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Savasana–the Death Pose

August 20, 2014

August 8, 2014

If someone asked me about the defining moment of my training to be a yoga teacher, I would probably say it was those moments spent observing people during the dying process—both at home and in various end-of-life care settings.

So far this morning, my yoga practice has mainly been to lie still in Savasana, the Corpse Pose. “Shava” or “Sava” means corpse. In the book Hatha Yoga: The Hidden Language, author Swami Sivananda Radha cut to the chase and called Savasana the death pose. She said that, if we don’t want to be a living corpse, then the purpose of life has to be established: “If you want to be an active participant in your life and not a parasite, then the dynamic interdependence between life and death has to be recognized, and the two have to meet in directed and concentrated interaction.”

8170002

I don’t usually do Savasana first thing in the morning, but I woke up feeling tired and out of sorts. My usual quick cure for feeling overwhelmed is to hang upside down in my wall ropes, lie back over my extra-high backbender, or relax on a bolster in the Goddess Pose (Supported Bound Angle Pose). Or take a walk with my dogs. Or go back to bed! But this morning the peace and quiet of Savasana called me. I did just enough Downward Facing Dog Pose, gentle twists, and leg stretches to get the kinks out of my body so that I could lie still without fidgeting.

In Savasana, the body lies perfectly aligned on the floor, face-up and completely relaxed. The mind is alert and aware, observing the river of the breath and consciously feeling the bones—the skeletal frame of the body—lying heavy on the floor and the muscles letting go. The eyes are closed, sinking in their sockets; the gaze is inward; the tongue and jaw are loose; the arms rest at the sides of the body, palms up; the extended legs lie slightly apart. The body remains as motionless as a corpse.

Savasana gives us the experience of symbolic death—death to everything we identify with—and allows us to satisfy, while still alive, the deep need to be reborn fresh and new.

In the deeper levels of Savasana, we feel the body as a shell—the temple of the spirit, or whatever words resonate to that effect—as we experience the pleasant feeling of letting go. As the mind follows the peaceful flow of the breath, its usual busy activity slowly subsides. The senses gradually withdraw and become still. Our earthly concerns are, at least for the moment, put to rest.

As B.K.S. Iyengar states, “The best sign of a good Savasana is a feeling of deep peace and pure bliss. Savasana is a watchful surrendering of the ego. Forgetting oneself, one discovers oneself.”

To this I humbly add: Another sign of a good Savasana is that one feels one’s sense of humor returning.

And that is why I practiced Savasana so early this morning. 8170003

* * *
A note about the photo:
A bolster or folded cotton blanket under the legs, a ten-pound sandbag (or other weight) across the pelvis, and an eye pillow to quiet the movement of the eyes help the body to relax.

Photo Credit: Ruth Miller

This photo is from my book, Yoga and the Wisdom of Menopause. The model is my longtime student, Catherine Meek.
— in Ojai, CA

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Posted in death and dying, death and dying, elder care, Life in Ojai, Suza's Yoga Books for People at Midlife and Older | Leave a Comment »

Unrelenting message from the Universe: You have the right to write

July 27, 2014
“There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one’s means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for people who despise money. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off . . . You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh . . . ” 

—Of Human Bondage

Snippets from my writing yoga journal, January, 2013 to August 9, 2014

 

August 9, 2014, Full Moon
Just for a moment, as I drove around the bend and caught my first glimpse of the fullness of the white moon, I felt that familiar, involuntary pang of loneliness in my solar plexus. I’ve come to realize that as much as one may revel in solitude, there will always be these moments when one longs for romantic companionship. But now is the time to explore the whole psychological and spiritual state of being alone—unexplored territory that I ran from in my younger years. It’s time for me to give being alone a chance.

* * *
August 3, 2014
Sunday, a day of rest. Walked the dogs this morning in the warm, drizzly rain. Now feeling lazy; just want to read, eat, sleep, dream, escape . . . Feeling the pleasure, this evening, of letting the world shrink . . . of cocooning with the canines in our cozy den. This pleasant feeling of hibernating must be how my old parents feel every day.

No sooner had I written the above words than I heard the creaky back gate unlatch.There stood an old friend who lives around the corner, in summer shorts and sandals, peering in the window through his glasses and asking, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

Of course I do! My inner sloth just needed a little nudge. The sleeping dogs were already jumping up and down, yapping and raring to go, their earlier walk long forgotten.

We walked at top speed up North Canada, toward the basin, with spectacular views of the purple sunset sky and gold-pink light reflected on the mountains.

On Sunday evenings here in Ojai, the residential streets close to the downtown core are virtually car-free. We can enjoy the urban forest–our majestic old oaks, growing dark at twilight, with their branches spreading outward, the pine and eucalyptus trees, reaching for the sky, and the pepper trees carrying the warm scent of summer. We can delight in the park-like, friendly village atmosphere, and count our blessings.
* * *
 

July 26, 2014
I woke up in time to catch the first glimmer of dawn and hear the pure song of the neighborhood birds heralding the new day. Every morning the blessed coolness that descends on this valley during the night belies the heat to come.It’s the perfect temperature to practice yoga outdoors. Since moving to this new house a few months ago, I’ve started a ritual where I lie on my back on the large, unusual, eight-by-four-foot, three-inch-thick cement table that someone built on the patio behind this 1948 house.One wonders what this slab of concrete was originally used for . . . one friend wants to turn it into a ping pong table! There’s a brick barbeque pit nearby. This table easily seats ten people, with ample space in the center for food, flowers, drinks, and baskets of fruit—or a roasted pig.

I’m sure that whoever built it never imagined that, some day in the future, some vegan woman would unfurl her purple yoga mat in the center of this cement slab and lie on her back, grasp her big toe, and move her leg in all directions while looking up at the brightening morning sky.

It took me a while to trust that this table wouldn’t break—at first I stored unpacked boxes of books and papers underneath, just in case it crashed. Now the space in between the two brick pillars that hold up the heavy slab serves as a cool cave for Honey, my loyal Aussie.

