"Picnic Style," and other Things Better Off Unlearned

Before we get into all things poetry, I'd like to send a little message to people who are unjustly cruel on the internet:

Jenna Marbles viewers, you'll understand. It's not your place to think you're all "superior" because you know a few childish insults.
Glad we had this talk.

So today I had my weekly meeting with Problem Child, a literary magazine at Penn State. The range of poems is always fascinating, but like anything abstract, it's difficult to judge. Oftentimes, the poems are immensely personal and we can only infer what has happened. This is true for even professional poetry, but in contemporary poetry it's more prevalent because no one can be like "actually, I hung out with Byron and he was all 'I'm writing about that guy saying that thing that one time.'" Someone in Problem Child knew a submitter and confirmed that the poem talked about a specific, painful instance. While I didn't know the specific turn of events, I could feel the tension emanate from the poem, and while good poetry isn't about emotion, it evokes strong emotion. Thus, the turn of events became irrelevant because of how strongly the writer conveyed universal feeling.

Other times, the emotion is not so adequately portrayed. One time I wrote about my feelings on Twilight, and everybody laughed. This is serious stuff, people!

But when a poem is mainly plot driven, that's when the "judging" process gets trickier. We had a submission about dinosaurs, and there was a line that mentioned "coupling picnic style." While at first glance we gathered it was about some T-rex's galumphing around with their picnic baskets, we got to discussing the verb "to couple" and how, in conjunction with "style," it often refers to sex. Kudos to Urban Dictionary, we had the privilege of being set straight on what "picnic style" actually means.

Even I am not crude enough to repeat it on the internet. Look it up on your own free will, but I'd advise not to do any avid internet searches if you've consumed picnic food in the past, oh...ten years.

So due to that little discovery, we began looking at the poem in a completely different way. Could this be about pterodactyls humping each other, or a lovely little picnic scene? We had no idea. The tone wasn't as clear to as the first poem, so it could have fit either scenario. Dino-sex versus family friendly poetry? The world will never know.

This is the thing about judging anonymous poetry. There's only the text to gauge information from. I know that formalists and new critics alike would hit me over the head with a brick and say "dude, that was what we were trying to tell you all along." But I found myself thinking it would be nice to have the author there to bounce ideas with while trying to extrapolate the meaning of a poem. Perhaps I'm still subject to the intentional fallacy, but I still find it vastly important to let the author have some say in how the analysis on a piece of writing should go about. I don't know about you, but I'd be a little pissed if I wrote a poem that talked about jam-hands and English teachers started claiming it was all about love. Maybe the inability to twist open a jam jar is not actually a metaphor for trying to pry open a closed heart. Maybe I just had a battle with a condiment jar.

It just got me thinking that while the author's intent doesn't make the entire meaning of the poem, it shouldn't be completely discredited. So for poets that have long passed, we could be totally butchering their meaning without even realizing it. Just yesterday in English class we were talking about how one might defend Falstaff in Shakespeare's Henry IV part 1, but for all we know, Falstaff was based off this douchebag guy that Shakespeare despised. Would it still be right to defend someone who was meant to serve as the shmuck?

I mean, we can infer all we went, but we'd feel pretty silly if Shakespeare came waltzing in and was all "actually, I was saying that turtles are invading the planet."

Although it would be pretty cool if that happened. A turtle dominated society would be pretty epic.

Namaste.

What Good Charlotte Taught Me

So lately I've been listening to some Good Charlotte songs, and while I appreciate their playful sound and meter and all quality song-ish things, I think we can agree that the true gems of this band are found in their ever-so-insightful lyrics. I mean, how else would I know that a woman should present herself as an object who could easily excuse immature behavior if she sucks her man's dick for long enough?

'Cause that's not plastered enough around society, oh no.

Riot Girl taught me that tattoos and piercings are fucking hot. If you don't have the bad-ass look, you're just not desirable enough. The more presentable you are to the respectable world, the less presentable you will seem to that guy who wants to rip your clothes off. The line "and everywhere we go, she gets us thrown out constantly but that's okay 'cuz I know, I know, I know my baby would do anything for me," tells us that, hey, even if you do have a bit of an attitude problem, it's totally okay because the very essence of your existence is to make your man happy. Why else would women be on the planet? Surely not to think for themselves. No, she's got to let her man know that she would do absolutely anything for him, and that if he didn't exist, she wouldn't either.

Break Apart Her Heart taught me that we should all just scope out relationships for the sake of the game. Clearly the object of being in love is to win, to say "hey, I kept you around the longest because of my tact and wit!" Obviously Good Charlotte has got it figured out as to how to create a solid relationship: "The only way a woman is gonna want a man, the only way you'll ever keep her in your hands, is breaking apart her heart." Sure, it may not be fun to brutally toy with a living being's sense of self worth and emotions, but clearly life is not about being comfortable in the moment--it's to say you won, that you had the control all this time. You can't lose sight of what's most important: Getting a girl to fawn over you. And if such fawning requires making her feel like absolute shit, well then, get straight to the dick-headed moves. Being a prick clearly is the only way to keep a nice warm set of tits next to you at all times.

