At Spirit Rock last Monday, Jack Kornfield shared this story–it’s one of my favorite anecdotes…

{Activist Fran Peavey writes:] One day I was walking through the Stanford University campus with a friend when I saw a crowd of people with cameras and video equipment on a little hillside. They were clustered around a pair of chimpanzees – a male running loose and a female on a chain about twenty-five feet long. It turned out the male was from Marine World and the female was being studied for something or other at Stanford. The spectators were scientists and publicity people trying to get them to mate.

The male was eager. He grunted and grabbed the female’s chain and tugged. She whimpered and backed away. He pulled again. She pulled back. Watching the chimps’ faces, I [a woman] began to feel sympathy for the female.

Suddenly the female chimp yanked her chain out of the male’s grasp. To my amazement, she walked through the crowd, straight over to me, and took my hand. Then she led me across the circle to the only other two women in the crowd, and she joined hands with one of them. The three of us stood together in a circle. I remember the feeling of that rough palm against mine. The little chimp had recognized us and reached out across all the years of evolution to form her own support group.
Quoted from Fran Peavey
Heart Politics (New Society Publishers, 1986), p. 176

When I sent out my e-newsletter, I got back this very funny reply from my high school friend Jamie Winslow (he’s part of a very cool nonprofit–The Salute Military Golf Association–they offer golf as a therapeutic outlet for soldiers undergoing prolonged treatment at Walter Reed Hospital).

Lisa,

Be very careful…back in the old daze, when I used to go to my happy place and contort my body in a myriad of similar pretzel-like manifestations, I too experienced hair levitation. I got so adept at the practice, particularly during stressful times–the first tee at major golf tournaments; public speaking engagements before short, Japanese businessmen; and even at the birth of my first-born son–that my hair literally left my head, sometimes hanging in mid-air for the splittest of seconds before falling to the ground never to return to its once proud follicle. Well, you’ve seen the result, there’s precious little hair left to levitate.

Now, I know what you’re saying. And I agree. It’s true, it’s true…few have, few will ever reach the sheer heights that unabashed hair levitation requires…Still, as Swami Muktananda teaches, hair levitation is serious bizness. You know this; I don’t have to tell you. But I learned my lesson too late. Please, I implore you to remember the teachings of power yoga as taught by the masters in Himachal Pradesh, India, to channel this energy more evenly throughout the body. I too once thought that hair levitation was the path to true Nirvana, what I found is that it’s only the path to a cheaper haircut.

Ok, I am trying to jot off a quick blog before I settle down and transcribe an interview for an article due very soon (too soon).

It’s a cold, rainy day in Marin County and I’ve decided to work in the library in Corte Madera because if I go home I may disappear into Facebook or MASH DVDs and I’ve got too much work to do…so to comfort myself, I’ve snuck in some healthy food (tempeh, daikon, carrots and broccoli–the uninitiated palate may disagree that this counts as nourishment, but I’m healing my nose from getting a skin cancer patch removed so am diligently being healthy–even though I wanted so, so badly (heart-poundingly badly) to order a mocha latte from Peet’s–but I didn’t. I bravely ordered a large (go wild!) Genmaicha (green tea with toasted brown rice). Which I also snuck in along with a baggie full of supplements. (I still love pills.) So now I’m tucked into my little study carrel, breaking library law. But enjoying myself. Kind of.

But the reunion, you say, how was it?!!

Fantastic!!! In the photo are people I have known for 29 years. People that have known all sides of me and still love me. It’s wonderful to see people build lives and realize dreams…to see the wild bunch become parents. To see that everyone looks better with a little age on them.

Some things never change, though.

Dinner at Houston’s in Bethesda was a scene! 9 of us crammed in a booth. People asking to be moved away from us because we were so loud–a $700 bill–more than half was alcohol I’m sure. Love this about my diehard friends. Even though I gave up drinking and drugging long ago, they still go at it with the same Olympic enthusiasm that they’ve possessed for three decades. My stomach hurt from laughing so hard.

The event itself, held at The Barking Dog, was super fun. Reconnecting with people who remembered eating stuffed mushrooms at my prom party (Darren Cave!), playing pool with Mike D, my brother Chris and my surrogate brother, Brett. (I could go on, but there’s this interview I’m supposed to be transcribing…)

My brother and I drove all around Rockville on our way home, getting all nostalgic and weepy (I was anyway). Rockville High School, Wood Junior High, Manor Country Club, our old house. Scotty’s house, Babette’s house, Mike and Diana’s house, Betsy’s house, Brett’s house, Delpo’s house, Chris Steed’s house, St. Patrick’s church. Coming face to face with some of the best parts of my past and some of the worst (I did not always behave well under the influence of tequila). Returning to salvage friendships and reframe the past as a rich tapestry–a little threadbare in some places, a few snags, but all in all, a beautiful work of art.