The table itself makes a fabulous yoga prop—holding on to the edge of the table when lying on the back and opening ones leg out to the side, helps anchor the whole body and keep the pelvis level . . . it’s the perfect height for support in the Standing Poses . . . and there’s ample space on top of the table for all the Seated Poses . . . I even practice the Goddess Pose–Supported Lying Down Bound Angle Pose (Supta Baddha Konasana) on the table at night, looking up at the starry sky . . .

Ojai being the small town it is, after I moved here I found out that the elderly lady who originally owned the house went to my dad’s church. In fact, they were close friends—she knew my whole family, and I met her when I was a young girl going to Sunday School . . .

* * *
July 14, 2014
My writer self can’t bear the unfinished business of my Life. The outraged child, the unfazed, undaunted woman is bursting to come forth. I must write the things I can never say to my father as the hours of his life wind down. His dark brown skeletal figure lies sprawled on the bed—he grow weaker and sleeps more and more—but as I putter in my childhood kitchen, fixing my mom a grilled cheese that we end up feeding to the dogs, I feel all the old fears. As so many other memoir writers reveal as they lay their soul bare, we can never get our parent’s approval . . . but the child within hungers for it and when my father suddenly rises from his almost death bed (one never knows) and tells me I still don’t know which pan and which burner to use (and asks me if I washed my hands—I’m the dirty daughter with the dogs) it cuts me even as I laugh at the ludicrousness and unfairness of it all.

I think what burns me up the most about my own father is his lifelong insistence that “I treat all my daughters equally,” when nothing could be further from the truth!

It’s all so ironic!
* * *
* * *
Facebook is the new Akashic Record
June 14, 2014
Woke up at 4 a.m. —stepped outside into the cool night air to sit under the still full moon. The urge to write is stronger than my need for sleep–to have even a three-hour block of time to write has been a luxury these past few months with teaching six group yoga classes a week plus private lessons, a house-sitting gig, helping a friend with his new four-legged . . . trying to sell my car, doing bare minimum book promotion, and on and on . . .

Now it’s 5:30 a.m., the sky grows light . . . a little while ago, while it was still dark, I heard the first bird herald the dawn . . . the most beautiful, pure sound . . . until just now it sounded like a solo song . . . so loud and strong. . . except for the occasional roar of an early morning car, all is quiet here on this friendly little side street in downtown Ojai . . .
* * *

May 29, 2014
Unrelenting message from the Universe: You have the right to write.
A long time ago when I lived out in the boonies on Thacher Road and pecked away on a manual typewriter to write my first newspaper columns, in between raising my three-year-old son, doing daycare for a handful of kids barely out of diapers, plus working as a night janitor cleaning offices, and doing other housecleaning gigs, an older neighbor woman, hearing of my aspirations to write, gave me the sage advice to “Write about what you know.”

At the time she told me this, I thought “Write about what you know” meant that I should write about what I knew about cooking with tofu instead of turkey, growing squash and tomatos with mulch and no pesticides, raising kids naturally without sugar or meds, and all the other stuff I was into as a young, idealistic, hippy mom.

Only in recent years have I come to realize that “Write about what you know” also means all the other life stuff that I mainly relegated to the pages of my journal . . .

* * *
May 23, 2014
Scan_Pic0018Being a Gemini (May 24), I changed my mind a dozen times picking out the birthday photo that most reflects the inner me. It’s not the baby pictures, the public persona/political campaign/author head shots, nor the hundreds of yoga photos . . . it’s this one. The writer self, sitting on the floor in Upavistha Konasana, Seated Wide Angle Pose, proofreading.

This photo was taken during a happy moment where I felt confident about the direction of my life—a nice change from the many moments when I wonder how much longer I can keep the wolf at bay. I had just landed another yoga book contract, and felt like I was swimming in money—which reality quickly snatched out of my hands. Truth be told, not a day goes by that I don’t question the sanity of juggling two careers with sporadic spurts of income: writing and teaching yoga. Even now, at age 65, I think about dropping one of them. But, for my dual Gemini nature, that would be like asking me to choose between my two children.

* * *
May 4, 2014
I finally finished reading Of Human Bondage. I confess that as I arrived at page 605 I could not hold back the tears of relief, and I wanted to kiss the author’s feet when I realized that after all the misery there was going to be a satisfying happy ending.

There were so many parts I connected with: the heavy religious indoctrination, the realization of the absolute futility of life, the obsessive love affair, his awakening to the beauty of nature, his awareness of the great gift of being amused at one’s own absurdity, and his constant struggles with poverty.

“There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one’s means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for people who despise money. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off . . . You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh . . . “
* * *
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
1 a.m.
The hour is late, but the cool night air, the stillness that descends on the valley, is irresistible. The cricket that lives in the cement wall outside my window is wide awake, chirping its heart out. A few hours ago I jumped off the treadmill and started reading “Of Human Bondage” by W. Somerset Maugham. My education on Planet Earth wouldn’t be complete without my absorbing this autobiographical masterpiece. I’m in the habit of writing on a book’s opening page the date that I start to read it, and this one says “December, 1990.” Evidently it was too much for me back then, but now I’m ready.
* * *
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
The overcast sky, with layers of light-blue fog hanging over the mountains, adds to the mystique of the intensely green valley below. As I drink in the panoramic view of meadows and still-open spaces, the orange groves and the oak, pepper, pine, and eucalyptus trees—our dense urban forest, the lungs of the earth—my imagination can easily take flight and transport me to Shangri-La. From the top of North Signal, one sees only a scattering of lights . . . most of the inhabitants are hidden under a canopy of trees.

