Podcast with Nicolle and Noah

It's 11:45 pm, January 21st.  I just arrived back in Philly after spending all day at the Womens March in Washington D.C.  Both my brain and body are beyond the point of exhaustion,  so I will come back to that with a whole lot of depth later. Oh yes, lots to be said...

For now friends, I want to share a podcast I recorded with a dear new friend of mine Noah Julian, (http://www.noahmoves.com/#bio ) yoga teacher and co-owner of the Yoga and Movement Sanctuary in Philadelphia. We discussed openly how I got started with yoga as well as a bit of my journey traveling abroad and beyond. This was the first time I've ever recorded a podcast, but Noah held the flow of the conversation as elegantly as his handstands.  Please excuse all my "yea's and uh huh's and ums."  I'm a work in progress;)  Also, peep some of the photos Noah and I collaborated on, photographed by the amazing Joe Longo http://joelongophotography.photoshelter.com/
 

Hope you enjoy!

http://taoistman.hipcast.com/deluge/taoistman-20170118221115-4339.mp3

Bird Song ~

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.” Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

 

I remember reading The Bell Jar when I was 19 and the above quote jumping out of the pages and tattooing themselves to my brain. It's been awhile since I've thought of it,  and at 5:45 this Sunday morning restless and unable to fall back asleep, this quote was pulled from the archives of my mind in a vivid flash. Resonance.

I surrendered to the sleeplessness, got my bike and peddled. I rode the empty streets of West Philadelphia, through to center center city. It's been 3 months since returning to the U.S.
 

Soft chirping from the birds punctuated the cool air, and adorned the grey sky. There were no fumes from the cars, no pedestrians,  only green lights. The rubber against the pavement like white noise.  I reach the uphill road just after the bridge, staying on the third gear and peddled faster against every thought. 

The noise has been frequent the past 3 months. I've been ignoring it too often, I've realized, and gotten good at it. But I'm aware. When I ignore it, when I go against my truth, the noise only progresses.   The number of drinks on the weekend increase, the irrational & erratic choices, the discontent.  It's been three months and I continue to make sense of it while trying to find the sync. It's the repetitive questions and the same answers. 

 How long will you be back? I don't know. What will you do next? I don't know. How does it feel being back after all these years? I don't know.  Half of them don't care but I spark their curiosity. But the ones that genuinely do care, well, I hope they love and understand.

I come to a three-way intersection and choose the tree lined street. I imagined there were more birds and sweet song down that road, and I was right. I imagined the fig tree Sylvia describes, and I imagined for a moment not having to choose , but feeling content in the unknowing. And the fortitude of having the branches within reach. I would never starve. The breeze in my hair, the subtle change of color in the trees, and the solitude I let swallow me into a blissful abyss. Back to the silence where my heart is the oracle. And I felt home again,  honoring the noise until I could rest from trying to make sense. 

September 2016, USA. Photo by Redlite photos.

 

 

 

Mama Atlas, Mama Marrakech

I ran my fingers over the smooth surface of the Medina, like rose petals caressing a tombstone. I felt the filth and coveted the beauty, inheriting all within the walls. I was lost, still carrying a sweaty fistful of wilting mint in my left hand that had been handed to me to mask the putrid smelling labyrinth of the tanneries I was previously lost in. Animal skins of all sort, being shape-shifted into decadence... even luxury has its hell.

I wanted the real Marrakech,  and it took me by a beggars hand, furled and wove me into the tapestry of a harem pant pocket. I saw how privilege breeds ignorance, and lack of privilege breeds deceit. Hunger and greed everywhere among the locals and tourists, embellished by the intricacies of sublime Moroccan design.

I sit at a picnic bench in the food stalls of Jemaa El Fna . The face of a baby boy, no more than 2 with a face punctuated with bruises and scabs, still imprinted in my memory.  His little hand outstretched towards me holding a small packet of Kleenex,  his eyes dazed in the distance as his mother towers over him waiting for the 4 Dirham exchange for guilt ridden Kleenex.  The poor baby, can barely keep his eyes open from exhaustion, and his face the obvious result of being pulled around negligently as a money maker. Empathy for his mother who was clearly mentally ill, but rage for his innocence succumbed to it all.  Monkeys, pulling at the chain held by its tyrant ,  and the sight of snake charmers mythicized by the sounds of the bansuri.  Perhaps I should have let this wash over me as any tourist, however I realized that never again, can I merely be a visitor in our world,  and not take my surroundings in its entirety to heart. A sentiment birthed after the experiences I've had in the past 2 years.


