Archive for the ‘Yoga Writing Memoir’ Category

“I’ve had a great life. . . too bad I didn’t realize it sooner!”

January 20, 2013

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Of all the elements of nature, the wind feels most mystical to me. It is the breath of the Earth, reminding me to take a deeper inhalation of fresh, clean air. Here in the river bottom on this quiet Sunday morning, the winter wind in the oasis of trees that surrounds my house feels almost like summer, soft and warm, causing all the leaves and pine needles to shimmer in the rising sun.
The week feels like it’s ending on a happy note. I try to watch my mind and monitor what comes out of my mouth, but sorry to say the whiny irrational child in me seems to rise with a vengeance when I’m tired. The cats, the dogs, and their constant demands, their throwing up and peeing in the night, my cleaning it up and then not being able to fall back asleep and never getting a break from them, just gets to me sometimes. I curse people who don’t spay and neuter their pets! Last Monday I had exactly $42 in cash and I spent it all on kitty litter, cat food, and dog food—just to tide things over for a few days. My three-month attempt to wean three old cats from kitty litter now that I’m settled into my new digs was a total fiasco. I spent more on Simple Green, Earth-friendly paper towels, laundry detergent, and water, and wasted more time and energy, than I would have had I just thrown in the towel and surrendered to the money drain of kitty litter. I want to fling Ginger across the room when she cries to come inside so she can use the cat box!
If I would just train myself to lie still in the Goddess Pose for ten minutes before calling upon those nearest and dearest to me and whining about how hard my life is, my writing-yoga life would be as close to heaven on Earth as I think it gets.
There is a gate (a real-life gate, but also a spiritual gate) that opens to the river-bottom nature preserve, only a one-minute walk from my door. The hard part is leashing my overexcited wild Aussie girl and extricating myself from the endless worldly demands. I justify my escapes by telling myself that if I were dead it wouldn’t help matters, so I need to get out into the boonies to help prolong my stay here.When I step through that gate with my pack of eager dogs, the view is so dazzling I’m instantly transported. I’m reminded now of something Beatrice Wood said frequently in her later years: “I’ve had a great life . . . too bad I didn’t realize it sooner!”

The world of time mattered not

January 14, 2013
470591_10150741641279703_266408929_oThis morning the dogs and I headed out when it was barely light, and it felt like an adventure to be out in the cold, invigorating wind. The book Nature’s Ways asks what time of day you most resonate with. For me, without a doubt it is the crack of dawn. That’s when you feel like you have your feet in both worlds—light and dark, visible and invisible. That’s when you can move as if propelled by some force outside yourself and you feel like you can walk forever. That’s when there are the least cars on the road, when the valley is silent, and you can reconnect with the amazing ancient feeling of standing upright. That’s when you can remember the eons before electricity when we rose at first light.
Yesterday while I was riding my bicycle from the river bottom to Mira Monte, the bike suddenly locked up while I was pedaling uphill. The wheels turned, the chain looked fine, but something, maybe the gear mechanism, was stuck. First I felt frustrated. I gently kicked the back tire (thinking maybe it was hitting metal), and then with a great deal of effort I squeezed the handlebars and changed the gears. I sped full blast downhill, and the brakes worked fine, but once on level ground my bike rebelled and jolted to a halt. I’d smooth out the gears, glide along for a block or so, and then—again—jolt, jolt, and stop. This became especially problematic and somewhat embarrassing in intersections, when I’d have to jump off the bike midway, causing waiting drivers to have to idle their cars for a few more seconds.
It was almost noon, the warm sun felt fabulous, and really the only problem was that now I was running late. So I called my student to let her know the situation. “No problem,” she said. And then I began to enjoy the walk. I felt carefree without the usual dogs on a leash, my bike is light, and we ran/walked together uphill at a nice relaxing, non-exhausting pace.
I want to share here that my student is facing great uncertainty.  Her health challenges are forcing her to face her own mortality. Any one of us could die today, tomorrow, or a year from now; that is a fact. After my student’s lesson, as I rode my bike downhill and walked uphill, adding an extra hour to my travel time, the world of time mattered not. I felt so enormously grateful for my health. For my energy and ability to walk and walk. The mountains of Ojai never looked more beautiful. As I walked, that Bible psalm about walking in the valley of the shadow of death came into my consciousness. How important it is to make friends with death, and to feel death walking with us. That awareness can help us step ever deeper into the mystery of life.