* * *
Monday, March 24, 2014
All is quiet here in the tiny cabin at the top of North Signal Street. Chico wrapped up in a yoga blanket, Priscilla cozy on the small bed, Honey stretched out on the floor so that I have to be careful not to step on her. A cold, dark, foggy night—not a star in sight . . .
* * *
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Still no internet–but after days of feeling lost at sea, I totally see the irony and humor of the situation!
* * *
February 28, 2014
Still no internet. Am on friend’s computer for half hour about once or twice a day. Please leave time sensitive messages on my cell: 805-603-8635.
* * *
February 27, 2014
It finally rained and rained —real rain drops, all night long. Everywhere I look, I can feel the earth’s delight! Walked the dogs to my favorite yoga-in-nature spot at the top of the basin, near Pratt trail, where you can drink in the beauty of the ever-changing clouds moving above the mountains . . . already the early morning sun shone with intensity but you can see signs of more rain headed our way.

Still no internet–trying to keep my perspective and sense of humor as the property owner works on running a 170 foot long DSL line in this Wi-Fi Free Zone. Every era has it’s health hazards (predator animals, war, plague, starvation, forced labor, etc.) and, while I’m all for minimizing ones exposure to modern era wireless frequencies, I’m at the point where I feel like throwing in the towel and seeing all the things that could do me in long before all these unknown exposures take their toll . . . but, for now, I’m stuck. My friend who owns the property doesn’t see it that way, and I must respect that.
* * *
February 11, 2014
If I don’t start writing about this latest move to my new hippie writing pad on the hill, I might lose it. Last few days had several near meltdowns where I buried my head on the steering wheel and felt like crying and giving up. But then I looked up into the always optimistic, eager-for-the-next- adventure faces of Honey and Chico, and, you know what, I just gotta keep it together, somehow.

Plus, there’s my wonderful, loyal, loving, appreciative yoga students to consider. When I walk into Sacred Space Studio they catapult me into the present moment and the 90-minute class goes by in the twinkling of an eye. As I remind them to anchor the soles of their feet to the earth, and to “stand on your own two feet,” I do the same. I feel strength and steadiness return.

I don’t ask much of Life but where I draw the line is that I refuse to get rid of my animals. The biggest stress of this entire move has been leaving my three cats behind in the river bottom, in the care of my daughter. Two of the cats immediately adjusted–Ginger, the oldest one, is happy to sleep all day on the special cat cold-weather heating pad that one of my students gave me last year. Leo the Lion likes hanging out with the other cats on this property. But Priscilla did not adjust to being left behind. She taught me the best lesson of this entire moving saga, which I’ll describe on my next break, later today.
(To be continued)
NOTE: Posted the rest of the story about Priscilla under a new poste.
* * *
January 9, 2014
Time to let go of the never ending earthly concerns and rest my weary mortal body on the yoga mat.
* * *
December 31, 2013
New Year’s Resolution
Memo to self (again!):
Make a writing schedule and stick to it!
Let the unexpected, spontaneous windows of writing time be a bonus in addition to your regular schedule!
***
December 11, 2013
Memo to self (again!):
Make a writing schedule and stick to it!
* * *
November 16, 2013
5:30 a.m. Stepped outside to see the full moon that shone overhead earlier, but she seems to have disappeared. And it’s still too dark to try to find her. Hoping the black sky and cold wind means it will rain.
* * *
November 6, 2013
Time to put my writing hat back on! All the other hats can wait . . .
* * *
October 17, 2013
The full moon rises–no matter what, she stays on track. She’s my lifeline as my own boat drifts at a low ebb, lost at sea here in the Valley of the Moon . . .
* * *
September 1, 2013
I have only four months left to get the first draft of my next Writing Yoga Memoir done. If I could lock myself up in my writing hut and do nothing but write, and if someone delivered fresh vegan meals to my doorstep and a mysterious benefactor channelled a river of funds into my bank account—if all I had to do was walk my dogs at sunrise and sunset—that would give me ample time. For nothing has gone as planned. Real life hits me in the face the moment I wake up. I’m always scrambling to be somewhere on time and running out of cat food and clean towels. So I tell myself that these thousand excuses for why this book almost didn’t get written will only make the story more exciting. Imagine what a disappointment Cheryl Strayed’s memoir WILD would have been if her solo hike on the Pacific Crest Trail had been just a fun walk in the park!
* * *
August 9, 2013
The wheel of life keeps turning. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, but I’d like to jump off, disappear, take a nature writing break, and then jump back on . . . without dying.

I don’t feel right unless I write. How many more days will it take before I fully admit this?
* * *
July 18, 2013
As life gets more expensive, it gets harder and harder to find time to write. Old cats cost more than young ones. Houses with yards for dogs cost more . . . everything costs more. But once I find a free morning, the writing gets easier and easier. . .
* * *
July 4, 2013
Writing is the road to independence–a long, strange, and bumpy road. I see myself still going ’round in circles and taking side trips. I’m tired. I want to lie down by the side of the road and rest. But then I pick myself up to clear away all the obstacles, all the road blocks — and set my writing spirit free!
* * *
May 14, 2013
Ten days till my 64th birthday. All I want for my birthday are free days to finish the first draft of my second Writing Yoga Memoir. So right now I’m setting the intention that May 20th is my last teaching day, and May 21, 22, 23, 24 (the full moon), 25 and 26 are all mine. . . .
* * *
January, 2013: The Year of Writing Yoga Memoir

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, 1967, 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 Writing Yoga Pose: Seated Wide Angle Pose (Upavistha Konasana).Scan_Pic0018

Photo Credit: Sholom Joshua

 

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Posted in death and dying, father daughter relationships, Life in Ojai, New Memoir Chapters, Yoga Writing Memoir | 1 Comment »

