I Want to be a Hindu Cow, Dammit!

Perhaps it’s not experiencing every single type of hell to taste the heights of heaven for only a moment that makes life worth living.  Perhaps the answer lies within the in between spaces…

See that mellow look in that cow's eyes, that should be me doing yoga.

You’d think I’d be as clear and as calm as a Hindu cow with all the yoga I've been practicing lately, but instead here’s this anxiety riding, self-obliterating person who has been a complete asshole –mainly to herself.

The past few months have resulted in an over-stressed, over-committed, ambivalent being that has been focusing far too much on everything that’s wrong rather all that is perfect and right.

Then something happened.  I was in class trying to get into virasana pose (this pose is also an asshole), visibly getting frustrated as I moved props under my knees and still felt too much pressure.  I shifted back into baddha konasana and watched everyone else meditate in perfect virasanas.  Then judgment: I was yelling at my knees in my head then wondering how on earth is every goddamned person in this room in this pose?  It’s not like I see each of them in class week after week or day after day in the studio...

By the third pose my teacher took a moment to come up to me and look me in the eye.  She said, “I need you to practice compassion for yourself today.  I need you to be patient with yourself and be kind to yourself.”  She touched my solar plexus area before saying, “You’re beautiful.”

I kept my composure and kept nodding my head up until the “you’re beautiful” part, at which point I started crying and proceeded to cry throughout every subsequent pose in class.

In yoga they say that one goes through the process of self discovery that sometimes is not always smooth sailing.  This process is called Dukkha.

The only way out is through.

In the Heart of Yoga by T. K. V. Desikachar it says, “Someone who is searching for clarity always sees more suffering than someone who is not.  The awareness of suffering results from greater sensitivity.  The person who is not searching for clarity does not even know what brings him happiness or sorrow.”

Desikachar says that “through the insightful percept of problems and confusions we move toward clarity.”

When people wonder why I continue to practice yoga and want to teach it I say this: I’m not there yet, but I feel more like myself than I've felt in a really long time.  This clarity, while not always pretty – is worth it all to me.  This same clarity is what keeps propelling me further into living purposefully, fearlessly, transparently and BOLDLY.  I’m not afraid of myself anymore and perhaps I’m not sold on believing that I’m beautiful yet, but I’m getting there.  As my other teacher always says: slowly, slowly.

It just takes practice.

The Evolution of Beauty

“Youth is beauty, money is beauty, beauty is beauty sometimes…”

-Ani DiFranco

We are brought up in a society that values the physical beauty of a woman sometimes more than other attributes such as intelligence, sensitivity, artistic ability or athleticism.  Often times women who are first or second generation in the U.S. fare worse with this because our active mother/father cultures tend to be more misogynistic. 

But you knew this.  You went to high school and you remember who the pretty popular people were, right?  They weren’t super cool because they had a bad case of acne.

We all know that story so I won’t tell it here.  What I do want to share is this: I am less concerned with being pretty; I want to be powerful. 

I’m not talking power in the western sense i.e. political power.  I’m talking the power of knowing yourself and your own merits without having to have anyone else validate them.  I’m talking about the power to know that your legs will carry you through rough roads because you’re strong and finding the beauty in that even if it doesn’t look like a postcard.  I’m talking about evolution. 

Know thyself, friends.

Happiness in a Bottle?

I was in Missouri this past weekend for the True/False film festival. The True/False film festival is a documentary film festival that I love going to every year. While I was there I was fortunate enough to meet this Jordanian psychiatrist. We stayed up until 2 a.m. one night smoking hookah, drinking wine and talking about life. He had moved from Jordan to the U.S. as an adult and I could tell he was still trying to understand Americans.

We talked about America and his profession. He told me the majority of his patients didn’t like talk therapy. They were obsessed with instant gratification. “They want pills. They want to numb out whatever they are feeling so not to deal with it. You should see the looks of anger when I write them a referral for some talk therapy rather than pills.”

“I could see that,” I replied. We are not accustomed to having to go through the work of our mind or emotions to find happiness.”

“What is this happiness?” He asks. “Americans are so obsessed with the idea of happiness. They want to be happy all the time. It’s impossible, what one should aim for is to be peaceful and content. You can’t be happy all the time.”

I had never thought about a culture obsessed with happiness, but since that conversation I realize how much it’s sold to us. A new car will make you happy. A granite countertop will make you happy. Things will make you happy. Pills will make you happy. We are obsessed with instant gratification.

I start to wonder if it’s a unique phenomenon. Other cultures must want to find happiness too but perhaps they are more comfortable in the placid and tranquil contentment. Perhaps they don’t seek the highs we do.

I wouldn’t know; I’m American.

The Fall and Rise of Spain

"Are you from Argentina, you speak Spanish so well but I can`t place your accent," says a dark Spaniard to me.

I smile, "No, Chicago but I´ve been speaking all my life."

We start chatting on the beach casually.  The sun is setting over the ocean and he says that this is paradise.  How can I possibly disagree?

"Mexico is so beautiful, Spain gave up such a beautiful country and handed it to the Mexicans and look at what a disaster they have managed to make of it."