And then Mama Atlas, in all her swelling dignity. I spent 5 days in the Atlas Mountains, coddling baby goats and lonesome donkeys, and processing more than just the past few days in Marrakech.  She gave me this through meditation;

Mother Atlas, 

give me the energy to grow, to thaw and let go. 

To reign in prowess with humility among humanity. 

To nurture, protect, to forgive and relinquish. 

To observe and not judge, in high humbleness, 

and to remain pronounced through all the changes.

To bloom and flow, and gracefully heed our existence like you,

 Mother Atlas. 

God Bless the Mango Tree

It's 8:30 am in Windsor, England, and I just had a Mango for breakfast for the first time since living in Asia. The nostalgia and memories associated with the scent, the taste, even the pulp between my teeth was enough to fill my eyes with surprising tears.

When I lived on Gili Meno, it was my routine to walk 2 minutes to the little makeshift shop of the village Nenek ( grandmother), and buy two fresh ginormous mangoes from her, for roughly the equivalent of 50 cents.  It was my routine so much that she often put aside 2 of her best mangoes waiting upon my early morning arrival, shooting me that sweet, puerile and toothless child-like grin.  Although we couldn't communicate via words, the mangoes became our language.

So every morning around 7 am, I'd carry my mangoes back to the jungle fortress of my front porch bungalow, strip down to my underwear and go to town . I never nailed the efficiency of the way the Asians have perfected the precise unity of knife and mango, but I suppose part of the fulfillment was eating it messily, slicing pieces of the fruit unskillfully from the pit and scraping every last bit of mango off the skin with my teeth, like a true Neanderthal:p   After my morning mango meditation, I'd rinse the orange evidence off in my salt water shower, and walk to the resort to teach my morning yoga classes.

This morning I stood in an oversized sweater, peering out the kitchen window with flooded eyes at a cascade of English cars in their morning commute as I leaned over the sink , once again scraping the remaining fruit off the skin with my teeth, juice splattering everywhere.

For a moment I was brought back to the songs my heart sang, and often cried in the little Indonesian village of Gili Meno. Every bite contained the vivid red of the hibiscus sea laden across the sandy village of Meno. It contained the laughter of my 3 year old neighbor, the fluidity of the sea turtles in their underwater dance, and the warmth and uncertainty that the yellow and purple skies after sunset beckoned every evening. 

Off.

When you're forced to slow down, the little things are suddenly more prominent.

Last week I walked along the coast of a beach in Melbourne and took a seat next to an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench. He had two dogs, one tiny one sitting on the bench next to him, and a large golden retriever sitting between his knees. Gray old canine face looking up at him as he panted contently. "So what happened?" he asked as he observed my neck brace. I explained, and then listened as he recounted the time he flipped his motorcycle in the 70's while he and his buddies were traveling the west coast of oz. As he spoke, he scratched at his arm and I noticed it started to bleed.  I intentionally took the sunscreen out of my purse and offered him some.  " This sun really is powerful," I said.   He laughed..."it's too late hun, the damage is already done."

These days my life has been sped down tenfold as I continue to heal from injury.

As my friend and I were getting out of her car yesterday she turned and looked at me and outright  said "you've changed, there's something really different about you."  Her comment didn't surprise me because I've felt it too, but have found it difficult to externalize what it is. This may be some of the most introspective days of my life .

I miss my art, incredibly. When I think about the reality that I could have been paralyzed or dead, I get emotional. I don't know where I would be without the ability to move, nor can I imagine it. I've never been much of a speaker, but I can convey the deepest and most intricate stories through my body. It's my fundamental language.  When I climb, I'd feel all my struggles dissipate as my mind and body become enveloped into a moving meditation.  And my yoga practice has been my graceful and supportive counterpart. And now that I'm on a hiatus from my high's , my lows are more prevalent. Maybe I had been using this too much in the form of escapism, and losing the balance. I still believe in a way, this accident has happened to get my attention and slow me down for once.

Life continues on, but I suppose any trauma we face has the inevitable of changing us. I was given a dose of comfort recently when I attended the weekly Melbourne acro jam, when I had a discussion with a woman who knew about my accident and experienced a similar injury. She described how it took a lot of time for her to feel like herself again, and the changes she also underwent. Naturally when life seems to continue on around us when we're in a vulnerable state we cannot control , I think a feeling of isolation is inevitable. My thinking patterns, my body, my existence feels completely out of sync, and no one will ever quite understand.