A snippet from the years with Dr. Holistic Health

July 27, 2014
July 16, 2014
On my second date with Dr. Holistic Health (we’ll call him Ben), I galloped right past every red flag—for the first date had seemed to solidify everything I wanted to see. The first time he came to visit me in my little cabin in Ojai, he brought along his son, Alex, and daughter, Erica, ages ten and eight, which only further endeared him to me. Not only was this alternative doctor rich, successful, and movie-star-handsome, he was a loving, caring dad!
                      They arrived in a white convertible, windblown and laughing, on a warm Saturday afternoon. The kids hopped out and, after some brief introductions while looking dad’s potential new girlfriend up and down, wasted no time in running around the yard, checking out the rope swing, and making a hands-on inspection of my tiny two-room hovel. They noticed the sprouts growing in jars on my kitchen counter, the juicer with scrubbed carrots lined up and ready to go (I knew they’d be sold on me if I let them make fresh carrot and apple juice), my futon bed on the floor, and the green metal freestanding fireplace contraption.”How does the smoke get out?” they wanted to know.Strangest of all to their young eyes accustomed to a world of privilege was my clothesline with a row of yoga shorts, tops, and tights pinned with wooden clothes pins (Alex took one apart to see how it worked).Near the clothesline, they spotted a wooden rack on which some towels were drying. “What’s that, Dad?” they asked. After “Dad” laughingly explained that Suza dried her clothes in the sun, they solemnly asked, “You mean she doesn’t have a dryer?”And, most amazing of all, there was no TV. I later found out that on the drive home the kids had been very concerned. After some discussion between themselves, they cautiously told him, “Dad, we don’t know how to tell you this, but Suza is VERY poor . . . ” Ben joked to me that, to his children, in contrast to their three-story spread with a pool and four cars in the garage, visiting Suza in Ojai was like going to a Third World country. At least I did have a flush toilet and running water . . .

On this foggy morning, I thought about all that while I was shoving a table toward a window and setting up another box fan to blow the cool morning air into the house.

I want to be fully present while I’m straightening up the yoga room, washing last night’s dishes, taking out the trash, cleaning up the dog poop . . . But as the days fly by, I have to ask myself, “Where is this all going? Am I just a bag of bones and memories?”

Maybe this is all whirling in my head even more than usual, as I just finished reading Dying to Be Me, in which the author describes her near-death experience when she all at once saw everything that had ever happened to her. So why not while still alive? Everywhere I look, I see my own past—the stages of life that I’ve moved through—and my own potential future.

For all intents and purposes, I’m now in the nun stage of life. The days of dating doctors who sniff “nose candy” and drop Ecstasy in my orange juice are behind me. It’s my turn to step back and observe, and to learn from those who are still on the sex-and-romance merry-go-round. I joke about donning some kind of maroon robe; it would probably be good for my business. According to the yogic tradition, at this age I’m done with my householder child-raising and wifely duties, and I can now disappear into the forest. If there were a monastery that welcomed dogs, where I could earn my keep teaching yoga and peeling potatoes, I’d gladly move in and take a break from worldly responsibilities.

But I wouldn’t take any vows of poverty or chastity. I always like the option of changing my mind.

* * *
Photo by Ruth Miller: Supported Legs-Up-the-Wall Pose (Viparita Karani), a gentle inversion that teaches us to let go and also how to revive ourselves. This is sublime yoga medicine for the beginning and end of the day. It aids the return of blood from the legs to the heart and the circulation of lymph fluid throughout the body. It helps relieve stress headaches, stabilizes blood pressure, and feels wonderful for the internal organs. Above all, with steady practice it gives us a taste of divine rest.

Photo: On my second date with Dr. Holistic Health (we'll call him Ben), I galloped right past every red flag—for the first date had seemed to solidify everything I wanted to see. The first time he came to visit me in my little cabin in Ojai, he brought along his son, Alex, and daughter, Erica, ages ten and eight, which only further endeared him to me. Not only was this alternative doctor rich, successful, and movie-star-handsome, he was a loving, caring dad! </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>On a warm Saturday afternoon, they arrived windblown and laughing in a white convertible. The kids hopped out and, after some brief introductions while looking dad's potential new girlfriend up and down, wasted no time in running around the yard, checking out the rope swing, and making a hands-on inspection of my tiny two-room hovel. </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>They noticed the sprouts growing in jars on my kitchen counter, the juicer with scrubbed carrots lined up and ready to go (I knew they'd be sold on me if I let them make fresh carrot and apple juice), my futon bed on the floor, and the green metal freestanding fireplace contraption. </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>"How does the smoke get out?" they wanted to know. </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>Strangest of all to their young eyes accustomed to a world of privilege was my clothesline with a row of yoga shorts, tops, and tights pinned with wooden clothes pins (Alex took one apart to see how it worked). </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>Near the clothesline, they spotted a wooden rack on which some towels were drying. "What's that, Dad?" they asked. After “Dad" laughingly explained that Suza dried her clothes in the sun, they solemnly asked, "You mean she doesn't have a dryer?” </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>And, most amazing of all, there was no TV. I later found out that on the drive home the kids had been very concerned. After some discussion between themselves, they cautiously told him, "Dad, we don't know how to tell you this, but Suza is VERY poor . . . " Ben joked to me that, to his children, in contrast to their three-story spread with a pool and four cars in the garage, visiting Suza in Ojai was like going to a Third World country. At least I did have a flush toilet and running water . . . </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>On this foggy morning, I thought about all that while I was shoving a table toward a window and setting up another box fan to blow the cool morning air into the house. </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>I want to be fully present while I’m straightening up the yoga room, washing last night's dishes, taking out the trash, cleaning up the dog poop . . . But as the days fly by, I have to ask myself, "Where is this all going? Am I just a bag of bones and memories?” </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>Maybe this is all whirling in my head even more than usual, as I just finished reading Dying to Be Me, in which the author describes her near-death experience when she all at once saw everything that had ever happened to her. So why not while still alive? Everywhere I look, I see my own past---the stages of life that I've moved through---and my own potential future.</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>For all intents and purposes, I'm now in the nun stage of life. The days of dating doctors who sniff "nose candy" and drop Ecstasy in my orange juice are behind me. It's my turn to step back and observe, and to learn from those who are still on the sex-and-romance merry-go-round. I joke about donning some kind of maroon robe; it would probably be good for my business. According to the yogic tradition, at this age I'm done with my householder child-raising and wifely duties, and I can now disappear into the forest. If there were a monastery that welcomed dogs, where I could earn my keep teaching yoga and peeling potatoes, I’d gladly move in and take a break from worldly responsibilities. </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>But I wouldn't take any vows of poverty or chastity. I always like the option of changing my mind.</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p>* * *<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Photo by Ruth Miller: Supported Legs-Up-the-Wall Pose (Viparita Karani), a gentle inversion that teaches us to let go and also how to revive ourselves. This is sublime yoga medicine for the beginning and end of the day. It aids the return of blood from the legs to the heart and the circulation of lymph fluid throughout the body. It helps relieve stress headaches, stabilizes blood pressure, and feels wonderful for the internal organs. Above all, with steady practice it gives us a taste of divine rest.
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Posted in dating after midlife, father daughter relationships, Life in Ojai, Yoga Writing Memoir | Leave a Comment »

