Mind. Body. Spirit.
At the end of each yoga class, my yoga instructor guides us through the following sequence:
It took a few months of up and down, one serious incident in December, and a conscious "letting go" to clear space to let new things in, but I think I might be on my way.
I spent a lot of time in my early adult years rushing the journey. I was so focused on the destination, I didn't stop to take in the wonders around me. I felt like nobody took me seriously. I put away things I considered foolish--my dreams, my art, my writing--I stifled creative impulses for a more worthy quest. Something logical. Responsible. Like a career. An MBA. Serious pursuits. And it was miserable. It has been like trying to walk around in the wrong size shoes. In the months during and immediately following completion of my MBA, there was no writing. There was no drawing. There was no dreaming. I was terrified that by ignoring and burying talents that were so seamlessly part of me, I had suffocated and killed them. I would open my laptop, read through stories started long ago, and feel like a fool. I would open a story with every intention of adding to it, but the words would not flow. The cursor would blink back at me, taunting me, until I finally closed the laptop and skulked away.
Last Sunday, I had an idea. One of those "wouldn't it be funny if..." cases of mistaken identity. I'm a lover of what I refer to as "ambidextrous" names, more appropriately "unisex" or "non-gender specific." For a long time, I've bestowed traditionally male names on my female characters. For this story, the two main characters have names that traditionally belong to the opposite gender. I had one scene in mind and sat down to write it before I forgot it. Unexpectedly, the story presented itself. My fingers flew over the keys. I sat down with the midday sun shining through the windows and didn't move. Ten hours and 15,000+ words later, exhaustion finally creeping in, I sat back and stared at my computer. The longest spurt of writing prior to that was eight pages. I had been (and still am) so proud of those eight pages. Now, five years after that, I cranked out 15,000+ words. It was as if I was seized by a bout of Holy Spirit creativity!
So what does it matter? My life is still full of more questions than answers. I have no idea where the next steps will lead. But I'm finally, for the first time in my life, mostly okay with that. (Note "mostly okay" vs. "all okay.") A recently found blog sums it best: "trust the process." As an artist, I spent hours as a child creating scenes only I could see. I was able to start it, leave, and then come back to it. Nobody but me could see the scene I was creating on the page before it was complete; but I knew exactly what was going on. It was a process. If I would have been aware of that phrase--"trust the process"--as a child, I most likely would have used it quite liberally. Realizing that the journey is like a work of art, a story--it's a process. As a writer and an artist, I can appreciate the work that goes into creating a piece. I need to take that same philosophy and apply it to my own life.
"Trust the process." Right here, in this moment, I have a sense of true peace and enjoyment. It doesn't mean I don't have bad days. I still struggle with abandoned hopes and dreams. I still get blindsided with feelings of desperation. Anxieties periodically rear their ugly heads. But this perspective helps: It's part of the process. I am confident of this passage from Philippians 1:6 - "...He who began a good work in you will carry it onto completion..."(NIV) The Message version is a bit more dramatic, and I like it too - "There has never been the slightest doubt in my mind that the God who started this great work in you would keep at it and bring it to a flourishing finish..."
When my insecurities corner me and threaten to throw me off my game, I try to focus on this verse, say a quick prayer and take three deep breaths.
A breath for the mind.
A breath for the body.
And a breath for the spirit.
Namaste.
And may you have the patience to believe that He who began a good work in you will see it through to the finish. A flourishing finish.
"Take a breath for your mind." (Breath in through the nose. Breath out through the nose.)
"Your body." (Breath in through the nose. Breath out through the nose.)
"And for the spirit." (Breath in through the nose. Breath out through the nose.)
We then press our hands to heart's center, and bow, saying "Namaste."