My prom date (twice) Chris Steed, now known as Chris Cannon, is a DJ for a Classic Rock station in Crossville, Tennessee.

I needed a prom date because I blew it with my boyfriend, and so I asked Chris, who was a good friend of mine and my brother’s. The next year when he needed a prom date, he asked me. We’re still friends.

He’s not able to make it to the reunion (bummer) and when he emailed me yesterday and asked me to call him right away, I thought maybe he changed his mind.

So I called him.

Since he’s turned Southern on us and become a DJ, he’s got this really stylized, raspy, sexy voice that he knows how to work. And he is a charmer…so he starts in on me “Hey babe, how you DOin’? I just need to know why a woman as cool as you has never gotten married?”

Silence.

Not the question I wanted to hear. Especially since I have no idea why I have never gotten married either. That fact surprises me, too.

He goes on to say, “You battin’ for the other team?”

I shake my head, cracking up. “No, not batting for the other team…” I’m still scrambling to think of a good reason why I haven’t walked down the aisle.

I mean, I’m already sure that I’m the only one who’s going to show up at the reunion in a bad outfit, now I get to be the loser who never got married.

That’s how my mind thinks.

I guess I could’ve gotten married a few times, but it just wasn’t right. And for sure if I had gotten married, I wouldn’t be married now. Maybe I just like being single? I date, I have male friends, I have great girlfriends, I have a great social life. I suppose I just never made marriage a goal. But then, I haven’t felt ready to be that committed. I’m still sorting out who I am in relationships. I have a lot to learn.

I have a lot to unlearn.

And I still haven’t gotten used to the idea that I’m 43. I still think like I’m in my 20’s, like I have forever to get the pieces into place. I’m not even sure what the pieces are.

It has been a busy week for me–getting ready to go east for my 25th high school reunion.

25 years.

Of course I have butterflies in my stomach about the ex-boyfriend and whether or not he’ll be there. Of course I have butterflies in my stomach about all the stupid things I did and whether or not anyone will remember them. I’ve already been reminded of the time I got caught peeing in the parking lot on a road trip to Ocean City after consuming large quantities of Budweiser. How come these people smoked as much pot as I did and can still remember these things? Even now that I’ve been sober awhile my memory still sucks.

Going east is hard enough for a Californian. But going east AND going to a high school reunion is a new level of pressure. And the dress code for the event is “Business Casual.” Help? I teach yoga and wear stretchy pants and tank tops. On a fancy day, I’ll throw a little skirt over my pants and add a necklace. I don’t own khaki. I don’t want to buy khaki. I cannot support khaki in any way.

My daughter has become a little fashionista while I have slid far down the fashion hill. I mean, come on, my hometown’s slogan is “Mayberry on Acid.” Not that I don’t love fashion–I just don’t bother with it much, except to watch it like a spectator sport, on the street or in Sex in the City videos.

So I was pretty proud of myself with the outfit I pulled together. Thinking it was the perfect combination of casual-California-yoga meets suburban-Washington DC-business casual, I tried on my outfit and showed it to my daughter, awaiting her approval like she was the popular girl and I, a mere wanna-be.

She took one look and shrieked in horror. “MOM-MEE! YOU LOOK LIKE A HIPPIE OLD LADY!” Now, even though I take this with a grain of salt, I could kind of see her point. My stomach sank. She crossed her arms across her chest, saying with maternal firmness, “You can wear the shoes..and the bag..and that’s it.

That evening, on red alert, I borrowed a bunch of dresses from my girlfriend Debra (the Carrie Bradshaw of Marin County). None of them worked.

My mind started scurrying over all the possibilities for salvaging my wardrobe with only two days left before lift off and no time to shop. At this point, my bedroom looks like the dressing room at Macy’s after the Thanksgiving Weekend sale. This is not who I am. It usually takes me about five minutes to get dressed.

But then I thought, why do I care so much? Why do I want to look just right? Can it be that I am caught up in the high school fever of trying to be perfect? Could it be okay for me to just let go, once again, of the pressure of pretending that I have got it all together? Could I just be myself and trust that that is enough, yoga pants and all?

