Beyond the Fling

Posted on January 18, 2010 by kristinshepherd

I didn’t think I’d have to revisit the headstand in yoga. I did, after all, learn to fling myself up against a wall, remove one foot at a time from the wall, slowly, and balance for a good ten seconds before coming down.

I felt good about all of that.

But last week, in my first yoga class since Christmas, we went back to the beginning and started all over again. Our teacher, Rob, was taught that you shouldn’t even try to go up into a headstand until you can hold downward dog for six minutes. Six minutes! Can I do that? I have no idea.

He showed us a headstand done in the middle of the studio. With no wall to fling himself against. He’d only shown us the fling to give us a taste of what was ahead.

It turns out, of course, that it isn’t about flinging at all.

We practiced some of the shoulder and upper back strengthening moves that will prepare us for controlled headstands, which some of us may be able to do some day. I came out of it astounded at my lack of strength.

It occurs to me that I have, in general, always preferred flinging to the slow, steady work that creates a different kind of result. I think I’ve lived most of my 48 years doing that, flinging into this, flinging into that, looking for immediate gratification, immediate captivation.

And it’s been marvelous, in part, catapulting me into an enormous number of adventures and passions.

It has also not been marvelous, and may, now that i think about it, have a little bit to do with unsuccessful relationships and a tendency toward boredom and restlessness.

It could be that I’m beginning, at this stage of my life, to explore something beyond the fling, something slower, deeper, and possibly more balanced.  That might be exciting in a completely different way.

Thanks to headstands.

And thanks for the conversation,

Kristin

Shanti, shanti, shanti.

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Priests and Doctors

Posted on January 9, 2010 by kristinshepherd

When I was a kid, priests had a lot of clout. You were rude if you questioned them. (Isn’t this original sin thing a bit negative? A bit manipulative? How does saying 29 Hail Marys absolve me of the sins I just made up at confession? Why did I make them up? Because I’m ten years old, for god’s sake, I don’t remember what I’ve done, and i’m basically good.) You obeyed them. Their word was law. If they were angry, it was because you’d done something to deserve it.

They had more to do with the slippery slope to hell than with love or compassion or peace.

And my experience was nothing like my dad’s, when the priest was the absolute gatekeeper to your happiness and wellbeing on earth, not to mention the key to whether or not you’d burn for eternity or just land in Purgatory, where you’d work your face off for an improbable shot at heaven.

This all seems absurd to me now. A priest is a guy (always a guy, which is also a bit strange), who should have been humbly serving the Catholic crowd by offering his thoughts on god and heaven and what it all means. For our consideration.

Instead the priesthood is overflowing with sex offenders, financial offenders, and other emperors who will keep the church itself busy apologizing and compensating for generations.

And we co-created it all by placing such authority in someone else’s hands.

I wonder if we’re doing the same thing, now, with doctors. In my city, there are lineups to get into clinics. Many people don’t have doctors. We feel unsafe without one. We feel they are the gatekeepers to our wellbeing. We feel that what they offer is so essential to our health that we now take for granted the questionable care too often offered: one complaint per visit, do what I suggest or leave my care, 3-hour waits in waiting rooms, an increased focus on pharmaceuticals, which require less time than investigative conversation, etc.

This is not the offering of intelligence and skill for our consideration. This is holier than thou.

It is based more on the slippery slope to disease than on anything to do with exploring what makes each of us well.

And we co-create it every day.

There are great priests out there. And great doctors. But there is a symptomatic similarity between these institutions that makes me wonder whether we’re just caught in the same thing again, a generation later.

And we think the solution is more doctors.

Does that look strange to anyone else?

This is not, by the way, any statement of victimhood or blame.  We create what works for us.  I wonder if what works best for us is changing.

I think we can do better than this, and I’ll bet that a generation from now, we’ll look back and laugh, realizing all the emperors were naked.

Thanks for the conversation,

kristin

(Who by the way is a chiropractor, and is in no way suggesting that my profession is any healthier in its approach.)

