Early Days

Today I wrote another piece for my yoga paper. This one is about my beginnings in the practice of yoga.


When I began practicing yoga it was not quite the experience I find it now. The class was always large and I rolled out my mat in the very back of the studio. The light was dim and the music was soft in every class. As I started I learned that yoga was nothing like I had imagined - it was not easy and gentle, it was stessful and made me sore. But somehow I found myself coming back to every single class. At least once every class the teacher reminded us that yoga is a non-competitive practice.

"Easy for her to say," I thoguht in the middle of Extended Triangle pose. My hand was nearly at my knee as I tried to stretch it lower down my shin, with my other arm reaching up in the opposite direction and my feet spread to each side of my mat. The twist was a difficult one for me as I ried to place my back in the same vertical plane as my legs. My body was a series of triangles, but I thought I looked more like a star broken at the waist and falling over. One of the worst parts of this pose was how easy it made it for me to look around at the others.

It is often easy to see others in yoga as perfect. Not all of them, of course, but just one or two are enough to threaten attempts at non-compettion. Lithe bodies gracefully and easily moved into this same pose, and they could move so much deeper than I could. It was easy for the throught "They are so much better" to become lodged in my mind. Giving myself a mental shake I would let the thought pass and focus on my hand pushing into the air.

This scene would repeat throughout my early practices over and over again, almost with every pose. Yoga is an outwardly silent practice, but that just left the mind to take every thought it created and run with it. Mindfulness and meditation are goals, but not goals that are easily strived for. Yoga is a practice of constant learning and constant trying.

The teacher instructed us to move into the next pose, offering several modifications for beginners and advanced yogis - yoga is a sport entirely based on modification. As I reminded myself to not compare with others and focused on my breath, I chose one of the modifications, moving into the best pose for my own body.


-Kat

Eternity

I love poetry, although I really can't write it. Today I made a page with a poem that I really enjoy by William Blake entitled "Eternity."

-Kat

The Warehouse Garden

I wrote something today. That's really all I can say about it, because I'm not sure how I feel about it, but here it is.

The garden was overgrown now, but at one time it had flourished. As Anne picked her way through the weeds, she remembered the past sunny days of garden picnics and laughter. When everyone had gathered here the world was perfect, but time had taken them away. Some went to jobs far away, others moved with extended family, and some - like herself - had begun creating families of their own. Young children took time away from everything.

But she was here today, by herself. The sky was overcast, but the clouds were a light gray, unlikely to bring rain for a while yet. Cars and trucks rumbled by behind her, adding to the background noise. Everything around the overgrown garden was a wash of gray and tan. The warehouse district might seem like an odd place for a garden, but when Anne and her siblings inherited the empty lot they decided to keep and share it. From then on they had had seven years of memories to create, entirely doing over the lot to turn it into the paradise it was. 

Anne walked over to a rose bush that had survived and even flourished. This was Anne's favorite plant from the past, and it was where she would begin. She put on her gloves and began pulling the choking weeds from around the base of the rose bush. She also pulled dead foliage off the stems, and in little time she had made it look like it was cared for again.

The sounds of people picking their own way up to the center of the garden made her turn around. She saw her husband and four-year-old son walking toward her. Behind them were her brothers and sisters and their families. This was a weekend of new beginnings for them. They had decided to start up their garden gatherings again and begin making new memories in that place. This long weekend they would start. They had a lot of weeding to do. 

There it is.

-Kat

Mmm... Ravioli

Tonight I cooked a tasty ravioli dish for dinner. It's definitely one I'll make again.

-Kat

In the Studio

It's a Monday, and that always makes me quite aware of the school things I need to do. So today's post serves two purposes - it is something I have created, and it is most likely the beginning to my 20 page yoga paper due in less than a month. I hope you enjoy it.


Yoga can be and is practiced in every setting imaginable, but there is something special about a dedicated studio. The light is soft and inviting, setting a meditative tone. The air is usually warm, sometimes even heated to add intensity to a practice. Space is well used in a studio, with a large open area surrounded by the tools of yoga. On one side is shelving holding colorful mats, rolled up and waiting to be used. At another side is a cabinet holding bolsters and cushions of various sizes to add softness to a restorative practice. Beside that cabinet are straps and soft blocks used to modify and personalize practice. The front wall is entirely mirrored, both helpful and distracting in practice.

Before a class begins, a teacher puts on music. The type varies from nature sounds to soft sitar to Bob Marley. Each choice is a reflection of the teacher and the style that class is going to follow. The music sets the tone before the class begins, and will be a constant reminder for tone and focus throughout the practice. Light fragrances filter through the air. Spicy jasmine and earthy sandalwood mingle and give the studio a truly "yogic" feeling. The scents are both invigorating and relaxing, the perfect mix.