I had X-rays taken last week, and my dear body has been one hell of a warrior for me. I've gotten permission to begin to take off the neck brace and even engage in a very gentle yoga practice as I start to rehabilitate my neck on my own, three weeks earlier than expected.  The task of looking left , right, up or down is excruciating since my neck has been immobile for so long. A few days ago after moving my neck around a bit and doing several modified sun salutations, my neck was feeling really good. But the next morning I woke up in agony and extreme discomfort all day. Another reminder, that I need to abide in time and patience.



Random Musings I want to remember 2/9/16.

Reflections from the ground up.

I arrived in Melbourne with a fueled fire and the intention to set my last months in Australia ablaze, to bring catharsis to the cloud that has hovered for nearly the majority of my stay here. That damn cloud, punctuated in its altruistic sky has been extracting the darkness and precipitating light on my path all along.  A realization that my fickle cloud frienemy has actually been of service throughout my journey in Oz.

I knew the only way I'd be happy was to step further outside my comfort to bring my desires to fruition. I spent the past five months in Brisbane training my ass off at an all women's Circus school and advancing in my aerial practice which I was ready to make use of. For so long I had been putting my energy into everyone but myself. My self was calling, practically screaming to feel the freedom it once felt. And so with dedication I was ready to recommit to myself. Beyond the luster of how most perceive my 'travels,' the struggle has remained obscure. 

I've lived in a hostel for the past month, watching the numbers from my bank account deplete while in the process of pushing myself relentlessly to honor my passion.  While my 20 - something- year old hostel mates urged me to join them in the many events going on in the city, I retreated to the library most evenings where the wifi was strong and the ambiance quiet. I've spent sleepless hours writing emails, visiting studios, getting lost in unknown neighborhoods, auditioning, and small talking strangers. I found a warehouse space 45 minutes outside the city to train aerial silk, and by my third day in Melbourne I was taking the train there 5 days a week to keep my body in shape if an opportunity to perform was to arise. 
But after one month, I was left with little money, still no job, and the inconsistency and discomfort of hostel life began to weigh on me. It was the same story over again, yoga studios and everyone I spoke with didn't want to hire me because of my temporary visa. I was also competing with quite a saturated market.

I became stressed about my finances, questioning where all my efforts were leading me, if anywhere. I thought of throwing in the towel of my two year journey , contemplating going back to my my home city where an established life would grant me opportunity easily. But easy never appeases me. Reluctantly, I was also on the verge of applying for any job just to earn some money, although I knew I would be denying myself by doing this. And then my body retaliated from all the exhaustion.  I came down with a fever, body aches, and felt as though I was burning from the inside out. I know my body well, and anytime this happens I feel as though life is sending me a message, and then some sort of change typically takes place. In this moment, my body was pleading for me to give it a rest.

 
In the midst of a 102 fever and feeling pushed to my edge, the tragedy in France struck. I felt an accumulated ache for the images of innocent refugee children and families being burdened for their existence, for the savage madness begetting death not only in France, but across the globe chaos has been vitiating all over the world. 

And then my heart cracked. Like a roaring wave the realization of my purpose flowed out.  I felt an immense fervor to push on for those who cannot. The suffering of others has been my motivation to continue to push forth in my teaching, and my personal practice. I found society to be perpetuating the languid ideology that "our world is fucked," or ''there's no hope for humanity."  These futile beliefs will not serve us as individuals, or the greater good. Apathy will kill you.

Through helping others, my own suffering is alleviated, and the way I help is through my art, or my (heART) , as I like to say.  It's an irreplaceable feeling of bliss in my world. This bliss comes in the delivery of a simple "thank you, I feel great " from a student who appreciated my yoga class. This bliss is experienced in the surrendered weight of a students head in my hands as I make sure to administer a 20 second head massage to every single one of my students in sivasana.  A couple weeks ago when I was in the warehouse practicing,  a timid aboriginal woman who had been cleaning the space approached me, expressing how moved she was to watch me practice. And so I made her take off her shoes and urged her to let me teach her a few things. The laughter and smile of triumph that accompanied her self doubt when she mastered three climbs on the silk, let me tell you...the joy I felt in that moment illuminated the brightest rainbow over a very cold and grey Melbourne day. This bliss, is what keeps me going.