We usually clap afterwards. At least I do. Depending on how hard I pushed my body the day before, I might clap in relief that I survived. Other days (like today) it was just a kick-arse class. It deserved a round of applause!! It was just my yoga instructor/buddy and I, which always makes things more fun. We were both fried from squats so thank goodness for the various poses that stretched those sore muscles! Sadly, the calf pain kicked in, but I think (read: hope) it will be okay. Pittsburgh, like much of the Northeast, is experiencing an unorthodoxically (is that a word?) warm March. I can't remember the last time it was below 70 degrees. It is that weird "A/C or no A/C" conundrum. Just like the gym got colder heading into winter, as the "heat or no heat" question was in the air, the gym is getting progressively hotter with each yoga class. Great workout, but sometimes harrowing. During a series of spider push ups, one very clear thought came to mind: If my sweaty palms slide on this wood floor, my abs are too sore from Thursday's pilates to catch myself or slow the fall. That would mean face plant and possible broken nose. Thankfully, we did one round of that circuit. I prefer the warmer studio. I just need a bowl of chalk dust for my palms and the soles of my feet. Right?
So the point of this "mind, body, spirit" talk is that I feel like there is something big happening. Something deep. Something I can't yet put many coherent words to. I feel as if I need to press my hands to heart's center and say "namaste"--the spirit in me respects the spirit in you--that is, God, whatever you're doing, I respect it--help me understand it. My journal is quickly filling, so full are my thoughts through this all. During this Lenten season, my focus has not so much been on "giving up" but instead "adding to"--as in adding more time to my personal growth. I think that the journey began last summer in Nebraska. Traveling to see my brother, we hopscotched to Lincoln, piled into our rental, picked him up about an hour away, and continued westward. The final destination was Mt. Rushmore. It was roughly ten hours from Dan's booming town (population: 351) to the Black Hills of South Dakota. The scenery was mostly the same, but it was so different from the East Coast. The land had a desolate beauty about it and I was struck by the foreign ruggedness. I was overwhelmed by it all. I'm inarguably the overly contemplative one in my family. I spent most of our car time in quiet solitude just absorbing everything I was seeing. I had odd feelings involving thoughts like "settling down" in that place. Things still seemed untouched. A bit wild. I think those were the elements that spoke to my spirit on the trip. Desolate. Untouched. Wild. Beautiful. I felt close to God. I realized I wanted more of that.
"Your body." (Breath in through the nose. Breath out through the nose.)
"And for the spirit." (Breath in through the nose. Breath out through the nose.)
We then press our hands to heart's center, and bow, saying "Namaste."
We usually clap afterwards. At least I do. Depending on how hard I pushed my body the day before, I might clap in relief that I survived. Other days (like today) it was just a kick-arse class. It deserved a round of applause!! It was just my yoga instructor/buddy and I, which always makes things more fun. We were both fried from squats so thank goodness for the various poses that stretched those sore muscles! Sadly, the calf pain kicked in, but I think (read: hope) it will be okay. Pittsburgh, like much of the Northeast, is experiencing an unorthodoxically (is that a word?) warm March. I can't remember the last time it was below 70 degrees. It is that weird "A/C or no A/C" conundrum. Just like the gym got colder heading into winter, as the "heat or no heat" question was in the air, the gym is getting progressively hotter with each yoga class. Great workout, but sometimes harrowing. During a series of spider push ups, one very clear thought came to mind: If my sweaty palms slide on this wood floor, my abs are too sore from Thursday's pilates to catch myself or slow the fall. That would mean face plant and possible broken nose. Thankfully, we did one round of that circuit. I prefer the warmer studio. I just need a bowl of chalk dust for my palms and the soles of my feet. Right?