People begin to arrive. They roll out their colorful mats and sit down, chatting. Some stretch their wrists or hips, or other places that are particularly sore or tight, in preparation. The studio room warms with the added body heat, and the yogis know it will only get warmer - that will help their practice. The teacher walks to her mat and everyone follows her lead, standing with hands together at heart center with eyes closed, just breathing. The practice has begun.


-Kat

It's a Girl

Today I wrote one more addition to this group of stories I've written over the past couple of days, now it's a trilogy, and I think it's done. This one's a bit un-edited (I wrote it 20 minutes ago), but I think it's decent anyway.


She was sitting in the waiting room, and she really needed to pee. This was the part she hated the most about sonograms, the medical need for a full bladder. Hopefully it would be her turn soon and she could get this over with. She had a book open in her hands, but she was having trouble concentrating on the words. Her mind seemed to become less focused each day. She was thinking about things she needed to do and all that had happened in the last few days.

Her house was moving ever so slightly toward chaos at the moment. People were giving her things, but she wasn't able to turn the amalgamation of stuff into a nursery. Now those things just sat in boxes in a cold room, waiting. This time around was the hardest yet, and she couldn't seem to snap herself out of it. Just yesterday she had been surprised when a co-worker in an elevator had asked her when she was due.

"How did he know I'm pregnant?" she had thought, before getting a glimpse of herself in a mirror. Of course at six months, she was obviously showing. After six months of pre-natal vitamins, doctors visits, and baby gifts  why did she still occasionally forget that she was even pregnant?

A nurse called her name and she walked to the examination room relieved that this visit could get underway so she could get on with her day. After the sonogram technician took enough pictures of her belly she got dressed, peed, and settled in to wait in the doctors office. She passed her time looking at the degrees on the wall and the nick-knacks on the desk.

Finally the doctor came in, and she seemed happy. After sitting down behind her desk and setting down a manila envelop, she announced with delight "I have good news, it's a girl!" then the doctor noticed her stony face. Getting up and walking around the desk to stand in front of her, she said firmly, "If this girl was born today, she would live. Girls are strong and this one is going to be a beautiful healthy baby."

She looked up at the doctor and read the sincerity in her eyes, and a grin broke across her face, the first true one in months. Her hands rested on her protruding belly, and for the first time she felt the spark of life she held within her. "It's a girl," she whispered, hopeful again for the days to come.


That ends this weekend's trilogy - I doubt it'll happen again. But, this story is important to me, and I'm glad I got the chance to write it and share it with you.

-Kat

New and Old

Today marks the first day I can share a knitted piece on this blog! I've been working on fixing up my apartment all afternoon, and I decided to take a break and knit. Then I realized that I only had a few rows left on a new washcloth of mine, so I finished it.

Also, I thought I'd share the sequel to the bit I wrote yesterday, in case any of y'all are interested:

Her favorite part of their home was the attic. It was small, softly lit, and covered in warm colorful fabrics. This was where she would disappear to. She could spend hours in the attic and it would feel like no time at all. She loved the tactile nature of the attic. There were fabrics of all kinds; shiny silks, warm wools, soft cottons, and many more. It was a riot of colors, organized by the hues of a rainbow. His place was the kitchen. It was bright and sparse, with metal shining everywhere. Everything was neat and organized, just the way he liked it. There was a large window over the sink letting in all of the sunlight – he rarely turned a light on during the day. He loved to cook, she loved to sew. They loved to be with each other too, but sharing a life was not always easy.

One tragic afternoon they couldn’t bear to even look at each other for the moment. They had received horrible news after rushing to the hospital when she felt stabbing pains in her abdomen. When they came home she ran up to her attic and he drew himself deep into his kitchen. Pots clanged the knives made chopping, slicing, stabbing sounds. The pans sizzled as red, raw meat began to cook. It was quieter in the attic. The only sound was a whirr as she sewed the sleeves onto a new robin’s egg blue shirt for him. They continued in this way for hours; neither speaking, barely even thinking. More and more savory smells began to drift out of the bright, busy kitchen and started dispersing through the house. They danced through the dining room, strolled through the living room, meandered up the staircase and finally peeked into the attic. There, she was sewing buttons onto an ebony vest to go with the blue shirt for him.

            After sensing cotton and wool for so long, the spices and citrus that came upon her from the kitchen were a shock. She smiled, a small watery smile, and breathed deeply. It wasn’t time to go yet, but it would be soon. She continued working on the vest and put the finishing touches on a plush, black, knitted scarf that she had been working on before; before this tragic day so it still held traces of the joy and hope that they had felt before. When she had finished making these things as beautiful as she could, and the smells from the kitchen were stronger than ever, she stood up and left the attic. She followed the smells down the stairs, thorough the large, soft living room, around the mahogany table, and into the metallic kitchen. She looked at him as he put the finishing touches on two plates. They had strength enough for each other. She gave him the shirt, vest, and scarf and he set the plates on the large dining room table in their still too empty house. 

-Kat