Girls & Boys taught me that all relationships are not only based off of power, but are fake as well. I mean, obviously the only thing that girls like are "cars and money," not something as pure as, I don't know, human affection?? Nope, all we care about is shopping sprees and having someone to pad up our wallets. And don't even go so far as to attempt calling women funny, because guys are only gonna give you the pity laugh in between buying you shoes. If men don't have the material goods and women don't have the "other" goods, well then, this relationship just isn't going to work, is it?

Sex On The Radio taught me that while a woman's, erm, assets are perfectly desirable, it's really the sounds she makes that make her worth keeping around. If her man pushes the right buttons, he'll get the right station. Just like on a radio, he can press play whenever the hell he wants. "Whenever I push play, she's screaming in stereo" re-enforces the previous idea that women are mere objects that can't talk back. Of course, this radio should "keep it in the sheets, the radio, the beats, so that other radios don't get overpowered by certain stations in case the man wants to listen to some other types of songs. As long as there's a play button that has the same general station, individuality serves no purpose.

So remember Good Charlotte's wise advice that women are play things that are meant to pleasure a man. Anything different is purely feminist jargon.

Namaste.

If Facebook asked cool questions

So, if you follow Maria's blog, you'll note that she raised the point that Facebook asks rather inane questions. Sure, "how you doing?" is a fantastic nod to Joey, but is it really that thought provoking? I found Maria's list of questions to be both hilarious and thought provoking, and so, without further ado, here are my answers to her brilliant list:

1) Where have all the good handlebar mustaches gone?
To Pluto. And then Pluto got unjustly demoted. So all the handlebar mustaches got demoted.
2) Do you want to buy the world a Coke? 
I want to buy the world an Orange Crush. Because, friends, there's nothing like your first crush. Also, it's like drinking an orange creamsicle. And nothing is as genius as that flavor.
3) Do you think Professor Snape got what was coming to him?
This question is quite a to-do. I think we'd all agree that he was kind of a dick to Harry, and just 'cause he looked like Snape's nemesis, that doesn't give Snape the right to be all "well, you should be expelled because you didn't hop around on your left foot for an hour and thirteen minutes." Let's be real here, Snape was kinda brash, and hardly a sympathetic character. I mean, J.K. Rowling pounded it into our heads that Harry has his mother's eyes, so Snape should at least be sympathetic to that. Or, he could expel all of Harry's body parts except for his eyes, then just have a pair of eyeballs traipsing around Hogwarts.
...Is there a spell for that?
I did have an inkling that Snape was truly loyal to Dumbledore, but it's not fair to say he deserved to die. Maybe a good thrashing or two.
4) Does Mulan count as a Disney Princess?
No. She's not a princess. She is a ruler of all badass-ery. And that is far cooler than any princess title.
5) Did the third Spiderman film ruin the franchise?
I've never seen Spiderman. You can yell at me later.
6) At what point does Leonardo DiCaprio cease to be attractive?
I don't know, but I think it's a great tragedy for us all. Also, I sincerely hope it doesn't ruin The Great Gatsby because then all hope in the world would cease to exist. But yeah, DiCaprio got doughy, so perhaps he should go running after Claire Danes again. Or something.
7) Are ankle socks practical or frustrating?
Pretty damn retro and sexy. No pain, no gain.
8) Who is your king of choice in Game of Thrones?
The sexiest one. I don't know. I don't watch Game of Thrones either.
9) Are you more likely to trust someone with a British accent?
YES YES YES YES. If Alex Day told me to jump off a bridge, I would build a bridge just to jump off of.
Then again, I don't know what I ever did to deserve jumping off a bridge. Alex, you should re-think your advice.
10) Does listening to Green Day make you feel like a teenage rebel?
No, it makes me think about my funeral.

11) Are Slytherins all bad?
I AM A SLYTHERIN SO NO, OBVIOUSLY NOT! Slytherins are unjustly portrayed as flat characters!!! They are people too!
12) Humans or zombies?
Cats.
13) Does a Lannister always pay his debts? 
Sure, why not.
14) To be or not to be?
I think I'll take booth 3B.
15) Do you believe left handed people deserve equal rights or should scissors be for right handed people alone?
We deserve equal rights in this society! I personally believe we shouldn't be told to "scoot towards the middle" of a giant lecture hall because when we take notes, we have to criss-cross our hands and turn our wrists into one giant pretzel. Also, people gotta get working on making left handed scissors that don't just sit there and mock your inability to cut even a piece of paper.
16) Is it socially acceptable to wear corduroy pants?
With a solid colored shirt.
17) Is it okay to write poems about toes?
Yes!:
The toenails of the yoga girl
The toenails of the yoga girl
dig their way into the earth,
tickled by the cold mud.
They wriggle freely.
Her first coat of sky blue
nail polish slides into
the grass.
The second coat,
half finished,
clings on.
A city toenail has pristige
and posture,
with three full coats
of shiny polish.
The yogic toenail is scratched
and torn,
bloody from the time
your handstand slunk
into the wall.
She slides her feet
into a worm’s home,
greeting it with grace.
The worm investigates
the smells of deep warrior pose
and late nights by the fire.
Her feet lay still,
inviting the Earth
to join them.