If we all start small and share any little ounce of light we have in even the tiniest of cracks, we will be contributing to a better existence. Through loving ourselves, as painful as it is to face the demons that come along with it, and withdrawing the knives we have pierced our regrets with. The wake of human destruction can be an opportune time for reconstruction of our approach to it all, or simply the 24 hours set out before you. It's a time of empathy and educating ourselves on one another, because the truth is that we are inseparable. I find myself reading articles fervidly, wanting to have a greater understanding of the root of all this hatred, and educating myself on my own country's history at war that I admittedly have turned a blind eye to in the past. I'm making effort to make peace with various aspects of my life, and to show unconditional love even if it may feel unwarranted or unreciprocated.

I know I'm starting to sound a bit Paulo Coelho-ish  now, but sincerely , it was almost in the exact moment that I decided to persevere for my purpose that the sky opened up. The catharsis I sought after...

I write this as I sit on my yoga mat, waiting to teach my first class in one of the best yoga studios in the city of Melbourne.  I'm teaching weekly workshops and yoga classes at other locations in the city, have various projects in the works, and will be performing in a show on December 5th for a charity event alongside some beautiful and incredibly talented new friends. 

When life kicked, I chose to kick back harder. When you commit to your innate self, there is no such thing as rejection. It seizes to exist. So... persevere persevere persevere my friends, for the rest of your life. And never stop loving. Without the darkness, how else are we supposed to appreciate the sunrise?  ;)

  
 “The best antidote I know for worry is work. The best cure for weariness is the challenge of helping someone who is even more tired. One of the great ironies of life is this: He or she who serves almost always benefits more than he or she who is served.” Gordon B. Hinckley

The Exhale.

And then I realized, most of my life I've had a great fear of loss.  I have spent too much time rebelling against the forces of nature, and have dug my claws too deeply into what was never meant to be mine.

This year has been a lesson on recycling pain into a new lens.

It has been nearly a year that I arrived in Australia feeling vulnerable and heartbroken, not to mention that life took no mercy and threw some cliffs and trenches along the way.  I say 'heart broken' in the exaggerated sense that I was deeply in love with a man, and I fought to the point of losing myself to make our relationship work, even though deep down my soul was telling me that it wasn't right.  (The fallacies of a stubborn taurus woman with too much passion.) With him, I did not feel whole. Every voice within told me to let go, but I couldn't bear the thought of losing someone I loved, or the pain that came with the idea of him no longer loving me back. I could not forfeit the transparency and trust I relinquished to him. So I hung on to false green pastures. And with unashamed admittance, I was a grown woman still afraid of abandonment.  It has taken time, confrontational aloneness, and a very broken heart for me to break it open and find my way back to myself.

I've spent some time working for a beautiful family, looking after their 2 and 5 yr. old boys.  Living within a 'normal' family dynamic made me aware of things I had yet to face. This realization came to me whenever the boys wrapped their arms around their daddy when he walked through the door, and my heart felt immense pain and beauty all at once.  I would never have a father that is capable of this role, and hadn't realized the significance of the denial I thought I had concurred long ago. 

 It was an intense awakening that there were still parts of my being that felt incomplete. An incompleteness that has lead to immaturity, unfulfillment, and fulfillment seeking patterns in all my relationships. In the past I became an expert at supressing sadness, only to have it manifest itself into deep depression and resurface (usually under the influence of alcohol) in which I was quick to bury it again.  I've competed with this void by wearing a facade of armour, and diminishing any feeling that involved defeat, even if that meant being dishonest with myself at times. As a child, I had my mechanisms of combating the things I could not control.  I felt an unhealthy need to be the best at everything, a perfectionist, in an attempt to seek love from where it was lacking and to feel somewhat in control.

I'm sharing a small piece of my reality not for pity, but as a message to whoever is reading. The pain we experience in life, in whatever form it comes, from death of a loved one to heart break, this pain is not working against you, and is not the evil nemesis we make it out to be. See pain as a companion, sitting next to you and asking for acknowledgment, reminding you of your aliveness, and all the creativity and beauty it can bring forth to assist you in becoming your rawest, most humane form of you. One of the most tragic things about humanity is that many people never know how to manage their grief.  They carry it around them, too afraid to puncture its bubble, allowing their suffering to stifle their truth. They feel they are a victim of life, and this perpetuates into a vicious cycle where hostility and greater problems breed and hone, often taking innocent people.  Do not allow yourself to deteriorate from existence this way.  There must come a time when we release ourselves from our own prison. No one else is going to write your story for you, and I promise you...you have all you need within to give life to yourself.  

Nicolle