Our lives fly by in the twinkling of an eye. Surely the great challenge of self-realization, liberation, illumination—whatever you want to call it—is facing the nature of the world we live in and not sleeping deeper in the soft bed of denial . . .
March 6, 2014
Still no internet at my new temporary digs but am over the moon to be on my daughter’s computer for a few hours. A used laptop arrived in the mail today–hope to get it going over the weekend!
Our lives fly by in the twinkling of an eye. Surely the great challenge of self-realization, liberation, illumination—whatever you want to call it—is facing the nature of the world we live in and not sleeping deeper in the soft bed of denial . . .
This is my first real post in six weeks . . . but suddenly it’s time to go.
(Something you might not know about me: I can’t type. Through the years I’ve tried and tried, but at the end of the day, it’s back to hitting the keys with only my right middle finger, and my thumb hitting the space bar. Took a course at Ventura College, and it seemed everyone else had magical, flying fingers . . . mine were frozen, confirming my worst fears.)
February 17, 2014This morning, after the Standing Poses, I folded up my sticky mat to pad the edge of the seat of the chair, as shown here, and enjoyed a long stay in a Supported Backbend, including the variation shown here.
* * *
January 19, 2014
Time to practice on the great yoga chair. This photo, from my book, Yoga and the Wisdom of Menopause, was taken about 15 years ago. I’m no longer this slender, but, thankfully, my spine is still flexible and my mind is in a much better place.
— in Ojai, CA.
After I moved at the end of January, it turned out that my new temporary place did not have internet . . . I used a friend’s computer, always in haste, not enough time to write but occasionally managing a few quick Posts on my Writing Yoga page on Facebook. Now it’s March 20–21, Spring Equinox . . . I have a computer again . . . to get back in the swing of this blog will copy a few past Facebook Posts. . . .
Full Moon at the top of North Signal Street in Ojai
February 14, 2014
Hello, Full Moon, hellooo . . . as night comes and the full moon rises above the Ojai mountains, a welcome coolness descends on the Valley of the Moon . . . a blessed relief from the heat of the day . . . and all the things that happened this week in my personal life, especially the gentle and dignified passing of our noble dog Beau into the great unknown, is seen from a greater perspective. The radiant moon helps to settle the agitations of my mind, and the transitory, ever changing landscape of this lifetime drops into it’s rightful place.
That first rainy night my then teenage daughter slept beside Beau on a futon by the fireplace. Rosie the pig also slept inside, nearby, on another futon, under a blanket . . . I remember it rained and rained, all night long. . . I’m sure he was grateful to be indoors, out of the wet and cold, his tummy full of Thanksgiving treats . . .
The next day, that first time we took him out in nature around the basin near Pratt trail, the other dogs and humans nimbly clambered up and down the boulders. We could see that Beau was a city dog, not used to jumping from rock to rock. He was afraid of slipping. He moved with great caution as he eyed what we were doing. So we waited for him–we encouraged him–and soon he found his “country legs” and was happily jumping from rock to rock . . . a far cry from the streets of LA!
Since I already had so many animals, I tried to get my youngest sister, who had three young daughters at the time, to adopt him. Beau looked so proud when the girls walked him on a leash. He was the perfect dog for a family with growing children . . . to this day he has never shown any sign of aggression, despite his rocky start in life.
Alas, Beau sheds huge, HUGE clumps of hair–and after a few days my sister returned him. You gotta be willing tolerate a dirty floor to adopt a dog that sheds . . .
These last several years we’ve referred to Beau as our “Elder Statesman.” As time went by and my living circumstances changed, he ended up living with my friend Sholom Joshua. Being a male dog, he bonded strongly with Sholom and his Jack Russel terrier, Trixie . . .
Beau became a mentor and Zen teacher to the high-spirited young Trixie. His ongoing approach to explaining Life to Trixie was to use silence and patience as they shared daily life adventures. Trixie knew she had lucked out having Beau as her mature friend and guide. She would look to Beau at frequent intervals –every twenty seconds or so–during every walk they took. It was obvious that she was checking with Beau to see how her Zen Guide reacted to the world at large.
Beau had this very endearing way of expressing approval –especially when a walk was imminent. He would laugh–a deep satisfied sound would come from his throat.
