The power of the observer

In the on-going conversation about introverts vs. extroverts, there seems to be an unspoken agreement that one is better than the other. It's as though the quiet, thoughtfuls and the gregarious action seekers are engaging in the sport of life. Score one for the introverts when life calls for some reflection. The goal goes to the extroverts when small talk and sales pitches are needed. But often, what gets overlooked, is observation. Though in the same family as reflection, observation can be comfortably taken on by introverts and extroverts alike.
Observers blend in as a myriad of labels. Some are titled writers. Others titled crazy (often, this goes hand in hand with writers). As an observer myself, I know I've been labeled passive on multiple occasions. In a culture where actively doing something is the measure of success, holding back and watching, taking in one's surroundings, is viewed as unproductive, lazy, or just plain stupid. I guess that's why reality TV is nothing but guilty pleasure for many of us. It's the hidden observer waiting to leap out.

I had a friend tell me that, in large groups, she loses all knowledge of what to say. After a half hour or so of not speaking, she'll get the feeling that she is not participating in her friends' activities, rather, she's watching them from a tree above them. I don't know what it is about trees, but they make watching stuff all the more epic. After explaining this pattern, my friend would turn to me, perplexed, wondering what was wrong with her. Then she'd go and write a kick ass story that will be in bookstores sooner rather than later, I'm sure.

Without observers, we wouldn't have breakthroughs. So many inventions have happened through processing information, stepping away from activity, and organizing thought. Without observers, we wouldn't have coffee! Now that would just be a sad, sad world. There's plenty of need for the do-ers, those who are so driven with adrenaline and the need to go, go, go, but before labeling someone as passive, or indecisive, or even crazy, just think, for a moment, about the power of the observer.

Swing: a poem

Odd as this summer weather is for late March, I'm not complaining. The complaints will happen--I'm sure--when I'm thrown into a rocky mountain winter where two feet of snow is not uncommon in April. Yet this glorious summer-esque day has me thinking about endless romps outside as a kid. More often than not, my brother and I were swinging until it got dark, or throwing hula hoops onto the garage roof in hopes that they would leap to the other side of the house. But it was those evenings on the swing where I felt like I had all the power in the world, like if I got close enough to the sky, I'd be able to view the world more clearly. So, in spirit of swinging summer nights, I wrote a poem:

Swing
Her toes thread through the summer air
like razor blades--
slicing into the crisp, blue sky.
Little legs pump
with the fierceness of determination.
The plastic picnic tables,
the children giggling over glimmering hopscotch stones
seem a far memory,
as she soars higher into the air.
She can almost touch the plane that roars between
the puffy, white clouds.
The rusty swing set rattles,
she pumps harder--
stopping for no one, nothing.
Grownups’ hushed voices
in the kitchen trail through
the sliding glass doors;
soft laughter and fresh batches
of gossip swirl through her ears.
The forbidden words  a sweet melody--
she smiles, warmth spreading across her pink cheeks.
Gripping the plastic handles tightly,
she yearns to slow down,
to race through the hopscotch track,
to chow down on the fresh platter of pineapple
her grandmother set out,
and to sneak in on her parents, surprise them
with a giant bear hug.
But she is soaring,
flying,
only her and the wind share a secret.
Her legs touch the edge of each new star
that glistens through the evening sky.  
Her pink flowered sundress
melds with the soft swirls in the sky.
Sunburned skin reaches the tippy top
of the swing set.
She laughs--a hearty chuckle for a small bundle of bones.
She is on top of the world.
She will never come down.

A degree of decisiveness

Full disclosure: I am an impulsive person. If you were to get me in a store, I'd grab the first ten items I see and practically throw my money at the cashier. I tend to only allow reflection when I'm sitting at home, swarmed with that product that will finally make my hair straight, five bottles of diet coke, and a copy of The Notebook. Then me and regret meet up for a little chat:

Regret: You stupid girl, don't you ever want to save up money for college?
Me: Shut up, I need to concentrate on getting my hair to stop doing this wahoo thing.
Regret: Your hair is gonna be the least of your worries when you're living in a box.
Me: Hand me my soda please?
Regret: You're impossible.

I'm telling ya', regret can be a nasty bitch. But the obvious choice between that cute yellow swimsuit and the blue bikini is both. Duh. No sane person would scan things for thirty hours a week, and put all that money into savings!

So why is it, that when I'm faced with decisions outside the shopping arena, my impulsive nature decides to go for a nice round of hide and seek? Where to go to college? To spend a month scanning things or om-ing in downward dog? Who to date? What to study? I might be wearing a cute sweater when facing said decisions, but that does absolutely no good when all this choose your own destiny stuff is scaring the shit out of me. The one thing about finally being a grown up, what seemed so enticing about the big 1-8 to my five year old self, makes me want to hide under the covers and yell for my mommy. All this, coming from a person who is capable to help decide who our next president will be.