I think about ex-cheerleaders Angie Maloney and Paige Luther and I’m sure that they are going to have the perfect business casual outfit, chic and cool and perfectly appropriate. I think of the guys in their polo shirts and khakis and am glad I’m a girl. I think about my new found friend, my high school classmate Diana de Avila, (we didn’t hang out in high school–although I was friends with her cute twin brother Mike). She came out as a lesbian and makes kickass music and is courageously dealing with MS. She’s clearly too cool to care what she wears.

So I borrow a little bit of her chutzpah and surrender to wearing something I’ve got. To just being myself.

I’m lying on my back, gazing at a ceiling fan that is apparently on. I see it turning, but I feel nothing of its effects. My heart is pounding in my ears, nearly drowning out the sound of the large industrial heaters that are cranked to 105 degrees. Sweat is pouring across my skin as though someone were standing above me with a fire hose.

I wish they were.

Did I mention it’s hot?

Someone asked me the other day how I liked Bikram Yoga. My response? “Well, other than the struggle to survive without passing out or throwing up, it’s pretty great.”

For an hour and a half we do a set series of postures–twice. I’ve done it a few times now, and it’s changing me. I have some tightness in my middle back and some compression in my lower spine, and if I don’t practice yoga, I’m in constant pain. The crippling kind. Since doing this insane style of yoga, I am better.

I remind myself of that while I’m lying there wondering if the fan is really on or if I’m hallucinating. Somewhere off in the distance, I vaguely hear the teacher crack the window open, and almost instantly feel a cool breeze wash across my body. I gulp it in with gratitude. There’s something about being taken to the edge that makes you weak with relief when something nice happens to you. I suddenly love that teacher.

Except for the occasional “get me the hell out of here” and “help me, God” prayers, my mind stops when I’m in Bikram. That’s the best part. And when I leave, I feel peaceful and contented (especially after a shower and a huge bottle of cold water). It’s like taking a Quaalude, but infinitely better. In the afterglow, I love my life. I love everyone. Everything is okay.

Red Dragon

Bikram San Rafael

Yoga !08

When I want to discipline my daughter, I tell her I’m going to make her wear Crocs…she cries out in fear and falls right into line…

Can someone please tell me what is so great about Crocs? They are made of plastic, ugly as sin and must make your feet smell like hell…and they’re coming out with new styles and colors so everyone in your family can look like Minnie Mouse…

More trash, anyone? Or are they made of recycled something? Help?

???

This coming weekend is the Yoga Journal Conference in San Francisco! While the jaded part of me wants to stay home and watch old episodes of Bewitched and hide from the crowds, the curious part of me wants to reach out and connect with my ever-widening circle of friends and colleagues.

Although the Yoga Journal Conference may not draw the several million pilgrims and sadhus that India’s Khumba Mela has for 3 thousand years, it’s the closest we can get to this ancient yoga festival (at least we don’t have to smear ourselves with ashes from cremated bodies–although I reserve the right to do so should the mood strike).

Last year I was moved to tears by Natasha Rizopoulos and Seane Corn; the year before Ana Forrest blew my mind wide open with her asana demonstration–showing how limitations can dissolve with dedicated practice. I don’t know what will happen this year and that’s part of the magic. Just letting go into the fire…

This year, I, Lisa Maria, resolve to love more, give more (especially to myself), be more awake, patient and kind. I resolve to keep my car clean and go to bed on time. I resolve to be punctual 90% of the time (trying to be realistic). I better stop there, because I can feel myself getting on a perfection roll, and that’s just not good.

I can try to remember that we’re all doing the best we can, and that even though we don’t really like how other people do things some (or all) of the time, that I’m not perfect either.

Last night our down home New Year’s Eve was quite a success, but not at first. My daughter seems to not like how I do things very much these days, and I have to say that I feel kind of the same way about her. I was irritated at the dynamic between us. So I snapped at her in front of her friends–twice–for minor infractions that were inflated due to their numerous repetition. Yuck.

But I can let her off the hook and best of all, I can let myself off the hook. We’re all like children in these adult bodies, flailing around with our hopes, our fears, our internal conditioning. And sometimes we just can’t seem to get it right. One thing I do know, is that I was a sober, present mom last night. No strange men, no violence, no injuries, bruises or bullying.

We made Treasure Collages for what we intend to create in 2008 and toasted each other with sparkling apple juice from Trader Joe’s. We danced to George Harrison, Nelly Furtado, Gwen Stefani, Black-Eyed Peas and Rihanna, and they were kind enough to not make fun of me too much. We got to count down to 2008 all piled on my bed in pajamas, talking about boys and braiding hair.

Best part?

No hangover…