Yoga Where

Posted on October 12, 2010 by Kristin Shepherd

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There’s a game we play in the clinic that I’d love to play with you. Here it is:  You can fly / swim / drive / hike / spaceship-travel / time-travel your way to anywhere, and do your favourite pose upon arrival. A photograph of you, in this pose, will be on your bedroom wall forever as a reminder that dreams can and do come true.

In the way of encouragement, I’ll say a couple of things.

Some people don’t like to play. They don’t like to commit (You can change your mind tomorrow! You can change your mind in 17 seconds!), or risk looking foolish, like the woman who finally said, “I can’t think of anything more exotic than Disney World, and even Disney World is too adventurous for me!” All answers are gorgeous, I told her. Pick your garage, if that’s what bakes your cake.

Some don’t like to dream at all because it depresses them. What is that? A lack of confidence? Hope? An atrophied imagination? An assumption that games are for kids?

Please take or leave this next bit. My intent is not to make you believe it, but to offer it in case it’s useful. We play these games at the clinic because they have gorgeous and practical effects. Bodies work best when we are alive, when we love ourselves enough to appreciate our current circumstances and dream of wonderful things to come.

Besides. It may come true.

Mine is Angkor Wat, a famous, ancient (hence the time travel) temple in Cambodia. I’m going this winter. Me, Downward Dog, Angkor Wat, 2011. Above is my daughter Kali, in Australia, imitating the big guy’s pose.

What’s yours? I can hardly wait to hear.

Thanks to Downward Dog for being the perfect travel partner, and thank you for the conversation,

Kristin

Kristin Shepherd is a chiropractor, actor, and speaker (about All Things Wonderful) from North Bay, Ontario. Join her on twitter, on Facebook, and on the web.

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Monkey Business

Posted on October 7, 2010 by Kristin Shepherd

banana.JPGI’ve just finished a workshop for actors and directors. It taught me something about my yoga practice.

Actors are a wild bunch. Gathering them in a room to work on technique for three days is like locking monkeys in a grade 8 classroom taught by a nasty nun with a stick in her hand. (This was my grade 8 experience. No offense to nice nuns with sticks.) We want to leap and swing and roll and yell and stuff bananas into ourselves and each other.
We don’t want structure, we want flow. We want freedom.

Here’s the problem with that in theatre. Both actors and audience want a story. And flow, by itself, isn’t story. I can feel all I want on stage. That’s compelling for about ten seconds. After that, it’s just monkey business.

If, on the other hand, my feelings are channeled through a unique beginning-middle-end structure, we have a magnificent story that will change everyone it touches. As an actor, that’s the kind of freedom I’m really looking for.

All good actors (even the Johnny Depps and Robert Downey Juniors) develop structured skills to channel their instincts. Sean Penn says he rebelled against all structure for years until he  realized he was useless without it.

I can identify with that. For most of my life, I have cringed in the face of structure: at work, in relationships, with food (holy mackerel, there’s a big one, wish I hadn’t thought of that), and with exercise. In my eyes, it was all nuns and sticks.

What occurs to me now is that, although it might be healthy to rebel against someone else’s stick, my own structure might be a beautiful thing.

Isn’t yoga an incredible way to explore this? When I consider my physical, emotional, and spiritual desires to leap, twist, roll, sing, swing, and stuff bananas, I see that they are gorgeous instincts, but they may not be the full story.
They are feelings without expression. Without structure. In yoga, i’m looking for a structure that suits me. Not someone else’s stick, mind you, but something that makes my body say “Yes!”

Then my yoga practice gives me a form: a strong, flexible, balanced, and focused form through which my wild energy can flow. And perhaps only then, I can express the Unique Story Called Me.

Is it possible that greater freedom comes when we add structure to flow? Is it possible I might prefer this kind of freedom? I’ll bet it is. Makes me squirm a bit. (I shouldn’t have mentioned food.)

Where are you with all of this? Do you love structure or does it send you swinging your monkey bum in another direction? Do you feel freer with it or without?  I’d love your thoughts on this one.
Thanks to theatre and yoga for teaching me great things, even when it makes me squirm.
And thank you for the conversation,
Kristin
Kristin Shepherd is a chiropractor, actor, and speaking (about All Things Wonderful) monkey from North Bay, Ontario. Join her at kristinshepherd.ca, on Facebook, or on Twitter.
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Celebrating One Year

Posted on October 5, 2010 by Kristin Shepherd

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Almost a year to the day that I reentered the yoga world, and two weeks after returning from an intensive meditation retreat, I sit with a coffee, at 4am, on my living room couch, dressed in my favourite clown-stripe pajamas, gearing up for my yoga practice.

