Put me in a room heated to 105-degrees, give me approximately an hour and a half, lead me through 26 postures and two breathing exercises and I will change my perspective on pretty much everything.
Boho Girl just finished the Master Cleanse. A tweeter I know is juice fasting. It got me thinking about the whole idea once again.
I did the Master Cleanse once about ten years ago. Three days in I had hives and an uncontrollable crying jag. But, now, I’m not so sure.
After all the stress of the move, and not having a routine, my eating habits definitely need to be reset. Some days I ingest nothing but tea until dinnertime, then feel groggy and dizzy. Other days I’m onto second breakfast before the dishes from first breakfast are cleaned.
In the mirror, my skin looks gray. I have dark circles under my eyes. My pants don’t quiet fit like they used to. And I think it all has something to do with bourbon beer and pizza being my new go-to meal.
Because I did the lemonade craziness once without much positive effect, I wonder if it’s the right way to go for me. It might be too drastic. Although, my body is certainly different now than it was back then.
What I know for sure is that I need to reset. Whether it’s juicing, raw foods or lemons I’m not sure. In the meantime, if any one has had any positive food-cleanse experiences, I’d love to hear about them.
In trying to find the best photo to accompany a post about my first snowboarding experience, I sifted through some really beautiful shots of the mountain. But, in the end, I think this jug of microbrew from Double Mountain brewery just feels right.
My anticipation on the drive up was balanced out by a healthy level of terror – considering I was about to buckle myself on to an overgrown skateboard and hurl myself down the side of a mountain. For fun.
Everyone says the first day of snowboarding is the toughest. And if that’s not true I am seriously going to hurt someone. Because yesterday? Sucked. After a two-hour lesson I was so cranky that I almost cried into my greek pita lunch.
Here’s the thing I am surely starting to realize about myself: I am not a trooper. I’m just not. I would be a horrible soldier of any kind. I used to think Krishna was a whiner, but no. Nothing can top how badly I did not want to go back up that mountain after our lunch break, and I found a Gita’s worth of excuses not to do it.
And though I begged my way out of having to brave the lift again (who missed the chair? me. who flew into the barrier on the way off? me), I went back out onto the meadows for another hour or so. By the end of the day my boarding skills were beginning to measure up to my bike-riding abilities. Which basically means that I can move forward, and fast, but there is absolutely no way to stop except to throw myself, as gently as I can manage, into the earth.
My falling-down technique was pretty solid by the end of the day: Turn the board parallel to the bottom of the slop and pull up with my toes, digging my heels into the hill – which, for many, will just help them slow down. But I choose to continue the lean and fall on my ass. I find this much preferable to the toes-down method (which means falling on my face) that I also tested out quite a few times.
The best part of the day was the pizza and beer dinner. Mostly because it is safe inside, and my feet were free to move independently from one another.
Today I am sore in places I didn’t even know I used, and there’s a muscle fluttering for attention behind my right scapula. I have two more lessons paid for, and I will take them. I promise I will. With any amount of luck or grace I will not wipe out an entire tour group of show-offy ten-year-olds.
Frankly, I have no idea what any of this has to do with yoga. I’m thinking, hard. Something maybe about grace? Or finding my own personal edge? I’ll let you know when I figure it out. Maybe after my next lesson.
More on Hood River impressions here.
It’s official. I live in Oregon. We live in Oregon. Me, the man and the dog have moved over 2,000 miles from the city that never sleeps to the sleepy town that starts drinking beers at 2 pm.
I’ve bought flannel at Wal*Mart, eaten Annie’s Mac and Cheese for midnight dinner after a long day of unpacking, and been to the recycling center with our station wagon more times than I ever thought possible.
I’ve unpacked the yoga mats. Unboxed my rechargeable flameless candles, the Buddha head (now with broken hair-bun), and the iPod speaker thing to play my yogadownloads.
I have not at all, in fact, been on the mat.
Yoga, a practice I rely on to help me through transitions, emotions, upheavals and all such things, has been pushed to the extreme edge of my consciousness. I’ve gotten so far as to write down the local studio’s class schedule and glanced at it while spending the day in sweatpants and watching the clouds hug the foothills on the other side of the river.
I open a beer as soon as Oprah comes on and turn the allen wrench a couple more times on another Ikea thing. They say eskimos have a thousand words for snow. Oregonians must have a thousand words for clouds. So I’m spending my time thinking of words to describe the variety I see – gossamer, cotton candy, cool whip, spider web and fluffernutter. Perhaps for now that will count as my meditation.