“Great Book, Great Teacher!”

July 27, 2014
1003026_10152018956774703_1937030986_n(1)  July 20, 2014
The New Yoga for People Over 50 continues to soar in the top 100 books on Amazon in both  the Aging and Yoga categories —I’m very grateful!
* * *
May 17, 2014
Like all authors, I click my heels when readers post positive 5 stars reviews! A deep bow of gratitude to these 3 readers:Great Book, Great Teacher!
By Diana Lang(Los Angeles, California)
Suza Francina is a long-time teacher in California, one of the first before yoga became trendy. She is the real thing. A wonderful teacher on structural alignment and changing inefficient life patterns in the body, no matter what your age. As a yoga teacher myself, since 1980, I recommend her book to my students all the time. As the old teachings say, 50 is the perfect age to engage in hatha yoga, and Suza’s book is a perfect way to begin.

* * *
Suza Rocks!,
By Heidi Williams (Ojai, California)
Have had this book for years & always find a jewel of knowledge I didn’t know before or had forgotten.
Happy Birthday Suza! & Thank you!

* * *
Renewed my passion for yoga!,
By Kathy
I am 54 years old, have practiced yoga off and on for a few years. I purchased this book because I wanted to make sure I could truly enjoy my golden years. This book has renewed my passion for yoga, so much so I plan on learning yoga and teach at senior centers. There are amazing stories of people in their seventies and eighties who are more flexible than me! I hope to be that eighty year old who can sit in lotus, can’t do it now but how knows. There are lots of modifications for poses to help you work on your flexibility.

* * *
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Full Moon Blessings on my writing yoga life. This is a time for renewal, reconciliation, integration, and moving both physically and psychologically into the next phase of life.

Only two more weeks till I move to my new digs in the heart of downtown Ojai. Looking back, all the twists and turns these last few months are starting to make more sense!

* * *
Update, January 29, 2014
The writing life can be rough so I’m happy to see that my second book, The New Yoga for People Over 50, has landed on my publisher’s bestseller list. http://www.hcibooks.com/c-83-bestsellers.aspx?pagenum=2

* * *
The New Yoga for People Over 50 is available on amazon.com and other sites, as well as bookstores nationally and internationally. It has been translated in many languages, including German and Russian. And I’m proud to say that it’s on the recommended reading list of yoga teacher training programs around the world.

Photo Credit: Jim Jacobs

— in San Francisco, CA.

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“This is a terrible book . . . ”

July 27, 2014
July 10, 2014
298812_10150423623539703_535391470_nA few days ago, after teaching a class of students in the age range of 50 to 80, I noticed a new review on amazon for my book, The New Yoga for People Over 50. A woman in New York wrote:”This is a terrible book. It shows people doing things a beginner cannot do and is very discouraging for a “beginner”! Wouldn’t recommend this to anyone. “By now I should be used to negative reviews sprinkled among the positive ones, but I feel the reader’s exasperation. I’d like to invite her to take classes with me in Ojai —or direct her to a slow-paced, prop-friendly class in New York — so she has the opportunity to experience for herself that the poses taught in this “terrible” Over 50 book can safely be practiced by real-life beginners.For some odd reason, no one balks at installing a flat screen TV or hanging large paintings on the wall, and (from my viewpoint) cluttering up valuable floor space with couches, comfy chairs, and coffee tables. But, as we get older, there are serious choices to be made. The time has come where investing in a yoga chair such as the one shown here, yoga bolsters, wall ropes, and even a backbender (which offers beginners more support than a chair) will pay great healthy aging dividends.

Yesterday one of my students in her mid seventies did a “Rope Headstand” for the first time. After she got over the initial surprise of hanging upside down, she could not stop exclaiming, “Oh, this feels so good!” She didn’t want to come down!!

Reversing gravity by safely turning the body upside down and bending backwards in gentle, supported, step-by-step stages to reverse the stiffening of the spine, are essential moves for healthy aging . . . I hope the reviewer in New York finds a wonderful teacher and that she changes her mind about my terrible book!

And now I’m going to bend backwards, forwards, side ways, and turn my life upside down!
* * *
May 10, 2014
About twenty years ago I recall one of my teachers, Judith Hanson Lasater, reminding us to practice three Urdhva Dhanurasanas (Upward Facing Bow Pose) every day (or maybe it was twice a week). At the time, backbends were easy for me and I took them for granted. Even two years ago I could press up from the floor fairly easily.

Somewhere along the way, this past year (2013), my backbend practice grew increasingly sporadic. I gained weight, and the stiffness of sitting at the computer converged with the stiffness of aging.

Last year and at the beginning of this year, when I tried to press up from the floor, my body felt like dead weight. If I had forced lifting up into the pose I risked injuring my shoulders. But this week, after five weeks of not perfect but fairly steady practice, I was thrilled to find myself lifting up into Upward Facing Bow Pose again—and holding the pose for many breaths—over a minute.