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Edna and Thich Nhat Hanh

Posted on December 29, 2009 by kristinshepherd

I’m pretty certain my friend Edna has never met Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk with whom I spent a week in silence a few years ago.

My guess is that, if she did meet him, she would think he had good stage presence, lousy vocal projection, and a sense of style and colour that left something to be desired. She would only tell him about the good stage presence. She’s graceful that way.

She would not be interested in his slow, meditative walk. Edna loves nothing more than to pull up to my clinic on her bazoo (her name for the Cadillac of all motorized chairs) at an absurdly high speed, wearing a scarlet leather jacket, sunglasses, a long scarf, and a cigarette, looking like a female Jimmy Dean.

Her biggest, fastest bazoo became unreliable last year, so for some time she’s been on a smaller, slower version, which offends her sense of style. She has no interest, even in her late 70’s, in becoming an old woman.

Which may explain her swearing. When I asked her a couple of weeks ago how she felt about Christmas, she said one word (four letters, begins with f), loudly enough that I was concerned for the more sensitive people in the waiting room.

All of which may or may not begin to explain why she had a stroke on December 24th and left the planet on the morning of December 25th.

I write that and just sit here, stunned.

Because I don’t get it, yet. I don’t get that she won’t be in today, wearing a fabulous fur coat, fabulous earrings and necklace, and fabulous purse (last time a large, purple purse that she acquired when she retired from teaching, in an era, she said, when you had to buy the purple shoes at the same time. This was the first time she’d worn that purse since. She must have a hundred beautiful purses at home.). She would also be wearing a fabulous defiance about the *&^%ing holidays, *&^%ing winter and this business of growing old.

I keep looking out the window, waiting for her to pull up to the curb.

Thich Nhat Hanh says that when I look in the direction of the bazoo, I’m looking at the place where a beautiful cloud formation was this morning, or six days ago. In this case, a cloud that looked like Edna.

He says that while I’m looking in the direction of where she was, flying down the street with calculated recklessness, the real Edna, the current Edna, is off in another direction, calling, Darling, look over here! Here I am!

He says I can’t see her for staring at where she was, and what she was.

So. Edna. You crazy, gorgeous gem of a woman. I will not look out the &^%$ing window for you anymore today, if I can help it.

I will look everywhere else, though, in the direction of anything with style, anything swearing, anything fast, anything with great stage presence.

And I’ll listen for you.

Thanks for every conversation we’ve ever had.

kristin

(Here I am, here I am!)

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The Solstice 108

Posted on December 21, 2009 by kristinshepherd

My yoga group celebrated the winter solstice by doing 108 consecutive sun salutations. This is not a joke.

I don’t know the significance of the 108. Perhaps it’s an Upanishad thing. Perhaps it is the number of lifetimes you should devote to yoga before attempting a class like this.

The room was packed. There was Indian music playing, with two people, including one of our teachers, accompanying on drums. A table in the corner was covered with oranges and various yoga liquids (with Upanishaddy names), so that we could enjoy a half-time snack.

I was nervous, because 108 sun salutations sounds ridiculously vigorous, and I’m a beginner. I’m the only one in there not in Lulu Lemon, as far as I can see, and I have hamstrings that are shorter than yours or yours or yours.

Nervous, intimidated, and tighter than tightness itself both literally and pychologically.

To make room for the crowd, we squeezed our mats together until there was no room for a clear wingspan. The team sport feeling of this gave me a mild feeling of despair.

The class started with some chanting having to do with letting obstacles go. Also something to do with compassion. It sounded like moondy tada rama shakta, or something, to a simple tune. After a couple of rounds, we sounded really good.  Let’s just keep doing this, i thought.  Let’s do this 108 times.

Then the sun salutations started. During the first downward dog, to music and drumming, I felt the usual tightness in my left thigh and the stingy twinge at the insertion of my left Achilles tendon.  Moondy tada rama whatever, i thought.  Might as well be compassionate with myself, because i have 107 of these to go. That made me laugh.