Jen´s Brain: Oh, no he did not just say that to me...
Jen´s Mouth: As I recall, Spain didn´t exactly hand it over.  There were wars fought and Mexico won.  Also, they stole the land from its original inhabitants so the possession of Mexico by Spain, in my opinion was a mere occupation.
Him: Well, the Maya and Aztec were constantly fighting as well.  The way I see it you are either the conquistador or conquested.  So do you have a boyfriend?
Jen´s Brain: FUCK!  Of course, I should have known that this was why he pulled me away to chat.  Ugh, I am so naive sometimes...I never know.  I can never tell...
Jen´s Mouth: No.
Him: Oh, such a pretty girl like you, not having a boyfriend.  Why is that?
Jen´s Brain: Shit, do I have to justify this question?  Pretty maybe but I´m thinking a more appropriate word might be lucky at the moment.
Him: I don´t have a girlfriend.
Jen´s Brain: Can I go now?  I thought we were discussing conquests...well I guess this is kinda the same thing.
Him: So, Yenni, how do you like your men?  What is your type?
Jen´s Brain: Not you.
Jen´s Mouth: I don´t know...I guess the most important thing is that they know themselves.
Him: Yes, that is good.  I like women who know themselves too.
Jen´s Brain: Okay...exit line, Jen, exit line!!
Jen´s Mouth: You know I am just so exhausted.  I need to go to bed.  It has been a really long day.
Him: (looking disappointed) Oh, it´s still quite early.  You should hang out more.  What are you up to tomorrow.  Maybe we can go to the beach together or something.
Jen´s Brain:  Nope.
Jen´s Mouth: (smile) Goodnight.

Since this exchange the gentleman in question has been following me around the hostel, trying to talk to me and I have been trying to look incredibly busy, as incredibly busy as one can look on an island and at a hostel with hammocks at every corner.  I´ve been avoiding him like the plague the Spaniards brought to these lands.  The time has come for me to get off this island. 

The Spaniards have however, redeemed themselves in the form of an adorable, intelligent young woman named Eli.  She is a writer, artist and traveler and we spent a whole night talking about life, spirituality, travelling and global social issues.  We exchanged pictures of artwork and per her lovely recommendation I am leaving Isla Mujeres and going to Isla Holbox, a much less visited and touristed island.  It is a fisherman`s port and sounds like some lovely quiet for this writer to get some work done.

As a sidenote my father would not forgive me if I didn´t mention my own Spanish blood, of which I am composed of half.  A quarter from Galecia and a quarter from Islas Canarias.

I am Mexican; I am also American. I am both.

Last night I made some friends.  This Aussie girl named Tash.  Tash is 29 years old.  She lives a rather transient lifestyle.  She will go from place to place and stop in spots where she could make money working in the hospitality industry in whatever country she happens to be in, saves up quite a bit and then moves on and travels for months at a time again.  Last country she worked in was Canada and on her itinerary next is Oaxaca, Mexico; Bali, Indonesia (for a family reunion); then back home to Australia.

Matt is from Israel and I swear he has the most beautiful eyes you´ve ever seen.  He used to be a dancer and you could tell when you do yoga with him.  He´s from Israel and just got done with his mandatory military service there and is travelling a bit before going to medical school.  He is a darling and very sweet.

There are others...Amanda, the Londoner with a slight Cockney accent is hilarious.  Then there´s the cute, calm and reserved German boy whose name I don´t remember.  There´s Simon from Sweden who has red hair.  It´s almost like the U.N. in here.  Just listening to the lodge in the morning I hear a myriad of accents and languages: French, German, Israeli, Italian...  There are many people here from Spain, Argentina, Venezuela as well.

The crowd is primarily younger in their 20s and 30s but there are quite a few older couples here too.  Its so diverse and tolerant execept for one thing...

The lodge is circular and all around there are flags from different countries: India, Cuba, Jamaica, Canada, Mexico...all countries in North America are represented except for one.

"Whoa why are all the seagulls flying over here?" asks Tash as we lay out on the beach.
"Probably some stupid American is feeding them." Replies Isha.
"Hey, guys, um...I´m an American..." I say laughing hysterically.
"Oh shit, sorry!" They reply.

It´s no biggie.  I get their sentiment.  I understand. Furthermore I´m on an island right outside of Cancun.  Cancun...the land where Americans come and drink until sunrise leaving their vomit on the streets for the Mexican people to clean it up.  Cancun, the land where Americans stay in one hotel the whole time and never leave.  Cancun...the land where Americans would rather swim in the pool than the ocean.  Cancun, the land where Americans come to wave around their dollars without even learning to say "thank you" or "please" in Spanish.

"You don´t seem American.  They generally stick out here like a sore thumb." Says Amanda.  "I am here and therefore I am Mexican when I am on this land.  I´m also half Cuban but have not been there yet." I reply. 

It´s funny, I don´t know who I have more in common with or whose company I prefer here: the women sitting outside of their artensenia shops or these new traveling friends I have made.  I don´t reply to the Mexican men on the street who speak to me in English pretending I don´t understand.  I am in Mexico, speak to me in Spanish...I am not one of them, I think to myself.

Yet, I am very American.  I am a patriot. My eyes gleam with pride when I start to describe Chicago, my home, my city. I love and respect our President and would be honored to serve him, if only in these moments, as a better ambassador and representative of our nation abroad.

Quick blog fact: This post is the blog´s 100th post. I read somewhere in the blogosphere that a blog isn´t considered serious until it at least has 100 posts. Here´s to being a serious blogger.