Beau is the most noble, gentle, easy going dog we’ve ever had—He exudes calm, poise, and wisdom . . .
I write this now, to help us prepare for the hour of transition . . .
January 30, 2014
Finding my balance in nature
I’ve moved out of the river bottom, and back again, countless times. The property where I’ve been living this past year and a half was once an open field, and before the two-story house that now stands here was built, I lived in a house trailer that was transported here from the Ojai Foundation land in Upper Ojai.
Later I lived in an old one-room structure that still stands at the back of this property, with glorious views of the river bed and sunsets in the direction of Lake Casitas. I was here the year that the now dry creek bed was a roaring muddy river that almost jumped the banks.
It was here that I got my first huge, heavy computer–in the days before email or Facebook. It was here that I actually began the cumbersome one-finger typing process of getting the draft of The New Yoga for People Over 50 copied on those now ancient square discs.
I woke up this morning feeling sore, stiff, and tired from schlepping boxes of stuff to my storage unit these past two days. Fatigue drains not only the body but the spirit–I realized I’d better stop in my tracks and take the morning off to do yoga and walk in nature, to replenish myself, even though I’m under the gun to be out by tomorrow.
My muscles felt so fatigued that at first all I did was align myself symmetrically on the floor in Savasana, the Corpse Pose. The process of moving, packing up all the stuff we identify with, leaving the familiar cave we’ve been sleeping in, is like a little death.
It felt so right to just lie still on the hard floor, watching the river of the breath, absorbing the utter impermanence and fleeting futility of the struggle of life.
Physiologically, it takes about twenty minutes of consciously resting in Savasana for the body to completely relax and let go. There’s a pleasant feeling of the bones of the body, the whole skeletal structure, sinking into the earth. In Savasana we learn to completely let go of everything we identify with and surrender our mortal physical vessel back to the earth.
After the long Savasana came a series of deep floor twists and the always-good-for-us basic lying-down leg and hip stretches . . .
By mid-morning Honey and Chico let me know it was time to go outside. It was drizzling, and suddenly there was a burst of hopeful raindrops–it was wet enough to make me run back inside and grab a jacket.
In the midst of this drought, we Ojaians remain eternally hopeful. The promise of rain hangs in the air, a few drops fall–and then it’s like the sky changes her mind.
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Chapter Three of Fishing on Facebook: A Writing Yoga Memoir, is titled, The River Bottom
Photo credit: Amy Joy Bakken — in Ojai, CA.
Book Review by Ivan Nahem, founder/editor, Yoga Teacher Magazine
Fishing on Facebook: A Writing Yoga Memoir is a well-told, well-paced and timeless tale. It’s really not all that much about yoga per se, although one might say it’s about the wisdom that comes from both yoga and suffering. Suza is a renowned yoga teacher with several wonderful instruction books to her credit, but this is more about her personal life, a disappointed-in-love story. As in most memoirs, the author is a good part of the story, and here she’s quite a character in and of herself. And the portraits of the supporting cast are vivid (especially the villain), and we even get fine ambience in the description of the Ojai environment, including the yoga scene there.
What threw me a few times while immersing myself in this story is that I kept hurting for the author, cringing for her unfortunate decisions, sharing her distress over the jerk with whom she was falling in love, and with whom she kept thinking, despite mounting evidence, she could make it work. Maybe it’s because I live with the handicap of being a guy and so I know guys – as in the principle that you can’t bullshit a bullshitter (not that I’m anything of the sort, of course!) ― he just seemed transparent, such a scammer, the kind of guy you run for the hills from. He proves to be a pathological liar, the kind of person who lies to themselves at such a deep level that lying is a way of life. AND he’s terrified of sex and does everything he can to avoid any such real situations; love is just power play. As a reader I sensed early on where the pattern was headed, so I knew that this paramour was a lost cause and that sometimes made the narrator’s choices appear inexplicable. In any case there were times when her hurt was so raw — and then she would see him AGAIN! — and I was quite tempted to hurl the book against the wall, but the book is actually in my Kindle, so that would have been counterproductive.
