Díga(Body) Quickies

Of Goddesses Monsters

Whilst doing research for an EcoSalon story today, which necessitated that I source Google images for some inspiration on the red/green color scheme, I came across this photo.

My son saw it, too.

Monsters! he exclaimed, gesticulating at the search results.

Who? Them?

, monsters.

(He says yes in Spanish; the word no knows no linguistic barriers.)

But honey, those are the most beautiful women in the world. Dont you know, kid?

No, mama. Monsters, he corrected.

Meanwhile, he thinks Im guapa and Im wearing a scarf on my head.

I love having a boy.

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Crouching Tiger, Bitchy Yogi

Without yoga, I fear, Id become a total Mommy Dearest. Why, then, am I such an ungrateful Chaturanga-ist?

As a human being, I have many faults. I can be impetuous, snappy. Im given to fits of boredom, often resulting in actual fits. Whenever I make homemade baked goods for my family, I invariably eat all of them leaving my husband to ask, honey, wheres my cookie, and my two-year old son begging more, please? like some poor, motherless Oliver.

Thats because I make amazing baked goods, leading me to another shortcoming: hubris. And another still: issues with self-control.

To get downright dirty, the ugliest truth about myself is that I sometimes compare myself to others and complain, out loud, much more often than Id like. You can imagine what goes on inside my brain. A cycle of bitch, moan, repeat.Trust me, you dont want get in there. its a dark watery abyss.

How come I cant do Yoganidrasana? It doesnt seem fair.

As such, I try to busy myself with a cocktail of self-help seminars, reflective literature, meditation and yoga. I credit the yoga, in particular, for keeping me off the Prozac.

The hubris in me wants to take you on a walk down asana lane, recounting the first time I did a headstand or gripped my toes in Baddha Padmasana (06, baby). But youre not interested in all that. Are you?

(Insecurity can be another vice.)

Take a look at this guy…(show off).

Let me just briefly state that once you get a full length mirror in front of me, I can get downright Olympic Trials with my postures. Remove the mirror, Im like a Tiger Yogi. Watch out!

A significant side-effect of the impetuous/hubris/comparing-oneself-to-others/complaint-prone diagnosis is that I can be terribly competitive. Therein dwells my most significant problem: you!

Im talking to my goddamned ego.

By ego I dont mean an inflated sense of self; rather, a bamboozling self-consciousness that swoops in and ruins any hope I have of becoming a halfway decent yogione day. Its what turns me into Crouching Tiger, Bitchy Yogi.

Yeah, thats just not happening for me today.

I try to practice every morning by myself, since theres only one decent fucking class in all of Seville!

(I have a potty-mouth, too. My son cursed twice last week after hearing me use the f and s word to describe my own debt crisis, making me a bad mother to boot.)

Now that Im in the United States, classes abound, the nearest one being at the fitness center up the road. Now, Ive been practicing long enough to know that apart from the Crunch Fitness on Broadway circa 2003 (now closed), the gym is no place to practice yoga. I like to get my Kundalini fix or Ashtanga nod in quiet, pretty placesaway from the thump of treadmills and Justin Bieber.

Being car-less in Extreme Suburbia, I am left with little choice. So I trekked to the 4:30 Yoga 3 class, only to spend the proceeding 75 minutes vexed, annoyed, inwardly seething and bereft after flapping my arms up and down like a catatonic eagle in the geriatric ward. No salutations, no words of wisdom, no meditation. I kept waiting for the lesson, my fill, the point, a chantmy fix.

Nothin.

Questions like what is wrong with him? and is he even licensed? seared into my brain. I searched the room for grimaces of agreement; an exchanged glance of this guy is from the Bally Total Fitness school of yoga. Obviously.

Then I remembered something that a very good yogi once told me when I was kvetching about not being able to practice as much as I used to since becoming a mother. Ill paraphrase her because it was really quite simple: the practice is in your everyday.

I thought, hmm, Ill have to remember that. I should try some breathing exercises during diaper changes, walking meditations during night-wakings, maybe a couple of Chaturanga Dandasanas during nap time. But that was not what she meant. What she was conveying, in her wisdom and, I imagine, as part of her own practice was this: the real practice is in the stillness of the posture and mind.

Isnt she lovely?

That is what makes yoga a truly Olympian feat in which any expectation of perfection is delightfully and laughably silly, like Elvis Stojko.

It doesnt matter who your teacher is or what style of yoga you are practicing. As David Swenson explained,all are branches of the same tree trying to extend towards the same canopy: the lightwhats above. What transcends.

Im such a bitchy yogi sometimes, but I do try to be kind(er to myself).

XOXO

 

Images: GO INTERACTIVE WELLNESS; milopeng; Mark Donoghues Autographs

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Its a Total Knock Up

The stork called. Hes coming around again. This time, Im going to be much more prepared.

The convention is to wait three months before even bringing this up, but fuck it. Im pregnant.

It was intentional this time and I didnt cry. Actually, I did. Instead of crying for my youth like I did in 08

But Im too young to have a baby!

um, honey. You do realize that big party wasnt a sweet 16.

Oh. Right. Im 30.

In 11 tears sprung to my eyes for my beloved life as it has turned out. I have so loved my mommy and me time with my son. But, alas, the kid could use some fresh blood around the house. And my hormones could use a serious leveling off. Unfortunately for my physical and emotional equilibrium, theyre just getting started.

Havent You Heard? Hormones Are All the Rage!

Yes, I do realize that Ive been obsessing over vomit for the past couple of days. And I have one more thing to say about it before Im done (talking about it). I am vomiting and/or want to vomit most of the time.

That already makes this pregnancy significantly different from the last. Around this time with Ezra, I was parading my boobs around like theyd won the lottery. I was very proud of them. Wed all hit the jackpot. Then I nursed for two years and they kind ofwent away. I wonder when theyll be coming back. Are they coming back? Definitely coming back is my breakfast.

What else is different about this pregnancy? Lots.

Its not that I dont care as much; its just not as precious, in that the world as I know it has ended forever! kind of way. When I was first getting used to the idea of being pregnant with Ezra, life went all slanty. Like I hadnt had my V8.

The air smelled different, my brain buzzed like it had been submerged in seltzer water, my very pores felt exposed to the world in a way that tingled, and even hurt. Everything was a B.F.D. (big fing deal).

Early pregnancy, then, was physically and emotionally otherworldly. This one, I dont know how to explain. Its quite physical, true. But my body is in a state of being that I often forget. Without the nausea, I might one day relate to those women that give birth in an IHOP bathroom. You know, the pregnant, and didnt even know it type.

Of course, that couldnt possibly happen to me. Ezra was 10 lbs, 10 oz when he was born. I generally weigh up to 120 lbs. Pregnancy is the sort of girth you notice on me.

What I Will Do Differently

Many things that I will blog about in time, first and foremost being what I eat. This baby will be significantly smaller, damn it. Im also going for a VBAC. The care that I entrust with my pregnancy and the trust I put in myself will be getting an overhaul as well.

I didnt have Díga(Mama), either. This pregnancy will very much be an experiment. Can I do it not right, but better than last time? I have no regrets about my pregnancy with Ezra, apart from the hash browns and Egg McMuffins. The lattes at Starbucks were a bit much, too. Those Chais? Total sugar bombs. And I suppose I should have had more wheat grass shots, as an old friend (whos son is now obsessed with veggies) suggested.

Lets do this together: me, my Ezra, my Rupie, my Díga.

Pregs. Ooh. Good God, yall.…

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