant. That's not the problem. The problem is the young woman happens to be black. When my father acts like this, it's repellent to me; when he makes racist comments I want to shrink from his DNA. I was talking with my dear friend about the issue of race and my father and she said something that had not occurred to me. She said, “Wow, your dad must really be suffering right now.” That certainly had never occurred to me, but she's right.

In a world where #BlackLivesMatter, where there's a black president in office, where women are in positions of power, through my dads lens it must look like the world has gone topsy turvy.

My father's wrong thinking is creating his suffering and as a follower of the Buddha I must find compassion for his suffering. I will continue to disagree with his beliefs but hopefully I will find myself shrinking away from his DNA less.

Letting go…..

We walk up the stairs together, you are fat with hope. As you open the door my heart constricts.

There they sit in the darkened room like vipers in their den.

Nodding at their contrived greeting is all I can manage. I step into the cramped, filthy bathroom, closing             

the door, leaning into it I breathe. Long, ragged breaths as I anticipate leaving you here...alone.

My entire being weeps for you, yet it is your life to sort out not mine.

I can no longer make everything ok.

I step out into the darkened room, the constant buzz of the traffic on the freeway just outside the window lends to my sense of unease. We hug, touching your head I look into your eyes. Your strength is reflected back at me. As I close the door leaving you behind I waver a moment at the top of the stairs, a tear rolls down my cheek....then I go.