2013: The Year of Writing Yoga Memoirs

January 11, 2013
On this cold tenth day of January, 2013, I am setting my intention to make this the year of Writing Yoga Memoirs.

I woke up at 3 a.m. and started writing about how sweet my life is now, and how in January, 1968, I was living in the Haight Ashbury.  It was the winter before the Summer of Love, I was totally naive, and I had my whole life ahead of me.  I had no idea there would be only four short seasons with only myself to take care of.  I could not foresee the lessons Life had in store for me.

It’s a curious thing to sit very still, to meditate and watch how the mind works.  The brain and all the cells of the body are like a computer that stores everything.  You can try to delete and let it all go, but you cannot will yourself to have a clean slate, as it was on the day you were born.  (Some people speculate it is not a clean slate even at birth.)  Our memories travel with us until the physical body dissolves — and possibly beyond.

At 7 a.m. it is barely light out here in the river bottom.  The sky is foggy white.  The tall pine trees outside my window look black.  It is a stark, cold winter landscape.

I don’t feel right unless I write.  How many more years will it take before I fully admit this?  The more I try to focus on work that pays and push aside the urge to write, the more the muse pesters me and pulls me by the hair out of bed.  If I don’t grab an hour during the day, I lie awake at 2 a.m. and wonder if I should risk the lack of sleep to write.  If I try to deny it and bury myself under the covers, sleep eludes me.  I have no choice.  I must surrender to my fate.

My favorite on-the-floor Writing Yoga Pose: Seated Wide Angle Pose, Upavistha Konasana.

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Please go to my Writing Yoga Memoirs page and click the Thumbs Up likes icon, located below the cover photo of my first memoir (my warm-up for the next one), near the upper right corner.  My writing income supports the care and feeding of my four-legged family, so I must get out there and shamelessly promote—and get working  on my next book!

Dr. Phil’s show on Facebook relationships: “Do an autopsy. . . .”

January 11, 2013

 Scan_Pic0018   January 1, 2013 (From my Writing Yoga Memoirs Facebook page)

Last Wednesday, while dog sitting for a friend, I happened to catch a Dr. Phil segment on the dangers of starting relationships on Facebook. The program featured three beautiful, educated, but very trusting and naive women who fell hook, line, and sinker for the man of their dreams, based solely on his Facebook persona. Dr. Phil, in his usual fatherly manner, totally nailed the duplicity involved. He said, “These kind of people have figured out what you need. . . they know your currency and how to play up to it. . . they engage in the most manipulative forms of deception. They are arrogant, have a sense of entitlement, and lack empathy. They have no guilt or remorse.” And then he went on to nail the red flags these women ignored. I totally got it. It was no coincidence that the antagonist in my book told me all sorts of sob stories about himself, including how he “almost died.” (If you want someone to cut you some slack, just tell them how you almost died a few months ago!)

Near the end of the show Dr. Phil adamantly advised, “Before you move on, even if you fell in love with someone who doesn’t really exist, you have got to sit down and do an autopsy. Do a timeline, do an inventory of exactly what happened. . .” Well, I did pat myself on the back when I heard this part because that’s exactly what I did by writing my Facebook memoir—an autopsy.

For new readers, look inside Fishing on Facebook: A Writing Yoga Memoir

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Stay Away!

December 24, 2012

I must have a very guilty conscience!

I went next-door over to my daughter and son-in-law’s house to borrow a little honey and a few other items I was out of to save having to make an extra trip to the store. No one was home. As I was about to leave with my little stash of pilfered goodies, I noticed four opened bottles of wine on the counter. I thought to myself, “They won’t mind if I pour myself a little drink.”

As I reached over in the direction of the bottles a can sitting right in front of the wine suddenly let loose a smelly whiff of spray all over the counter—and when I quickly withdrew my hand it sprayed again! It startled the living daylights out of me!