So for those of you who are waiting for that wave of clarity after blowing 18 candles, I tell you that the closest I've come to an epiphany is seeing the one certainty in life: there will always be decisions to make. And just because I'm paying taxes and driving after 11:00p.m., doesn't mean I know more than I did in high school. There will still be that lingering thought that, despite multiple pro/con lists, I may have made the wrong decision. There will still be plenty of wrong decisions to come.

Throughout the years of being an impulsive shopper, I have learned to maintain some degree of decisiveness for more important matters. I know where I'm going to college. I have more idea of who I am, though there's that lasting self-consciousness about sounding ridiculously cheesy when talking about who you are. I know I'll always prefer death by chocolate ice cream to coffee flavored, a classic dilemma in any adult's life. But as I'm exploring this whole adulthood thing, I'm beginning to see there is no age of pure clarity. I realize I'll never have everything figured out, but that each decision I have to make will get easier with time. And hey, I'll always have those cute jeans to grab in between bouts of indecisiveness. That always helps.      

If self study would have a textbook...

An idea came to me in the shower this morning...just arrived in my brain like it was a plane waiting to land. What is it about the shower that makes for epiphanies? Maybe it's the feeling of renewal, cleaning off the old worries and letting a clean body dive into a clean mind.
Or I'm being far too deep, and it's that one time in my day where I can let my mind wander. Yeah, that's more likely.
This idea, or dilemma is (surprise!) about yoga. I'd call it the yogi's dilemma, but even using that title seems far too self-congratulating for someone who still has to huff and puff through a series of sun salutations. While on the mat, it's easy--for the most part--to maintain a clear mind and breathe through the back-bending, leg swinging, and om-ing. It's off the mat that I'm at a loss as to how to be yogic. After that final Namaste, I find myself leaping off the mat to gorge myself in caffeine, chocolate (hey, I just sweated for an hour...I earned it, right?) and shopping excursions, that, $100 later make me feel more like a shopping addict than a true student of yoga.
Maybe I should call this the shopper's dilemma. In a world where shiny lip gloss and superficial needs are thrown at us, how do we stay grounded enough to find the deeper satya--or truths--in our lives?
I'm all for being healthy. I'm not afraid of a little sweat in order to feel good and able to take on the rest of the day. But I'm not about to eat nothing but kale greens and coconut water just to find myself. If Suzanne Morrison, author of Yoga Bitch found herself in between cigarettes and mountains of coffee, goshdarnit, so can I.
So maybe, instead of seeing yoga as a study of how we should be, yogis and shoppers alike can see it as a study of how we are. I might feel like chanting and eating vegan one day (though I have yet to see that day arrive yet), and then going to buy some cute jeans the next. I'm not going to beat myself up for being an appreciator of quality denim. Self study isn't an easy thing; there's no textbook emotions or thoughts that we maintain day after day. We don't come with multiple choice tests; the answer for happiness isn't "five downward facing dogs and a batch of brown rice." Life might be easier if there was such an answer, but it certainly wouldn't be more interesting.

So to all those out there who enjoy a nice bout of stretching followed by purchases of shiny things,

Namaste

Bending time

Two cups of coffee later, and I'm still ready to fall over. Even Godiva raspberry chocolate flavor can't get me to "spring forward" like the rest of the universe and beyond. It's funny how malleable time can be; we, as humans can just decide that because the sun does its little dance of being more visible throughout the day, we should alter the clock. It still doesn't make sense. Then again, such is life.

I guess it's something I should get used to. In less than three weeks, my body's gonna have to warm up to getting up at 4:30 and mediate (sans sleep) for the next hour and a half. Meditation can go one of two ways for me: 1) starting as a lovely image of the ocean and turning into freakish drams where old friends steal lemon drops, or 2) starting as a lovely image of the ocean, and turning into "saltwater tastes funny...water...oh shit, did I remember to do the laundry? I gotta charge my phone. Hey, it just buzzed! It's not dead yet...I should really check my phone." Is it just this generation that gets the unforsaken itch to check their phone while meditating? It's kind of a dilemma, to achieve peace of mind when three different pieces of technology are yelling at you to pay attention to your social life.

So that's imponderment #1. I'm not sure if that's a word, but it sounds nice and blog like, so there you go. I'll try to update this thing regularly, but regularly may turn into "whenever I have both free time and inspiration," which may happen only when both cups of coffee decide to kick in.