And if I reflect in all honesty, I’ve been deceived myself a few times, so my discomfort with her naiveté is ultimately unwarranted. It’s apparent that Suza’s story strikes a chord, especially among other women (shocking surprise!). Recently I had a dialog with another yoga teacher about her lying ex-husband (or “wasband” as she put it) and how deceived she felt in that relationship . . . Well obviously this is not a unique theme, but Suza makes the story work with all the very verisimilitude detail. If you’re in the mood for a cautionary tale like this, definitely give it a read. Suza’s a deft writer and her voice is very welcome.
Ivan Nahem is the founder/editor of Yoga Teacher Magazine.
http://www.yogateachermagazine.com/review/fishing-on-facebook%3A-a-writing-yoga-memoir
January 24, 2014
I must have looked somewhat out of character driving a U-Haul truck down Shady Lane, because, when I stopped at Ojai Valley Imports auto repair to pick up my friend David, he started clapping his hands and practically rolling down Ojai Avenue, laughing his head off.
I had called him the night before to see if he could help me unload the heavy stuff into my new “apartment.”
“Well,” he said, “it all depends on what time. I’m taking my car in for an oil change at 8 a.m.”
When I found out that where he was dropping his car was right on the way to where I’d be unloading the U-Haul, I exclaimed, “That’s perfect! While they’re doing the oil change, you can help me unload the shelves, my oak desk, the filing cabinet, and other heavy stuff.”
David hoisted himself up into the cab, and through the whole short drive over to my new “gated community,” he kept laughing about seeing me behind the wheel of a truck. I didn’t mind; it always gives me great joy to be the source of someone else’s amusement.
It’s true that I had needed convincing from another male friend that I was perfectly capable of driving one of the smaller trucks. I had driven it tentatively around Bryant Circle before heading down Ojai Avenue, getting used to no view in the back and the big side-view mirrors. My daughter and her husband had helped me load all the heavy stuff, making me realize that I’d better line up a helper at the other end.
I punched in the code and the gates opened wide. I swung the truck around to my new temporary digs, apartment #26.
Then I jumped out of the cab and unlocked the back of the U-Haul. Learning to unlock and secure the lock contraption at the bottom of the door had first required all my powers of concentration, but now I did it like a pro. David, who knows how hard mechanical things are for me, was visibly impressed. We both jumped out of the way as the door flew up, obeying the “Caution: Objects May Shift and Fall Out” sign. Only my bicycle, the last thing I’d put in, was leaning precariously over the edge. Everything else, including my yoga backbender, was miraculously still in its place.
Next I opened the door to my “apartment.” David let out a whoop and promptly declared, “There’s no room for any more stuff.” He saw with a sweep of his eye all the journals, photo albums, pots and pans, boxes of books, my collection of Utne Readers, and all the little things I’m still attached to, taking up every inch of floor space.
“There’s no room for any more stuff,” he kept repeating.
“There’s plenty of room,” I declared with equal vigor. “Just help me unload everything and then you can walk back to your car.”
“You’ll be here all day,” he protested.
“I know what I’m doing! I’ll have everything put away in half an hour.”
I had to get it done in record time because my hands and bare feet were freezing cold. I’d forgotten how cold Ojai mornings can be in the shade.
I hoisted myself into the truck and started lowering the filing cabinet down to David, who was still regarding me with an incredulous look on his face.
“How much are you paying for this place?” he asked as he placed the filing cabinet on the ground.
“$230 a month,” I replied. “And I found a coupon online for half off the first month. I was lucky to get the last one. Every large unit here is rented! Where else in downtown Ojai can you find a clean place with high ceilings and 24-hour security cameras for that low price?”
“Right,” he agreed. “Plus the neighbors are quiet and hardly ever home.”
While we unloaded the truck, I explained to my friend that I would be living in a tiny guest room, high on a hill, with a panoramic view of the mountains and valley below, plus trails nearby where I could hike with Honey and Chico.
I told David that when I’d found out I had to move from the river bottom, I’d started house hunting. The last house I looked at, on the corner of Canada and Oak, had just been REDUCED to $2,300. And, as usual, SORRY, NO PETS! I probably won’t know till my life flashes before me whether or not I’ve made the right decision hanging on to my dogs, even if it means having to put all my stuff into storage and taking along only what I absolutely need to keep body and soul together.