I don’t remember much after that. Maybe I was too focused on following the others. Or maybe I was just stunned by it all. I do recall smelling a huge, collective sweat.  (I liked it.)  I do remember my legs loosening as I fell into the rhythm of the 108. I remember lots of thoughts passing through my head, briefly and easily, all to drums and music, none of them interfering with this happiness that started to grow inside my chest and gut.

I don’t know how to explain that happiness. My guess is it resulted from energy moving in my body and in the room. And people celebrating something together. It felt like something had changed direction. I don’t know. Ask a yogi.

Whatever it was, I was flying by the end. And completely spent. No more nervousness or intimidation or despair.  I didn’t know how to drive my car afterward.  The best celebration of the solstice ever.

Tomorrow the days begin to grow longer. In about 108 days, the crocuses will be finding their way toward the light.

I hope you’re celebrating your own change of direction today, your own moving toward the light.

Thanks for the conversation,

kristin

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Ho.

Posted on December 18, 2009 by kristinshepherd

We have no lights up. We have no tree, yet.

We look like lonely Jehovah Witnesses, lonely because we aren’t Witnesses, so we’re not inside hanging out with Witness friends, enjoying some specific biblical interpretation that keeps us satisfied with the plain state of our house and front yard. We’re just doing a lousy Witness impression.

Nor, by the way, do we do the Christian “Jesus is the reason for the season” thing. I have nothing against that approach, but it has never rung my bells.

My sister-in-law, who is Muslim, has her house decorated for Christmas already.

So we’re behind, is my point.

We agreed to no presents this year, in an attempt to skip the unfestive mall experience. So I’ve got to get going, or Christmas is going to be like any other winter Friday. Which it isn’t.

Here are our plans.

My lovely man will get us a tree. I’ll put red ribbons all over it.

I’ll talk with each of my kids on Christmas. They’re both away from home for the first time ever. I’ll miss them, but I LOVE them for creating their own adventures.

I’ll sing my brains out all day. O Come All Ye Faithful, doing the melody, then the harmony, hearing it all together in my head.

We’ll eat a beautiful breakfast, walk some wonderful trails in the afternoon, and make a festive dinner (we’re only now deciding whether we’re vegan, vegetarian, or total carnivores this year. I think veganism is winning. Looks like Portabello mushrooms with chestnut stuffing, and turnips and potatoes made the way my gran made them. Funny that turnips make it Christmas. Funny that Christmas is the only day of the year we eat turnip.)

I’ll spend some time thinking about the people I love who are screaming around the country with their kids in order to see every sibling, parent, and in-law. Some happily, some not so happily. Hohoho.

I’ll think about people I love who are spending the holiday alone, some happily and some not so happily. Lovelovelove.

I’ll think (I can’t help it with our unlit house) of those who don’t do Christmas at all, some happily (happy Witnesses, for example) and some not so happily.

Yeah for religious diversity or just secularjoysecularjoy.

I hope, in the end, that we each do some small, turnippy thing that reminds us during this time to love ourselves and each other, and the ones like my gran who’ve gone on.

Peacepeacepeace to you. And thanks for the conversation,

kristin

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One jump at Christmas

Posted on December 8, 2009 by kristinshepherd

So I can do it in one jump, now. The headstand, I mean. And it is fantastic. Totally exhilarating, though like so many victories, it’s been eclipsed by two things that have happened since.

First, I showed my headstand to a co-worker. She is a massage therapist who works in my clinic. She was full of praise, and wonder.

Then, with four seconds of instruction, she flew up in one jump. On her first try.

You’ve got to be grounded not to be a bit deflated by that. I was deflated for about 15 seconds and then just completely inspired by her effortless agility. Through some kind of channeling, I’ve been smoother going up ever since.

Then the second thing happened.

I have a friend who is going half way ’round the world for Christmas, to visit family. She’d rather not go. She’d rather cook herself a simple dinner and read a good book in front of her fireplace, but her kids bought her the ticket, and she feels too guilty to say no.

