Once she stuck the suction tube and her hands and all those little torture devices in my mouth, she had her captive audience and got started:

“I just read Eat, Pray, Love….  I don’t know.  I mean,    [Continue reading]]]>
I got my teeth cleaned yesterday, and you know what that means:  another book review from Crystal, my dental hygienist.

Once she stuck the suction tube and her hands and all those little torture devices in my mouth, she had her captive audience and got started:

“I just read Eat, Pray, Love….  I don’t know.  I mean, I learned a lot about Bali and Italy from it that I’d never know otherwise – but that middle section, Pray?   It was like 50, 75 pages of watching paint dry.

“I swear, Julia Roberts couldn’t have known what she was signing up for with this one.   I mean, yoga and deep breathing – it’s boring enough to do, let alone read about it – but watch it at the movies?  I don’t think so.

“My hubby and my ten-year old son and I went to the movies this week-end, and the thought of them sitting there and groaning and complaining through that – uh uh.  We saw that 3-D kids movie instead.

“I’m still gonna see the movie anyway.  I’d rather go alone.  I love Julia – I’m just hoping she’s able to pull something, anything, out of that middle part.”

She squirted some water in my mouth and pulled out all the heavy artillery.

“Okay, you can rinse now.”

Another book review in the can.

Still, I went to yoga. I needed my little yoga group – oh    [Continue reading]]]> Geez, what a day. The little dog spent most of the night wheezing, trying to breathe. He was so weak this morning he couldn’t stand up, and it felt like it was almost time for him to leave us.

Still, I went to yoga. I needed my little yoga group – oh thank you, wonderful friends, for simply being. From the living room of B’s lovely old house filled with cats and a lifetime of treasures, you can see across the sea oats to the ocean. How could you not spend Saturday morning here?

Breathing in, all was peaceful. Then cannon fire drowned out the sound of our chimes. Fort Fisher was re-enacting the Civil War this weekend at the far end of the island.

I don’t understand these battle re-enactments. If I were running them, I’d use buckets and buckets of blood. Real blood. So people could see what war really was. I would just pour buckets of blood on everyone so no one could possibly miss this single fact: War is Hell. It was in 1865; it is in 2010.

But I don’t run war re-enactments and so people thronged to the island to watch people in old-fashioned clothes pretend to kill each other. Then they’d all go out for pizza and ice cream on the boardwalk. We heard cannons above the music of chimes as we breathed in, breathed out.

My phone rang just as we finished walking meditation. It was A. saying we need to get to the animal hospital. It was time. Hugs, tears, and I ran out the door, slamming into the car, hurrying to get home.

Shit. I should have known. Events like Civil War re-enactments bring lots of tourists, and the local police would be out in droves. I pulled to the curb in front of the flashing blue lights, even remembering to use my turn signal. I was already crying, and overwhelmed by the thought that I’d be too late because I was busy getting a speeding ticket. By the time the officer got to my car door I was sobbing those big gulping sobs and I blubbered something about my dog. She looked like she was already sorry she’d pulled me over.

I almost never have flashbacks, but all of a sudden it was 1993 and I was in a McDonald’s parking lot in Nowhere, Pennsylvania with my seven-year-old. My mother had just died. I’d already driven 300 miles that day and still had another 200 to go. We stopped for caffeine and a Happy Meal.

A young woman, maybe 15, was standing in front of me in line, wearing what may have once been a prom dress. She was 6 or 7 months pregnant and the dress hung uneasily over her stomach. She was with a young man with bad skin, bad teeth. They were with a couple of other people. Parents? Siblings? Witnesses? They had just gotten married, I learned standing in line, and here they were in McDonald’s.

I was already pretty numb, and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. When we got back to the car, the battery was dead. I must have left the headlights on when we went in to the restaurant. Would AAA even know how to find me in Nowhere?

I’d left this sad memory long ago and was surprised to find it with me so clearly today. I was, then and now, trapped in a car that could not move, when life or death was waiting, just out of reach, and when time mattered.

By the time the officer finished checking my record, I was sobbing for my mother, for that poor young couple and their baby, for every dog I’ve ever loved, and it felt like the whole car was shaking with my sobs.

She handed back my license and registration. “Be careful driving home. I’m sorry about your dog.” No citation.

I was careful driving home. I pulled into the driveway and heard something I wasn’t expecting to hear: the little dog barking. He’d heard the car, he pulled himself up and when I came up the stairs he ran to the door, wagging his tail at me. Huh?

I don’t know. We went to the animal hospital anyway, since we’d made the appointment. He pranced in on his own, happy to see everyone there. He’d gained some weight. His heart, lungs sounded pretty good. The veterinarian doesn’t know. But I guess the little dog knows. Apparently today wasn’t supposed to be the day, and so he’s keeping on keeping on for a bit. I’m just grateful for that, and so, it seems, is he.

Each week I find I    [Continue reading]]]> Every Saturday at 9 AM, I head for the aptly-named Pleasure Island and B’s warm, welcoming, funky house on the ocean’s edge. For an hour six of us breathe in, breathe out, concentrating on the flow of energy between and among us and the universe.

Each week I find I can hold a pose I could not hold before, balance in ways I didn’t think possible, and focus my breath and movement with an intensity I didn’t know I had, especially not on a Saturday morning.

I like that yoga is called a “practice”. That suggests a process and a journey rather than the embodiment of some kind of perfection.

Seems to me that yoga is a lot like writing. Both take time, effort, concentration, and clarity of focus that comes only with practice. With practice and more than a little grit, yoga and writing can appear effortless — even though they are not. Yes, I do feel that pull in my calf muscles and the struggle to make that metaphor fit. Intensely.

Intensity. Clarity of focus. Grit. Energy.

Here’s to my circle of yoga friends and my circle of writing friends.

Namaste.