...That was a thing that happened.




18) Are you watching too much HBO?
Yeah, Lena Dunham, what's up with that? But also, what is this "too much" you refer to? There is never enough HBO.
19) What is your Patronus?
John Green.
20) Is the penny a worthwhile form of currency?
Sometimes, I stick pennies between my feet to separate my toes before I paint them. So absolutely.
*Editors note: I don't actually do that. So no.
21) Did it hurt your feelings when Pluto was demoted from planet status?
See question one.
22) Did you know that Pterodactyls don't exist and, if so, how do you feel about that?
Kristina Horner (italktosnakes) told me, and life was never the same. HOW COULD YOU LIE TO ME LIKE THAT, CHILDHOOD???
23) How do you get to Never Land? 
By watching Johnny Depp be smashingly sexy in Finding Neverland. Oh, and paying me a million dollars.
24) Why are elephants so adorable?
'Cause Ganesha destroys all obstacles. Also, they have cool ears.
25) Does Facebook have the right to ask you all these questions?
No! Facebook, why do you dare inquire about my personal life?


Namaste. 

What High School Taught Me

1) It is essential to wake up two hours before your bus comes in order to burn your head.
2) Never sit on the front of the bus. This section is purely designated for nerds and freshmen.
3) Even if two of your classes are right next to each other, it is never okay to arrive five minutes early. Go stare at your locker for two minutes if you have to.
4) One does not study in study hall. This period is designated for tetris, gossip, or getting past internet blocks and staring at facebook.
5) One does homework not at home, but in a mad dash before first period.
6) The school dress code is "violated" only depending on how big your boobs are.
7) During your lunch period, you either brave the cafeteria food, or you go home. Except you will receive un-ending mockery if you go home. So you either brave the cafeteria food, or you starve. Packed lunches indicate that you do calculus in your spare time.
8) If a group of friends sit on the back of the bus and the only empty seat is in that vicinity, said group of friends will claim they are going to set your hair on fire.
9) The only acceptable hairstyle (for girls) is one that is accomplished by almost setting your hair on fire.
10) Never EVER tell your friends, family or pet naked mole rat what you learned that day. Ever.

So high school...that was a thing that happened.

Namaste.

Shower Epiphanies, Project Poetry, and Breaking up with Breakups

Hello friends from the Internet-verse!

I realize that since one of my earliest blog posts, I haven't had a shower epiphany. This is a sad fact I've faced, since what was once my time to ponder the philosophy of the universe has now turned into ticking off a to-do list, creating a to-do list for tomorrow, and if it's a hair washing day and I've got loads of time, realizing that Shakespeare really was quite perverted. But today, with my completed homework shoved tucked away into my folders, I thought about Alex Day's Lifescouts project. If you aren't yet acquainted with Alex Day, you should be, because he's brilliant and witty, and British (which that in itself should make you want to watch all his videos).

So now that we are all familiar with the amazingness that is Alex Day, I'll briefly summarize Lifescouts, because let's face it, wading through Tumblr by one's lonesome can be quite the daunting experience. Essentially, Alex Day wanted to create a "Boy scouts" for adults--to congratulate adults on their achievements, whether it be something like planting seeds in a garden or getting a promotion. You can buy the physical Lifescout badges, or simply re-post them on your Tumblr and blog about your experience in gaining that badge.

I personally am super excited about this idea, and not just because I like getting shiny badges. With the social media dominating our lives, why not turn the energy we use to look at videos of cats into creating a community where we motivate ourselves to go out and do things? It can be scary to get out of our comfort zone and try new things, but having a widespread support system to share our experiences with makes Lifescouts both more fun and less daunting.

But then the line gets blurry when we try to determine what constitutes achievement or "experiencing the world." Someone once told me I wasn't well-rounded in the world because I read too much. Coming from the same person who values and enjoys history.

......................Last time I checked, World War II wasn't right outside your window.