We started talking about what she’d do if she didn’t feel guilty, afraid, worried, and all the other blah, blah, blahs.

And how weird is this? She said she’d like to try standing on her head again. She did headstands all her life as a form of entertainment. (She can’t sing, she says, so she learned to stand on her head for “indefinite periods of time”.) She didn’t stop until ten years ago. She was 74 ten years ago.

She asked me if I thought it was too ridiculous to dream of doing headstands again. I said it would be ridiculous not to try her absolute best. I do think a spotter might be a good idea after a ten year hiatus, so we’re going to practice it together after she gets back from her reluctant holiday.

I have a dream. In this dream, my friend is in the airport, standing on her head by the gate, the airline staff saying, last call for your flight, her saying, I won’t go, I’m happier here. This is unlikely to happen, but it makes me happy to picture it.

Here’s my Christmas wish. It’s that we all do exactly what we want for the holiday. Forget guilt, forget obligation, forget they-already-bought-me-the-ticket. (Why didn’t they ask her first? Who knows? Why can’t she say no thanks anyway? Who knows?)

Why don’t we trust that what we’d most like to do is good for everyone? Isn’t it’s bizarre to let guilt run the show?

I’m going to eat well, read good books, and practice my headstand. While singing carols.

What about you?

Thanks for the conversation,

kristin

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A Life in Two Jumps

Posted on December 3, 2009 by kristinshepherd

I may have mentioned that I recently visited a yoga class during which I was kicked in the face by an eager headstander. It was a hard kick. I staggered a bit.

I may not have mentioned that I had not done a headstand of my own for about 20 years.

This all changed yesterday, in my regular yoga class.

Led by our teacher, we set ourselves up against a wall and did all the prerequisite stuff: got down on hands and knees, hands clasped at the wall, elbows on the floor shoulder distance apart.  Then knees off the ground, on forearms and feet now.  Then walked our feet a bit closer to our hands, bums up high.

Raised one leg, and then jumped with the other, the idea being that our legs would make it all the way up to the wall.

Mine didn’t. My jump got me about two feet from the floor.

Second jump, same thing.

After my third try, the teacher came around and asked if I’d like help.

The weird thing was that despite being all by myself at the wall, I was still afraid of being kicked in the head. Kicked by what? (This made me laugh, because most of my fears are like this one: afraid of being kicked in the head by something that happened once, a million years ago.)

So I said yes, I’d like help.

I did my little jump, and he lifted my legs the remaining forty miles to the wall.

And Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, for the full minute I teetered up there, I was an Olympic athlete. (Your head doesn’t even touch the ground in the headstand. Did you know that? That’s Olympian.)

For that minute, my gut hung out, wobbling in front of the whole class like an epileptic sea mammal. My shoulders started to shake about 1.4 seconds into it. And every drop of blood in my body accumulated behind my eyes. The world was kind of watery and upside down. I loved it.

And then I fell over.

This morning, as soon as I got to my office, I closed the door and tried it again against an empty patch of wall.

It only took two jumps to get up there. By myself.

I tried again an hour later. It still took two jumps. And I learned it’s better to take my clogs off first.

I tried once more five minutes ago. Again two jumps.

If I had to give my life a title, today, it’d be, Almost There, The Story of Trying Despite Being Kicked In The Head By Ridiculous Fear.

Stay tuned for the Sequel, which will be called, Up in One Jump, My Gold Medal Event At The Solo Olympics.

I’ll bet you have your own Olympic event this year.

I’d love to hear about it.

Thanks for the conversation,

kristin

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Stamp this on your forehead

Posted on November 25, 2009 by kristinshepherd

Avery is about four years old. She comes into my clinic with her mom.

One of Avery’s favourite things to do is find one of my office stamps – the kind that stamps my clinic address on cards and magazines and envelopes – and stamp it all over herself. She stamps it on her hands and arms and clothes and neck and face.