This morning, for the first time in a long time, I pressed up from the floor lying back over two stacked bolsters secured with a strap.

In my classes, students in my age range (65) press up by holding onto my ankles with me giving some support as needed, under their shoulders. But I also want them to practice independent of a teacher. And a yoga chair, a backbender, or stack of bolsters, makes this possible.

The way I’m practicing now is with the chair on a firm, non slippery mat, the seat of the chair facing a wall, about a foot away from the wall, depending on your height and flexibility.

I warm up with the chair backbend shown here, and then (still lying back over the chair seat) I place my feet flat on the floor and extend my arms overhead so that my palms are flattened against the wall behind my head, fingertips touching the floor (or palms higher up the wall).

After I anchor my feet, turning the feet and the thighs inward, and after I stretch my arms to the maximum, opening the shoulders and arm pits, I press my feet into the floor, anchoring the four corners of the feet, and, voila, I lift the spine higher and higher off the chair, chest moving toward the wall . . . until my chin touches the wall.

It’s totally rejuvenating. “You are as young as your spine is flexible!”

Yoga teacher Betsy MacKinnon writes: “I love this supported backbend too and it is still totally accessible at 68. Some people need to support the head though. Mr Iyengar says we need more backbends with long holdings at this time of life and from now on.”

Click here for Yoga with a Chair: http://www.amazon.com/Chair-Yoga-complete-Iyengar-practice/dp/1495296857

* * *
February 17, 2014
First yoga practice inside my new hippie writing yoga pad, which is about the same amount of space as a “Tiny House.” With two dogs, a cat and her deluxe cat carrier, to make space for my yoga mat, I have to get Honey off the floor–she gladly jumps on top of the bed. There’s just enough room to practice all the Standing Poses, including Half Moon Pose and Warrior III–the two Standing Poses that take the most space.

While it’s true that you can practice yoga anywhere, anytime, I have to say again that it makes a huge difference motivating me to practice early in the morning now that I again have a bird’s eye view of the pre dawn sky above the majestic mountains, and, a little later, the blazing bright rising sun.

This 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.

https://www.facebook.com/YogaAndTheWisdomOfMenopause

— in Ojai, CA.

Photo: July 10, 2014<br /><br /><br /> A few days ago, after teaching a class of students in the age range of 50 to 80, I noticed a new review on amazon for my book, The New Yoga for People Over 50. A woman in New York wrote:</p><br /><br /> <p>"This is a terrible book. It shows people doing things a beginner cannot do and is very discouraging for a "beginner"! Wouldn't recommend this to anyone. "</p><br /><br /> <p>By now I should be used to negative reviews sprinkled among the positive ones, but I feel the reader's exasperation. I'd like to invite her to take classes with me in Ojai ---or direct her to a slow-paced, prop-friendly class in New York --- so she has the opportunity to experience for herself that the poses taught in this "terrible" Over 50 book can safely be practiced by real-life beginners.</p><br /><br /> <p>For some odd reason, no one balks at installing a flat screen TV or hanging large paintings on the wall, and (from my viewpoint) cluttering up valuable floor space with couches, comfy chairs, and coffee tables. But, as we get older, there are serious choices to be made. The time has come where investing in a yoga chair such as the one shown here, yoga bolsters, wall ropes, and even a backbender (which offers beginners more support than a chair) will pay great healthy aging dividends. </p><br /><br /> <p>Yesterday one of my students in her mid seventies did a "Rope Headstand" for the first time. After she got over the initial surprise of hanging upside down, she could not stop exclaiming, "Oh, this feels so good!" She didn't want to come down!!</p><br /><br /> <p>Reversing gravity by safely turning the body upside down and bending backwards in gentle, supported, step-by-step stages to reverse the stiffening of the spine, are essential moves for healthy aging . . . I hope the reviewer in New York finds a wonderful teacher and that she changes her mind about my terrible book!</p><br /><br /> <p>And now I'm going to bend backwards, forwards, side ways, and turn my life upside down!<br /><br /><br /> * * *<br /><br /><br /> May 10, 2014<br /><br /><br /> About twenty years ago I recall one of my teachers, Judith Hanson Lasater, reminding us to practice three Urdhva Dhanurasanas (Upward Facing Bow Pose) every day (or maybe it was twice a week). At the time, backbends were easy for me and I took them for granted. Even two years ago I could press up from the floor fairly easily. </p><br /><br /> <p>Somewhere along the way, this past year (2013), my backbend practice grew increasingly sporadic. I gained weight, and the stiffness of sitting at the computer converged with the stiffness of aging.</p><br /><br /> <p>Last year and at the beginning of this year, when I tried to press up from the floor, my body felt like dead weight. If I had forced lifting up into the pose I risked injuring my shoulders. But this week, after five weeks of not perfect but fairly steady practice, I was thrilled to find myself lifting up into Upward Facing Bow Pose again---and holding the pose for many breaths---over a minute.</p><br /><br /> <p>This morning, for the first time in a long time, I pressed up from the floor lying back over two stacked bolsters secured with a strap. </p><br /><br /> <p>In my classes, students in my age range (65) press up by holding onto my ankles with me giving some support as needed, under their shoulders. But I also want them to practice independent of a teacher. And a yoga chair, a backbender, or stack of bolsters, makes this possible. </p><br /><br /> <p> The way I'm practicing now is with the chair on a firm, non slippery mat, the seat of the chair facing a wall, about a foot away from the wall, depending on your height and flexibility. </p><br /><br /> <p> I warm up with the chair backbend shown here, and then (still lying back over the chair seat) I place my feet flat on the floor and extend my arms overhead so that my palms are flattened against the wall behind my head, fingertips touching the floor (or palms higher up the wall).</p><br /><br /> <p>After I anchor my feet, turning the feet and the thighs inward, and after I stretch my arms to the maximum, opening the shoulders and arm pits, I press my feet into the floor, anchoring the four corners of the feet, and, voila, I lift the spine higher and higher off the chair, chest moving toward the wall . . . until my chin touches the wall.</p><br /><br /> <p>It's totally rejuvenating. "You are as young as your spine is flexible!"</p><br /><br /> <p>Yoga teacher Betsy MacKinnon writes: "I love this supported backbend too and it is still totally accessible at 68. Some people need to support the head though. Mr Iyengar says we need more backbends with long holdings at this time of life and from now on."</p><br /><br /> <p>Click here for Yoga with a Chair: http://www.amazon.com/Chair-Yoga-complete-Iyengar-practice/dp/1495296857</p><br /><br /> <p>* * *<br /><br /><br /> February 17, 2014<br /><br /><br /> First yoga practice inside my new hippie writing yoga pad, which is about the same amount of space as a "Tiny House." With two dogs, a cat and her deluxe cat carrier, to make space for my yoga mat, I have to get Honey off the floor--she gladly jumps on top of the bed. There's just enough room to practice all the Standing Poses, including Half Moon Pose and Warrior III--the two Standing Poses that take the most space. </p><br /><br /> <p>While it's true that you can practice yoga anywhere, anytime, I have to say again that it makes a huge difference motivating me to practice early in the morning now that I again have a bird's eye view of the pre dawn sky above the majestic mountains, and, a little later, the blazing bright rising sun. </p><br /><br /> <p>This 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.</p><br /><br /> <p>* * *<br /><br /><br /> January 19, 2014<br /><br /><br /> 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.</p><br /><br /> <p>https://www.facebook.com/YogaAndTheWisdomOfMenopause