The thing I would not mention if I were a prouder person is that I’m also on my iPhone, playing Soduko.

It would be easier tell you I was a heroin addict or a recovering casino freak than to mention this morning’s Soduko, but someone wiser than I’ll ever be says the truth will set us free.
I imagined that a year into yoga I’d look like Sting and his wife Trudy, the Gumby and Pokey of the Flexible Yoga World.  I thought I’d be thin, look great in an organic leotard, have vaguely pointed dancer’s feet and a forehead as smooth as cream cheese. I’d look wiser, with a small, attractive squint (like Leonard Cohen’s), suggesting an artistic otherworldly-ness. You get the picture.

I hoped that yoga would change who I am.
The reality a year later is different, and better, I think, despite the persistence of my wide feet and that furrowed peace sign between my eyebrows.

My life is still too busy. After three long weekends away with meditation, a family funeral, and an acting workshop, I have temporarily lost my self. There are subtle clues when I’m lost. I begin to eat enough for small village of rugby players. My iPhone feels like a closer relative than my recently deceased Uncle David. Sudoku looks like the best thing going at 4am.
What’s different now is this: At 4:05am, my coffee finished, I put the electronic relatives aside, step onto the rug, breathe into my feet, and place my hands together in front of my heart. Half way through my first sun salutation, I hear myself saying, “O my god, O my god, O my god, this is good.”
Was lost but now am found.
A year in, yoga has given me a completely reliable, delicious, and loving way home.
It would be ridiculous to ask for more than that.
Thanks to my first year of yoga, and thanks to all of you who share the road home,
Kristin
Kristin Shepherd is a chiropractor, actor, and speaker (about All Things Wonderful) from North Bay, Ontario.  Join her on the web, on Facebook, and on Twitter.  Don’t call her on the iPhone. She’s not answering today.
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Grounded Change

Posted on October 1, 2010 by Kristin Shepherd

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One month from today, I’m leaving my professional practice. I graduated as a chiropractor in 1989, hoping vaguely that I’d be helpful to people and that I’d have a good time doing it.

What I underestimated was the degree to which I’d fall in love with so many of the people who come to see me. Their bodies, their stories, and their hopes and struggles have made my clinic a beautiful place to be for twenty years.

Nevertheless, I woke up one day this summer knowing that, if I were courageous enough, I’d move on. And, god, once you’ve said that out loud, you’d better find the courage or be willing to live with feeling like an overgrown chicken for the rest of your life.

So. I said it all out loud and now I’m leaving, having almost no idea what’s next with work and earning a living.

I would have been afraid to do this five years ago.

I’m 48 (and a half). Maybe age has something to do with it. Maybe it’s the changing of seasons. I suspect meditation and yoga are also connected.

What I feel, at this age, which I did not feel at 20 or 30 or even 40, is a solid trust in my gut feelings. If I sense it’s time to move on, then it is. If I don’t know what’s next, then I don’t need to know yet.

This gorgeous rootedness is like an internal, full-spirit Downward Dog. It feels strong, stable, and dependable. It feels more certain than most of the outside world.
Wish me luck, and tell me: would you change your life if you had the courage, or are you doing exactly what you love? Has yoga given you the same sense of trust in your gut? (If it hasn’t, it could be that you’re too young, in which case you have lots to look forward to.)
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Thanks to the beautiful people at my clinic for the last two decades, thanks for courage and trust, and thanks to you for the conversation,
Kristin
Kristin Shepherd is a chiropractor, actor, and speaker (About All Things Wonderful) in North Bay, Ontario. Join her on the web at kristinshepherd.ca, on Facebook at Dr. Kristin Shepherd, and on twitter at kristin wonders.
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Are You Looking at Me?

Posted on September 29, 2010 by kristinshepherd

Eye contact is a funny thing.  I’ve just returned from a meditation camp during which we spent hours and hours staring into each others’ eyes.  It was strange and tense to begin with, but delicious and strangely satisfying before long.

