Cleansing that Aura

I've just finished session 3 of my yoga-for-the-elderly class, and have decided to blog about it. First, a couple of disclaimers. These are fabulous people. All six to eight of them. They're more than I'll ever be at their age (more on that later). I've spent three hours over a span of three weeks with them, and already I'm a fan.

I learned about the yoga class over a year ago on one of those awkward, wish-I-didn't-live-on-the-16th-floor sort of elevator rides. I don't remember the source of the wish-I-didn't moment, but I do remember looking up to the (elevator) skies, catching a glimpse of the scroller just above the doors, and quickly getting engrossed in its contents. Somewhere between news about voting, the closure of the outdoor pool, a new-and-improved gym, and pilates classes, I saw a sign about yoga. Several months, and one new yoga mat later, I made it to my first class.

Lovely people. Just the best. They all shook my hand, asked me my name, and when they didn't quite get what a Divya was, kindly offered alternative names, which varied from Olivia, to Vivian, to what-was-that? After exchanging pleasantries, we settled down on our mats, stretched our muscles, relaxed them, released gas (some of us anyway), stretched some more, relaxed some more, and headed home. Session 2 was pretty much the same. We reviewed the minutes of Session 1 (did you say it was Olivia?), stretched, relaxed, fell asleep and snored loudly (some of us anyway), stretched, relaxed some more (albeit still a little less than some others of us), and headed home. Which brings us to today.

Today, we were down to five, including my lovely instructor (she's probably in her 70s, has traveled to India, done extensive yoga training, has something wonderfully calm about her -- she must have a spotlessly clean aura). She told us she was going to talk to us about breathing, at which point one of the four aspiring yogis raised her hand and asked if she could skip out. "I hate this breathing stuff," she explained. Two things popped into my not-yet-relaxed head: 1. That breathing stuff pumps in oxygen and pumps out carbon dioxide, which helps with the whole living thing that most of us seem to enjoy. 2. (perhaps less critical) That's 90 percent of what yoga's about. In any case, she was promptly told to "chill" by the woman sitting by her (meow?), which she was forced to do, because that's 5 percent of what yoga's about (more on the other 5 percent later). Not much else was different -- stretching, relaxation, release of gas, stretching, relaxation, home.

That's all for now. We'll have to see where this blog takes us.
Olivia.

warning: cheesy post ahead

i.feel.loved.
(and gawd it's just so fabulous.)

In other news ...

Working from home can get to be quite strange sometimes. As this very moment, for example, there's a construction worker, 16 stories off the ground, balancing precariously on a makeshift wooden platform, peering in through my bedroom window.

I don't like it. I don't.

Because.

Let's put this day behind us, then. And hope that tomorrow's better.

holy son of a ...

I'm having a bloody panic attack and there's no better time to blog than now, right now. It seems that nothing will go right today and most will tell you that when you have that horrible feeling of doom weighing down on you, you should consider taking deep breaths. I would except my sinuses are clogged with all the world's pollen. Breathe easy? I'd love it if I could just, plain, breathe.

And I can't scream because I'm in a library and they'll shush me. And let's be honest nobody likes to be shushed. So I'll blog. I'll blog about all the screaming and breathing I'd like to be doing right about now.

Pretend you owe me nothing

It's always a glorious thing to feel that perfect little moment that quietly whispers in my ear, "everything, from here on now, will be soaked in magic." Tonight I felt that moment several times over.

On a somewhat-related note, Tom Waits is performing a little bit of magic right here.

enough now, enough.

Madness will be.

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles.
Jack Kerouac.

Wanted to Cry but You Can't When You're Laughing

And so it's done. Two in a span of six months, pretty heart wrenching. You know it's the right thing to do though when the person sitting across from you says he would have done the same thing. You constantly tell yourself it's right precisely because of that. It doesn't make the pain less, it just reminds you of why you did it. Because in the next couple of weeks you're going to need to be constantly reminded of this: You did your best, you waited (and waited) and it wasn't enough.

It had to be done. And now it's done.

Good night.

28 and counting

It’s a bit ridiculous how we trap ourselves in our own hideously constructed circles and then sob about how terrible our lives are. Add age (and fear of the unknown) to that equation and you have yourself an ideal situation to wallow in things you’ll do nothing to fix.

Not me. Not this time.

I suppose the first step is to start brushing the dust and rubble off, seriously this time. Then here's to risking it to see if there’s more to life. Because there has to be. There always has been.

2010

... and then it picked up again. here's to taking control and making shit happen this year.

2010, I'm ready for you.