 

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Life by the Cup

July 27, 2014

10333633_10152584502399703_825554252818511256_oJune 28, 2014

An enchanting Ojai evening with  humanitarian entrepreneur, the totally unique, extraordinary Zhena Muzyka —author of Life by the Cup   looking forward to curling up with her memoir . . . review to follow.
Photo Credit: Sage Tate — with Zhena Muzyka.

June 29, 2014
Deep into Zhena‘s memoir. Set in Ojai, I recognize almost every person and place in the book, which make her broke single mother challenge to succeed as an ethical, humanitarian entrepreneur even more riveting . . .

June 30, 2014
I think I just hit the two chapters in Zhena‘s book that I need the most–chapter 13 on keeping one’s perspective when you find yourself in hot water and chapter 14 on self-validation.

Zhena writes: “The thing I’d been living for–my dad’s approval–was never coming. I vowed to stop calling. It was just too painful to keep reaching for something he couldn’t give me. But not calling didn’t help the hurt.”

Can you relate? I sure can!

And then she says: “A local businessman who mentored me told me what I needed to do. ‘Nothing outside of you can make the inside feel better . . . Self-validating people do not look to others for their worth because they know who they are without external confirmation.'”

I think what burns me up the most about my own father is his lifelong insistence that “I treat all my daughters equally,” when nothing could be further from the truth!

It’s all so ironic!
* * *

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The wild wind sweeps through the river bottom

May 19, 2014

Posted May 19, 2014—Written November 13, 2013

The wild wind sweeps through the river bottom . . . Honey is crazy with joy, and her canine exuberance is contagious! She runs with the wind like a whirling dog-dervish. She dances and prances and follows a thousand invisible scents. Little Chico scrambles to keep up. His whole Chihuahua being trembles with excitement! For a moment the wind is so intense that it kicks up the dry dirt and we pass through a cloud of dust. I’m aware that wind can blind us, can destroy all in its path. But here, so far, it’s a joyous, cleansing, healing wind that just blows the past right out of you and lifts you into the present . . .

 467405_10150743640074703_301792493_o

 

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Ask and ye shall receive—eventually

May 16, 2014

May 15, 2014


suz10To the best of my recollection, this photo was taken in the early 1970s, in Upper Ojai, at a place called High Winds. At this point in time I had spotted a flyer on the bulletin board of the Gateway Bookstore in the arcade, advertising a nine-month yoga teacher-training program at the Institute for Yoga Teacher Education in San Francisco (now the Iyengar Yoga Institute of San Francisco).

To pay for the first semester I needed $500, a fortune that seemed out of reach. I lived with my boyfriend and took care of his two children as well as my own young son—three kids under age six. I also worked part-time at a preschool and  did home health care for elderly people. And I had started teaching my first weekly yoga class at Grey Gables; I think each student paid $3. All my income went for food and for clothes from the thrift shop.

However, I had one card up my sleeve. I had started writing a weekly health column called Living Naturally for the Ojai Valley News. It was popular, and generated quite a bit of controversy when I wrote a series of columns about a possible link between nutrition and cancer. The column generated a flurry of Letters to the Editor in which the American Cancer Society and local doctors called me a quack while other readers, “health food fanatics,” wrote passionate letters defending my views. So it came to me, in a moment of desperation, that maybe one of those like-minded readers might loan me the money I needed to enroll in yoga teacher training.

With great trepidation, I had to approach the editor, Fred Volz, with my idea that I needed to get some yoga teacher training and ask if he would allow me to add a few lines at the end of my next column explaining that I needed a $500 loan. I was thrilled when he agreed. When the next issue of the paper hit the stand I eagerly opened it to see how my appeal looked in print. Much to my delight, Fred Volz had highlighted it by placing it in a box in the center of my column, where no one could possibly miss it.

Somewhere in my archives I have that issue, and I’m curious to see exactly how it was worded to sound professional–something like: “Suza wants to take some formal yoga teacher training in San Francisco and she will come back to the Ojai Valley to teach. The program costs $500 and she is looking for someone to loan her the money, to be paid back when she resumes teaching.”

Somehow I had faith that one of my loyal readers would call the editor and deliver a check on my behalf. Three long weeks went by, and each time I hand- delivered my typed weekly column (always thick with splotches of White-Out and strips of scotch tape from cutting and pasting paragraphs), I would meekly ask if anyone had responded to my ad.