I’m a bit flabbergasted, watching this. I love her singlemindedness in covering every bit of bare skin. I love watching her mom smile while this goes on, knowing she’ll be ridiculously busy washing it all off tonight. I love the permissiveness of it, remembering how strictly I was raised, and how there’s no way this would have happened when I was a kid.

I get a kind of vicarious thrill from it all.

And it makes me wonder this: if I could design my own stamp, and stamp it on my forehead, what would it say? It wouldn’t be my clinic address, that’s for sure. I can think of a few things.

I am not as uptight as I look today.

I am kinder at heart than I am out loud.

I make heaps of mistakes, but I mean well.

I love it when you make me laugh.

I’ll love you forever if you help me see all of this in a better light.

You are beautiful. I’ll do my best to see this even when you don’t.

I wish you could know my kids.

I want to do a lot more with my life.

Love wins every time.

I’d need a big forehead for all of that, but there you go.

What about your stamp? What would it say?

Thanks to Avery and to you for the conversation,

kristin

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Gump

Posted on November 5, 2009 by kristinshepherd

So I’m in this play called Marvin’s Room, having been cast about three days ago as Marvin, a man who never actually appears to the audience, and who has no dialogue. Not one line. He makes sounds (he’s had a stroke), but that’s it. He’s behind a scrim, so you might see his silhouette if you’re in the first couple of rows in the theatre.

On paper, the role is a tiny one. But it’s turned out to be huge for me.

Cause the first time I was on that table, making those struggling sounds, the sounds that happen when your language circuits have been fried, I thought, jesus, this is my grandfather. My Gump.

My Gump had a stroke when I was a teenager, and sounded just like Marvin afterward. He’d wave his cane around and whack my grandmother if she was within reach. He didn’t like being mute, and I’m not sure he liked my Gran much at that point. A lot of his softness disappeared with the stroke.

I was an idiot as a teenager, and didn’t think much about what his life might be like, unable to say good morning or show me your headstand (he was in his 60’s when he showed me how to stand on my head) or why the hell is all of this happening to my body.

As an idiot teenager, I just thought, this is what happens when you’re old and irrelevant.

Anyway, he died when I was 21 or so. I was a pallbearer and I remember the coffin being inconceivably light. He was hardly there at all by the end.

So I feel as though I’ve been given a chance to be with him again, and do it more humanely than I did the first time.

Yesterday, I bought Marvin a pair of pyjamas to wear during the play. Never mind that no one will see them. They’re a kind of Wedgewood bue with a white pin stripe, and with blue piping. Light, soft, handsome. Like my Gump.

Here’s to being together even when that happens 25 years later.

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Say we’re apples and we want a big, sweet, juicy life

Posted on October 20, 2009 by kristinshepherd
(Or a few thoughts on how to get what we want.)

1. Stop going around saying we’re small and sour.  So what if we are?  We’ll grow into something different, and being sour about being small and sour is a counterproductive drag.
2.  Stop moaning that we’d rather be eggplants.  We’re not this time around.  Somewhere out in the universe, before we got here, we decided to have a go at being an apple.  Make peace with that.
3.  Stop competing with the other apples.  I know we love to be special, but the truth is that If they win, so do we.  We’re all in this together whether or not we get that at this early, sour stage of our life. 
4.  There is absolutely no point in trying to control the leaves, branches, trunk, ground, sunshine, and rain.  Best of luck trying, and thanks for the comedy, but it never works.

So what the hell, you say.  What are we supposed to do?

Let’s try this on:

Why not just spend the day trusting that the universe works, and that we are completely connected to everything that works – to the tree, sure, but even to the sun and the rain.  Trust it even if it’s a stretch.  Just for a day.

Why not relax for one day, dropping our list of wish-i-were-that-instead-of-this’s, have-to-outperform them’s, and management controls, and just see whether or not photosynthesis and growth and sweetness go on without us busting our little apple heads about it?

I have an idea it’ll work. 
Let me know.
Thanks for the conversation,

kristin
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