So the point of this "mind, body, spirit" talk is that I feel like there is something big happening. Something deep. Something I can't yet put many coherent words to. I feel as if I need to press my hands to heart's center and say "namaste"--the spirit in me respects the spirit in you--that is, God, whatever you're doing, I respect it--help me understand it. My journal is quickly filling, so full are my thoughts through this all. During this Lenten season, my focus has not so much been on "giving up" but instead "adding to"--as in adding more time to my personal growth. I think that the journey began last summer in Nebraska. Traveling to see my brother, we hopscotched to Lincoln, piled into our rental, picked him up about an hour away, and continued westward. The final destination was Mt. Rushmore. It was roughly ten hours from Dan's booming town (population: 351) to the Black Hills of South Dakota. The scenery was mostly the same, but it was so different from the East Coast. The land had a desolate beauty about it and I was struck by the foreign ruggedness. I was overwhelmed by it all. I'm inarguably the overly contemplative one in my family. I spent most of our car time in quiet solitude just absorbing everything I was seeing. I had odd feelings involving thoughts like "settling down" in that place. Things still seemed untouched. A bit wild. I think those were the elements that spoke to my spirit on the trip. Desolate. Untouched. Wild. Beautiful. I felt close to God. I realized I wanted more of that.
It took a few months of up and down, one serious incident in December, and a conscious "letting go" to clear space to let new things in, but I think I might be on my way.
I spent a lot of time in my early adult years rushing the journey. I was so focused on the destination, I didn't stop to take in the wonders around me. I felt like nobody took me seriously. I put away things I considered foolish--my dreams, my art, my writing--I stifled creative impulses for a more worthy quest. Something logical. Responsible. Like a career. An MBA. Serious pursuits. And it was miserable. It has been like trying to walk around in the wrong size shoes. In the months during and immediately following completion of my MBA, there was no writing. There was no drawing. There was no dreaming. I was terrified that by ignoring and burying talents that were so seamlessly part of me, I had suffocated and killed them. I would open my laptop, read through stories started long ago, and feel like a fool. I would open a story with every intention of adding to it, but the words would not flow. The cursor would blink back at me, taunting me, until I finally closed the laptop and skulked away.
Last Sunday, I had an idea. One of those "wouldn't it be funny if..." cases of mistaken identity. I'm a lover of what I refer to as "ambidextrous" names, more appropriately "unisex" or "non-gender specific." For a long time, I've bestowed traditionally male names on my female characters. For this story, the two main characters have names that traditionally belong to the opposite gender. I had one scene in mind and sat down to write it before I forgot it. Unexpectedly, the story presented itself. My fingers flew over the keys. I sat down with the midday sun shining through the windows and didn't move. Ten hours and 15,000+ words later, exhaustion finally creeping in, I sat back and stared at my computer. The longest spurt of writing prior to that was eight pages. I had been (and still am) so proud of those eight pages. Now, five years after that, I cranked out 15,000+ words. It was as if I was seized by a bout of Holy Spirit creativity!
So what does it matter? My life is still full of more questions than answers. I have no idea where the next steps will lead. But I'm finally, for the first time in my life, mostly okay with that. (Note "mostly okay" vs. "all okay.") A recently found blog sums it best: "trust the process." As an artist, I spent hours as a child creating scenes only I could see. I was able to start it, leave, and then come back to it. Nobody but me could see the scene I was creating on the page before it was complete; but I knew exactly what was going on. It was a process. If I would have been aware of that phrase--"trust the process"--as a child, I most likely would have used it quite liberally. Realizing that the journey is like a work of art, a story--it's a process. As a writer and an artist, I can appreciate the work that goes into creating a piece. I need to take that same philosophy and apply it to my own life.
"Trust the process." Right here, in this moment, I have a sense of true peace and enjoyment. It doesn't mean I don't have bad days. I still struggle with abandoned hopes and dreams. I still get blindsided with feelings of desperation. Anxieties periodically rear their ugly heads. But this perspective helps: It's part of the process. I am confident of this passage from Philippians 1:6 - "...He who began a good work in you will carry it onto completion..."(NIV) The Message version is a bit more dramatic, and I like it too - "There has never been the slightest doubt in my mind that the God who started this great work in you would keep at it and bring it to a flourishing finish..."
When my insecurities corner me and threaten to throw me off my game, I try to focus on this verse, say a quick prayer and take three deep breaths.
A breath for the mind.
A breath for the body.
And a breath for the spirit.
Namaste.
And may you have the patience to believe that He who began a good work in you will see it through to the finish. A flourishing finish.
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