When the fourth week came, just as in a storybook when the heroine has just about given up hope, I delivered my column and Fred Volz stood up from behind his big desk and handed me a slip of paper with a name and phone number; it had come in soon after my appeal appeared, but somehow I hadn’t gotten the message. I raced home on my bicycle and dialed the number. The man on the other end of the line lived in Los Angeles. He had a home here or frequently visited the valley, and he had seen my ad. After asking a few questions, he asked me where to mail the check. I hung up in happy disbelief. My ship had come in!

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The irony and absurdity of life never ends, does it?

May 15, 2014

s3The irony and absurdity of life never ends, does it? On Tuesday mornings its my turn to help my mom clean her teeth, eat breakfast (fresh fruit like cut-up papaya or sliced oranges, and later something more substantial like an egg on toast prepared the Dutch way, slathered in organic raw butter; my vegan sensibilities are foreign to her), rinse her mouth after breakfast, and get her out of her comfy pajamas into some fresh underwear, including mandatory undershirt, and also blouse and pants or a favorite dress.
When I question the need for an undershirt on a hot day, she always says, “Ik voel me naakt als ik niets onder me jurk draag,” meaning, “I feel naked without an undershirt or slip under my dress.”
The whole shebang takes about two hours and includes a pleasant interlude of our listening to her favorite classical music station while I sit on the floor stretching in various seated forward bends and hip openers.
s6I noticed this morning that my mother has finally given up on telling me that “sitting like that is not lady like.” While I’m attending to my mom, my old dad is usually outside basking in the early morning sun. I can spy on him through the kitchen window, which gives me ample time to cover my tracks should he rise from his lounge chair and come inside to monitor if I’m using the right cup or the right spoon.
sMost of the time, when my daughterly duties are done I slip away unnoticed. But this morning my dad was sitting inside in my mom’s easy chair by the window, looking out at the mountains. I could feel he was ready to give me some parting words of wisdom before I flew out the door.”Suzan, you are at an age where you should be taking it easy. You should be sitting around with your legs up on a stool and not have all kinds of worries. Isn’t there some man who would like to be your husband? You shouldn’t give up on men . . .”When I laughingly reply that “I’ve chosen the lesser of two evils,” my mom gets it right away, and starts chuckling.”Dad,” I say, “don’t you know by now there’s no such thing as a free lunch? If I was married I might still have to work plus then I’d have to make dinner . . . ”

“Ah, no,” he shrugs and waves his arms to emphasize his point, “you’ve got to choose the right one. You just never picked the right one. I know you, Suzan, you picked the wrong ones . . . don’t give up on men, Suzan, don’t give up . . . ”

We’ve had this absurd conversation a hundred times, but I take the bait, mainly to make my mom laugh.

“If I married the right one I’d have to go with him on cruises, or travel to foreign countries, or dress up and accompany him to dinner parties . . . and later I might have to take care of him.”

My mom finds the turn of the conversation hilarious and gets increasingly animated as my dad and I banter back and forth.

I kiss them both good bye but before I leave I check their mailbox. Inside is a single envelope with a red line above the address box proclaiming:

“Your Guide to a 2014 Medical Product Benefit.”

Being that my parents are both so old now, I take the liberty of screening their mail.

The letter says: With confirmed eligibility, dispatch cutting-edge ED treatment
STATUS: UNCONFIRMED
RESPOND WITHIN: 14 days
PRIORITY ID: 62056-01890
ATTENTION: We are trying to reach you regarding a safe-highly effective erectile dysfunction therapy covered by Medicare and private insurance. If you suffer from ED, then you may be entitled to a proven product . . . It is the ONLY proven therapy therapy to bring back natural functioning . . . However, your reply is needed within 14 days to ensure availability.
Sincerely,
Dr. D. Marshall Levy
CEOFounder, CarePoint Medical.

What kind of shameless charlatan world is this?

Is this all we have to look forward to?

Maybe I wouldn’t mind being married to another writer who doesn’t mind if I ignore him when I walk in the door and run to my writing room . . .

Yesterday one of my students left two presents on the seat of my car: a sampler of four cans of Zhena‘s Gypsy Tea– Chocolate Chai, Coconut Chai, Caramel Chai, and Hazelnut Chai. And a book aptly titled, The Merry Recluse, by Caroline Knapp.

I’m thinking to myself, “I wouldn’t mind marrying a very merry recluse!”

s5

Photo Credit: Cathy Snyder

  — in Ojai, CA.s4

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Casting out demons

May 14, 2014

May 12, 2014

46133_10152230754909703_660897958_n
May 12, 2014
During my yoga practice this morning, my mind kept flitting back to the film I saw last night, Philomena. It hit close to home on so many levels. The deep sense of shame and guilt when, at age eighteen, I had to break the terrible news to my Pentecostal Christian father that I was pregnant. At least I didn’t get sent to a convent to work in the laundry and have my child snatched away. But I felt the blow of my father’s rage, and, like untold women before me, tried to escape his wrath by getting married.
Some years ago he apologized to me, his firstborn, for his extreme strictness and failures as a father. I’ve long since forgiven him. Yet the feelings we experience growing up seem to be embedded in our psyche, in our cells.
As I write this, I remember the first time I ever felt deeply ashamed. It was in Holland, and I was probably around age five or six because the memory is very clear. I had been playing with one of my neighborhood friends, and we had either gotten into her mother’s makeup or maybe she had one of those play makeup kits; in any case, I had smeared red lipstick on my lips. And, as luck would have it, I was told that I had to come home. The pastor of our church was visiting, and my dad wanted to show off his beautiful daughters. Back then wearing makeup was against church rules—a serious sin. I still remember my dad furiously scrubbing my mouth with a hot washcloth until my lips burned, trying to get that red lipstick off before the minister saw me. No wonder that, when I’m opening the front of the body in backbends, sometimes it feels like I’m casting out demons!
Click here to see the Philomena trailer 

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