Standing back a safe distance, I squinted to read the label on the can. It said, “STAY AWAY!” I immediately assumed it was a prank—a gag gift that someone gave to my son-in-law to keep thieves like me from helping themselves to the wine. That is how my mind works.

Then a few seconds later I glanced up at the refrigerator door and saw a note that said, “Days without pee on the counter: 2.”

And then I remembered my daughter telling me a few weeks ago that one of their cats occasionally took a notion to pee on the counter.

So then the rational, logical part of my brain kicked in. I positioned myself near the back of the can (not wanting to get sprayed in the eye) and squinted to read the small print: “Stay Away Motion-Activated Pet Deterrent.” There was a picture of a bad cat on the label.

Aha! So it wasn’t a mother-in-law deterrent after all! I reasoned that if I carefully reached for the wine from the direction of the back of the STAY AWAY can, I wouldn’t activate the sensor. I carefully pushed one of the bottles off to the side (having no idea how sensitive these pet sensors are) and poured myself a half cup of Honeymoon wine. . .

Stick with Honey: A Doga Writing Memoir

December 23, 2012

Four years ago, on the Friday before Christmas . . .

“Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.”
–Mark Twain

Suza_book_cover_size   The last Chapter in my dating memoir, “Fishing on Facebook: A Writing Yoga Memoir,” is entitled, “Stick with Honey.” As many of you know, Honey is the Australian Shepherd rescue dog who appears on the cover. When I told my friend Dale Hanson the truth about “Adam,” the antagonist in my memoir, she offered this simple advice, “Stick with Honey!”

Well, I have stuck with Honey, through thick and thin! Truth be told, like most other relationships, it has not always been easy. We’ve had enough adventures to fill a book. Here’s the beginning of the story:

Four years ago, on the Thursday before Christmas, I got a call from a local dog rescuer who said she heard I was looking to adopt a Queensland Heeler or Australian Shepherd. She asked if she could bring an Aussie rescue over on Friday, “Just so you can meet her.”

I thought to myself, “What a coincidence that I would get this call today.” My previous dog, Queenie, a Queensland Heeler (Australian Cattle Dog), had died exactly one year ago, on the Friday before Christmas.  003_103_8005

I tried not to take this as a sign from God!

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Honey, Australian Shepherd rescue dog Photo Credit: Janeson Rayne

For a moment I hesitated. I already had plenty of other animals — four cats, two rescue pigs, and a dear mouse named Whitey. Life was so much easier without the responsibility of a dog. I knew very well that if this Aussie arrived on my doorstep it would probably be case closed.

The clever, determined rescuer softened me up by explaining how her organization goes into the animal shelter on a regular basis to save as many dogs as they can from death row. They already had as many dogs as they could handle in one trip and she almost didn’t notice this beautiful Aussie. She described how this little girl dog came up and gently licked her hand.
I imagined the other dogs desperately barking, “Save me! Save me!” while this Aussie girl wisely distinguished herself by quietly licking the rescuer’s hand.

So the next day, on the Friday night before Christmas, a truck stopped in front of my house. The back of the truck had several crates, each holding a yapping dog. The driver took out a beautiful, fluffy Aussie dog. She didn’t bark. It all happened very fast and I felt like I was adopting an unknown orphan child.

The unknown Aussie stood beside me on the street, appearing very calm. We watched the truck with barking dogs drive away. After the truck disappeared, Aussie girl looked up at me as if to assess this human being who fate had delivered her to. At that moment I think she saw right through me –she picked up that I was easy and that she had nothing to fear. She willingly followed me into the house.

What I remember from our first night together is that this Aussie, who I named Honey a few days later, not only did not chase my cats (at least not while I was looking), she licked Leo’s face. Possibly because Leo’s lips taste like cat food, but it looked like a sign of affection and scored big points in her favor.

Late that night, while we were in the kitchen, a band of raccoons that had gotten way too tame during the year that I had no dog, came looking in the cat door, to see if it was safe to come in. I noticed Honey staring intently at the door, well aware of the intruders peering in. Suddenly she let loose an explosive bark that would shatter the ear drums of the dead. That was the end of the raccoons sneaking into the kitchen and stealing cat food.