During a regular day at home, I’m deflated whenever the guy at the Tim Horton’s drive-through doesn’t look at me. (Tim Hortons is the iconic Canadian coffee stop for those of you from some place else.)  I want to crawl through the little window and hold his face until he gets that it matters.

On the other hand, i’m unnerved by people who stare into my eyes for longer than a few seconds. ( Ed, for example, while he plays harmonica in my clinic.)

I wonder: Are we uncomfortable being seen fully and completely?  Is that why we look away when someone continues to look into our eyes?

And this:  Are we uncomfortable looking deeply and curiously, lovingly and lingeringly into the eyes of someone else?  Why?

Our eyes are beautiful, and absolutely connected to the truest part of ourselves, whether you call that heart or soul.

Why don’t we try something together? If you care to, try more eye contact this week.  Look and be looked into.  See how it feels.

I’d love to hear what you learn.

Thanks, always, for the conversation,

kristin

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Paranormal Yoga

Posted on September 28, 2010 by Kristin Shepherd

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Something paranormal just happened.  It’s on par with that girl in the Exorcist spinning her head around and making that awful sound that scares the hell out of me more than two decades later. It’s on par with alien abductions and crop circles and the continued success of PopTarts on grocery store shelves.

During my practice this morning – I’m reluctant to say this – I liked Triangle Pose.

Don’t scream. It only lasted for about three seconds, until i realized I was enjoying it. When the shock hit, my torso seized, my hamstrings yanked, and it was all I could do not to collapse on the floor. No sounds came out of my mouth, there are no alien probes evident anywhere on my body, and I’m still certain I’ll never eat another PopTart. But life as I know it has changed.

I have loathed (just a second, isn’t “loathed” an extreme word? Yes it is, and it is no exaggeration) Triangle Pose FOR EVER. And ever. I did not see that changing in this lifetime.

What else can I do at this point but ask for your thoughts? Has that ever happened to you?  With what pose? Is this enlightenment? Did it last or was it a one time thing?

Thanks to paranormal yoga for the shock of a lifetime, and thanks to you for the conversation.

(Yours in bewilderment)

Kristin

Kristin Shepherd is a chiropractor, actor, and speaker (about All Things Wonderful) in North Bay, Ontario. She may, for three seconds, have been as enlightened as the serene, blue lady pictured above. Join her (Kristin, not the blue lady) on the web at kristinshepherd.ca, on Facebook at Dr. Kristin Shepherd, and on Twitter at kristinwonders.

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Your Bio in 6 Words

Posted on September 24, 2010 by kristinshepherd

This game comes from Harriet Madigan of the Living Fit dynamos.  Harriet got it from someone else.  Thanks to all sources.

Here’s the game:  Give us your bio in 6 words.

Holy exciting, Batman.  I’d love to hear your answers.

Thanks,

kristin

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Meditation Camp

Posted on September 23, 2010 by Kristin Shepherd

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Have you been to a meditation camp before?

Having just returned from a five day version, I’d like to summarize the effects for you. This will come in handy if you decide to go yourself. It will also be useful if your friends or loved ones go and you are faced with the task of welcoming them home.

You don’t eat much at these things. A walnut is a substantial snack. Two days after my return home, I’m still eating out of what are basically Barbie bowls. Don’t be alarmed by this. It feels great.
You develop a slowness that can alarm the folks at home. My lovely man says, “Good morning.” After a few minutes, he says, “Are you all right?” Minutes later, I say, “Yes. I was contemplating your words.” Don’t be alarmed by this.
An enormous love develops for everyone. This morning I called an insurance company to discuss their policy on arch supports. By the end of the call, I told Connie she was so beautiful that it made my heart ache. I was a bit weepy. Don’t be alarmed by this as long as it’s a long distance call and you’re unlikely to meet Connie. Ever.

Everything that drove you crazy at home before now looks sweet and gentle. Doing the dishes. God, it still takes my breath a way. The warm water, the suds, the clean counter.  I’m too choked up to comment on whether or not you should be alarmed by this.
Your behaviors change. I brought my dog to work yesterday for the first time in 20 years. She’s an escape artist and would gladly go home with any of my patients, or plastered on the front bumper of a car if she had the opportunity. Both of those possibilities seemed the epitome of bliss to me yesterday. Today I’m alarmed by that.
All of this aside, it was fantastic to spend some time off the crazy mental grid, finding out who I am underneath the noise of daily life.