It’s now been almost five years since my landlord died and I lost the wonderful country house I’d leased for 14 years. During these past few years of communal living and various shared-house situations, I’ve had many opportunities to rent quiet condos, apartments, or guest houses within walking distance of town, in nice, park-like settings. But they’ve all stipulated NO DOGS–especially not a large dog.
At one point in this looking-for-a house-that will-take dogs saga, I met a wonderful couple on the trail who were looking for a companion for their large collie-type dog. Honey and their dog got along great, and when they learned of my predicament they offered to adopt Honey. At the time, it seemed a cosmic blessing–like the Universe was stepping in to help! This couple had a spacious home, with plenty of fenced property for the dogs to roam and play in. In a moment of desperation, I agreed, realizing how much easier my life would be without a dog. (This was before I adopted Chico.) I gave Honey away with the understanding that, if things didn’t work out, they would give her back. I couldn’t risk having her end up back at the shelter.
For about two weeks, I got daily phone calls with glowing reports on how happy Honey was and how well everyone was getting along. But in the third week I got this message: “We love your dog and she loves us, but we sense she’s still waiting for you to come back and pick her up. Maybe you’d better come over for a visit so we can talk . . . she’s just not bonding with us like we’re her family.”
Honey
I’ll never forget how my heart turned over when I heard that Honey was still waiting for me! And she practically flew through the ceiling with pure joy when she saw me again.
As George Carlin says in his classic standup routine about the importance of Stuff in our lives, “What is a house but a place to store your stuff?” So that’s why my stuff is in storage and I stick with Honey. As I told my friend as we unloaded the last of the industrial-strength steel shelves that hold 3,000 pounds, “This is a great place. Not only is my stuff totally secure–they can see everything that goes on here on the big, flat surveillance screen in the office. Plus, if I die, they’ll auction off my stuff and that will be the end of it.” — in Ojai, CA.
January 18, 2014, Ojai, California
I have only five minutes, but I want to describe the sound of the wind that sings here in the river bottom all night long.
Two nights ago, the wind was like the waves of the ocean, loud and energetic, like strong, deep breathing . . . inhaling, exhaling . . . reminding me of the time I slept in a teepee on a beach in Mexico. I long to sleep outside again, but for now can only open all the windows and rest where I can still see the sky from my bed.
Last night, as I looked up at the bright moon shining down, the sound of the wind was like the softest, gentlest, sweetest lullaby, like feathers, whispering.
Then this morning, when I wandered outside into the early light of dawn, with the moon still smiling down so bright in the palest blue-pink sky, as I turned in the direction of Matilija Canyon I stepped into a pocket of cold air, and here the wind grew louder. And I realize I’m only just beginning to learn to listen to the language of wind . . .
January 14, 2014, Ojai, California
The full moon, reflecting the light from the sun, soars serene above it all. Down below, we humans stew in our juices. Walking the bone-dry creek bed tonight, I felt the warm winds blow. The light of dusk is magical– it illuminates every dry yellow stalk, every fading leaf, and makes the rocks and dirt come alive.
Here in Ojai, the Valley of the Moon, the sky below the moon toward Meditation Mount was a strange pink tint–almost like there’s a fire somewhere. We’re in a drought, yet the water flowing out of the faucet lulls us to sleep. But when we step outside and sink into nature, we can feel the thirst of the plant and animal kingdoms–especially when the evening wind feels hot, as if it were summer.
I look up at the radiant moon and enjoy her beauty. I lean back over a backbender-shaped boulder and stretch my arms overhead and down the other side, leaning way back so I can see the landscape behind me.
I’m tired–bone tired. My spine and back ribs like lying down against the familiar hard rock–I can let go as the bones of my body rest on the rock. I can feel the “wings” of my body–my rib cage–spreading. I find the perfect crevice to support the back of my hard, bony skull, then press the soles of my feet deep into the ground till I feel rooted. My heart feels happy.
I can go home now and face the rigors of being incarnate. I can face my humble life of endless maintenance jobs–magnified as I get older– and hungry cats and dogs . . .
Suzaji's Blog 