For the first few days, as is the case in most new relationships, Honey was on her sweetest, best behavior. She smiled at everyone and sat still during my yoga classes with her front paws crossed, observing my students like a flock of sheep. But gradually, as she felt more secure, the reality of her true nature emerged.

Another day I will tell more about “Sunny” Honey. She is the world’s most loyal and lovable dog, but there is good reason why friends have dubbed her, “Buffalo Girl,” “Thunder Girl,” and other nicknames that reflect her energetic, exuberant, spirit!
Happy Fourth Anniversary Honey! (Honey hopes her story inspires more humans to give a dog waiting at the shelter a forever home.)

Southern California Australian Shepherd Rescue http://www.aussierescuesocal.com/

Please spay and neuter your dogs and cats –thousands of animals are waiting on death row, hoping to be adopted before it’s too late.

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Stick with Honey! Photo Credit: David E. Moody

I can’t die yet—I just spent $2,000 at the dentist.

December 7, 2012
 

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The other day I reached inside the mailbox, which I share with seven other people. There were Christmas cards, credit card offers, a Victoria’s Secrets catalog that has no secrets, and a gourmet gift catalog with giant walnut chocolate cookies, baklava, biscuits, and cinnamon swirl buns for those no longer watching their figure.

     On this day the only item in the mail for me was another discreet reminder from Smart Cremation that my journey in this world of pleasure and pain is coming to an end.
      I can’t die yet—I just spent $2,000 at the dentist. The root canal is fixed, my chipped front tooth is whole again. But the thought of all the work I have to do to earn that money back is exhausting. Yesterday, as I assessed my life situation, I hit a wall. I fell into that depressing place where you just want to pull the covers over your head and give up. I felt tired and close to tears. So I decided that, instead of scooping the poop out of the kitty litter and making a dent in the endless hopeless housework that comes with five four-leggeds, I would run away with Honey and Chico to the basin near Pratt Trail. We would hike and I would do yoga in my favorite panoramic spot. I still had the car that I borrowed the day before to go to the dentist, so off we went.
       Chico and Honey were yapping with joy and ready to fly out the window. As I eased the car into the dirt parking area, I caught a glimpse of a Ventura County spray truck. Seeing those workers with gloves on, once again spraying toxic weed killers up and down the side of the basin and surrounding areas, killing everything that was sprouting after the rain, my heart sank. In years past I’ve questioned them . . . they have their reasons (flood control), but their reasons make no sense to me.
       The dogs were so wild to go running that I didn’t get out to question the workers. I turned around and drove away. Later I heard from a friend who lives nearby on North Signal Street that she could smell the spray from her house. The whole scene of man still poisoning the Earth, after all we know about toxins traveling up the food chain, killing wildlife. . . all this put me further over the edge. I told myself that in other countries they’re spraying people, poisoning and killing human beings—that I’m among the lucky ones; I can walk away and find refuge somewhere else in nature.
470591_10150741641279703_266408929_o        Later the dogs and I walked the creek bed in the river bottom. I’d cancelled my Thursday night class, feeling that I had nothing to give. So I had time to drift off into the sunset, to watch the light change and sink into stillness. When I came home, my sweet daughter brought me my favorite bird seed cookie with strawberry jam in the center, fresh-made at the Farmer and the Cook. “Here, Mom,” she said, “I’m sorry you’re having such a hard day.” I felt slightly ashamed that I had dumped my troubles on her earlier in the day. Laughing, I bit into the yummy cookie, and thus my hard day dissipated.

Nothing like a toothache to bring you to your knees

November 27, 2012

November 20th, 2012

There’s nothing like a toothache to bring you to your knees and stop you in your tracks!

A few days ago I was sitting in the parking lot at Ojai Community bank filling out a deposit slip, making plans for lunch and the rest of my life. I had just taught a great class, I was on top of my game, when all of a sudden all hell broke loose in my jaw. The pain was so bad I couldn’t move —I just sat there
breathing, waiting, hoping and praying the merciless agony would subside. I began to doubt I could even make it to the ATM or drive safely home. Tears were pouring down my cheeks. It hit me that this was the kind of acute pain that makes people want to drop the body and check out.