Have you been? Would you like to go? I’d love to hear.
Thanks to meditation for messing with my ridiculous mind. Thanks to yoga and its contemplative, meditative center. And thanks to you, you heartbreakingly beautiful thing, for the conversation. I love you, man.
Kristin
Kristin Shepherd is a chiropractor, actor, and speaker (about All Things Wonderful) in North Bay, Ontario.  Join her on the web at kristinshepherd.ca, on Facebook at Dr. Kristin Shepherd, or on Twitter at kristinwonders.
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Leaving the Circus

Posted on September 21, 2010 by Kristin Shepherd

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“We usually don’t look, we overlook.”
Alan Watts
I’m off to a meditation camp this morning. It’s a good thing.
There are days, like today, when I begin to overlook, when landing fully and immediately in the moment is something that only happens to calmer people. I’m no circus act or anything.

There are no plates spinning on my nose.  There is no unicycle. No monkeys, except for my monkey mind.

My thoughts on waking are, “Oh, god, I’m pinned between Pat (my lovely man) and Rosie (my sometimes lovely dog), it’s no wonder I can’t sleep. I’ve got one sixth of the bed to myself. I’ll have to amputate my legs to get a good sleep with you two. And rats, I forgot to open the window last night, which is why there is no air to breathe in here. And shoot, who left the suitcase on the floor for me to trip over in the dark? I did. Rats.”
It’s only a minute or three before I catch this thinking and wrestle it to the ground, but that’s three minutes of my one and only life spent body slamming an opponent who looks more like me than a monkey should.
Today’s practice, while my coffee drips, is Forever Downward Dog. This means Downward Dog until I meet my monkey mind once (oh, this is ridiculous, I’ve got to pack), twice (oh, great, now the coffee’s just sitting there, getting cold), three times (shoot, I’ve got a load of laundry in the washer and I need that purple shirt for my trip. I can’t meditate without that shirt), and four times. I hold Downward Dog until I know I’m in Downward Dog and nowhere else.
And then, ahhhhhhhh, something lets go, the monkeys and rats and spinning plates go back to sleep, and I’m here. Here is such a good place.
Do you wake up with monkeys, ever? (Do you sleep with your dog? Don’t start.) Does yoga bring you here?  Do you have a Forever Pose?
Thanks to the monkeys for teaching me what here isn’t. Thanks to yoga for stopping the circus. Thanks to you, always, for the conversation,
Kristin
Kristin Shepherd is a chiropractor, actor, and speaker (about All Things Wonderful) in North Bay, Ontario. Join her on the web at kristinshepherd.ca, on Facebook at Dr. Kristin Shepherd, and on Twitter at kristinwonders.
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Ed

Posted on September 20, 2010 by kristinshepherd

A man named Ed comes to my clinic every second Wednesday. He arrives 40 minutes before my afternoon hours begin. When I ask him why he arrives so early, he says he can’t keep himself away from me. Ed is 80 years old.

He begins each appointment by paying me, in case he forgets on the way out. Then he drops a bag on the counter, saying, you can eat these or throw them out, whatever you like. There is always an apple in the bag. The other contents vary. This week he brought a Kitkat bar and two doughnuts he’d made the night before. He’d prefer a fatter version of me.

After taking care of Ed’s remarkably healthy back, we come back to my front desk, at which point he pulls out his harmonica. He plays my favourite (You Are My Sunshine) and then whichever tune he’s been working on all week. He’s happiest if there are now people waiting for their own appointments. He’s best with a sizable audience.

I bought a harmonica two years ago, promising Ed I’d learn to play so that we could do Christmas carols together. It’s harder than it looks. I gave my harmonica to Ed last Christmas.

I told Ed last week that I’m closing my clinic soon. He didn’t say much. Well. I see. I see. When he played You Are My Sunshine he stared at me for all he was worth through his thick glasses. He said, I’ll see you in two weeks, and he left.

I’m telling you this for two reasons.

First, I want to share Ed with you before I leave my clinic. If you see him, ask him to play for you. He’ll be looking for a new venue.

Second, it’s tempting to shut my heart down, just slightly, while telling people I’m leaving. I love them, and I don’t love being sad, but I suspect it’s truer and healthier to let goodbyes stare us in the face and heart.

Thanks to Ed for teaching me that, and thanks to you for the conversation,

kristin

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