After the pain died down, I managed to do my banking and drive home. I made a dental appointment. Each time the pain came back I massaged my gums and rinsed with various natural potions to ease the agony. Thankfully all weekend I was pain free so long as I stayed away from anything too hot or too cold.

Today I went to see the man I love and worship above all others: my dentist. Tomorrow, the day before Thanksgiving, I’ll be getting a blessed root canal from one of his associates. For this I’m mighty thankful!

Ginger — the cat from hell, alive and well

November 16, 2012

Last night my daughter Monica found my old cat Ginger in the dryer — with the door closed. Ginger was deep asleep, buried in the warm towels and clothes, perfectly happy, having found the ideal quiet, cozy spot where no one will bother her, which is all she really wants from life.

When Monica lifted Ginger out of the dryer and brought her to me my heart turned over, as it hit me what could have happened had someone turned the dryer on with Ginger inside. The dryer is in the garage—we might not have heard the thump of her little body or cries for help.

I have to tell you that Ginger is the cat from hell. I got her at the Humane Society about a hundred years ago. She was in the cage (back then there was no Cat Room where cats can wander and play as they please) right next to the really sweet cat that I had picked out. But I felt sorry for Ginger, so scrawny, short -haired, not cute or adoptable looking. So, as an afterthought, out of the goodness of my heart, I asked if I could take her too. The Humane Society let me have Ginger for free and I’ve been paying the price ever since.

The first thing Ginger did upon arrival was chase off the other cat I adopted that day. I never saw that cat again and hoped it found a home with one of my neighbors. Until Ginger arrived on the scene I always had several cats. But each time someone brought me a stray, no matter if I kept the newcomer locked up in my bedroom to try to acclimate him or her to its new abode, sooner or later Ginger’s hissing and utter selfishness would drive the poor innocent off.

Until one day Monica told me that her friend’s cat had had kittens and now that they were weaned they were on the way to the Humane Society because the friend’s dad would not let her keep them. “Call her up, ” I said immediately. “We’ll take them!” An hour later the most beautiful, fluffy creatures arrived. We named them Princess Priscilla and Leo the Lion. Being kittens, they paid absolutely no mind to Ginger’s hissing and threatening flicks of her paw. They played all day and grew up to be fat, snuggly, long-haired cats. While Ginger sleeps alone in the most private quarters she can find, Leo and Priscilla sleep in my nice warm bed, like normal cats.

While writing this I heard a terrible hacking sound coming out of the bathroom. When I ran to check, I saw Ginger throwing up watery bile with grass and hairy clumps all over the fancy scales that an old boyfriend gave me during my menopausal years when he was worried about me gaining weight. After I wiped the mess up I noticed that some of the brown watery stuff had seeped inside the scales, floating under the glass, where the numbers are. I’ll try not to take it as a sign from God.

Last night I made a fatal error

November 11, 2012

Last night I made a fatal error. For the life of me I could not fall asleep. I usually hit the astral plane while reaching for the light switch but on this night I lay awake, waiting . . . waiting . . . but peaceful oblivion never came.

At 2 a.m. I wrote in my journal: “It’s no use, the muse won’t let me sleep.” Bleary-eyed, desperate, I got in the shower, hoping the luxury of hot water would beat the insomnia devil out of me. If only I did not have to get up early, walk dogs, feed cats, pack car, get dressed, look good, and go to my book signing in faraway Santa Paula to which probably nobody will come. Then I could have channeled my hyperactive mind into a story. But I feared that if I turned on the computer then I would be really doomed!

Then it dawned on me. At around 11 p.m. I thought I’d have a nice cup of hot tea. Everything looked so homey in the dim yellow bug light, cats snoozing on my pillows, Honey’s large black body sprawled in the center of the mattress, and Chico wrapped up in a wicker basket. A cup of tea would cap the scene. Why oh why didn’t I just hit the hay? Instead, without thinking, I drank a cup of Zhena’s coconut chai black gypsy tea. The label says, CAFFEINE MODERATE.

Realizing this, I stopped fighting, wrapped myself up in three yoga blankets like a mummy, and just lay there flat on my back like in Savasana, Corpse Pose, watching my breath. . . . and sometime, before the crack of dawn, slipped slowly into merciful sleep . . . .