The resolution that reading doesn't make you worldly is a simplistic one, and quite simply, the lazy man's excuse. Let's just examine the obvious fact here that EVERYTHING YOU COULD POSSIBLY WANT TO LEARN ABOUT IS FOUND IN BOOKS. Even when you're confused about those pesky interpersonal connections that seem so unique to you, thousands of psychologists have analyzed those same personality traits, those same behaviors. You can't read people until you read books, and to those who are so dis-illusioned as to think that wordly knowledge comes from getting plastered somewhere outside your home, don't be surprised if I shake you with a spear.

So that was a rant.

There is a fine balance between refusing to see concrete merit in literature and avoiding the outside world by constantly being immersed in literature. I've often struggled with this see-saw of experience, though college has helped me in evening out the spectrum. As I continue to read and think for classes, I've also made an effort to go to yoga classes and discussions, to maintain a solid work schedule, and obviously Shoshoni work study is a major life event. But through these thoughts about what constitutes valid experience, I've come to realize (yay more shower epiphanies) that the achievements I am most proud of are literary. So I've come up with my own branch of Lifescouts:
PROJECT POETRY.
Project poetry is where anyone, writers and life-experiencers alike, write one poem per day for a month. Similar to NanoWriMo, the quality of these poems don't always have to be excellent. They don't always have to make sense. But they do have to encourage you to write, even if it's about a random duck you saw walking past the bus stop. There are no length requirements for these poems. You could write 31 Haikus if you so pleased. But much of poetry is about landscape, or adventure, or seeing the world in some exciting new way, so I thought the juxtaposition of getting outside your room and reflecting was perfect for Lifescouts.

My first poem is about the idea that what if breakups were a person? What would you say to them? How many times would you slap them? What if they were rhetorically skilled and got you to feel sorry for them? Part of what makes breakups so wretched is that they bring up a myriad of emotions that you can't quite pinpoint but that insist on chilling there and taking up your brain space for months on end. It would be interesting to see if people were less dominated by breakups if they saw the phenomenon as a tangible object that they could just kick away at any moment, or at the very least, have a very firm talking-to.

And so, my first attempt at Project Poetry:

A Breakup with Breakups
I see that yellow gleam in your eyes
magnetizing me to the fridge,
as though another pint will solve everything.
What's one more night of wallowing?
That's all very pleasant dear breakup,
but did you ever stop to think
that wallowing could be reserved for
sympathetic characters on late night TV?
I've got some courses to ace,
and nowhere in literary theory do I see where
you're so pathetic could serve my development
as a thinker or citizen.
You're kinda selfish,
all this schadenfreude is so WWII.
I'd appreciate it if you took your shennanigans elsewhere.
You'd get a better reaction from some 15 year old
who's already got the blackened posters and screaming albums
who are just waiting for someone to rage at.
But me?
Please.
I've seen your antics.
I know the machine of your mind.
You're like the chorus
of some generic pop song--
you could fit anywhere,
delve into anyone's heart,
changing form ever so slightly
from pitchfork to dagger
so as not to arouse suspicion.
Don't flatter yourself
in believing I see you as unique,
or someone to keep around.
Frankly, I'm quite sick of your tone,
your ill-advised words that tell me
dependence is the new black.
When you come back,
it's a new form you'll take,
a new victim you'll face.
Because, guess what? It's not me.
It's you.
Dear breakup, our dalliance was fun,
but with this fling, I am done.


Happy poem writing!

Namaste. 

A Touchdown on Football Culture

I have constantly been surrounded by football. Even in my American Girl Doll days, my brother, dad and I would gather around the television and watch Penn State players barrel through the field. During halftime we tossed the football around out own yard. I never truly got into the game, but I have always been an observer of the culture that pulses through this town. We are a college town yes, but somehow that inherently makes us a football town. I had some distance from Penn State football in my high school days, but dance team reminded me just how much we are run by the sport that snakes through our very existence.

So when Maria wrote this post about how Joe Paterno is revered in our society and how football grappled a flawed human being in perfection, it got me thinking: Was this man honored because he was great, or because he administered something that had already gotten out of control?

Personally, I think it's both. But here I want to focus on the football culture that Penn Staters have been drawn into. Yes, Joe Paterno was an idol to many. He contributed greatly to this university. But he was partly an idol because he reflected on something we already knew and loved. I by no means am trying to claim this as public opinion, but I truly believe that this blind admiration of all things football have gotten out of hand. I say this both from observance and from experience.

In 9th grade, I auditioned for the State High dance team. Unaware of the connotations of "dance team," I went into the auditorium ready to piroutte and jazz-hand it up. I followed the routines, getting more into the beat with each song. I didn't notice that the other girls were caked with makeup and sparkles. I was a naive fifteen year old who believed something with the word "dance" in it would be about, well, dance. I got in--it still astounds me that they didn't kick me out of the audition when I showed up with a muffin top and no eyebrows. I was geeky and awkward. But I could dance. The first practice, we spent an hour talking about uniforms--complete with a tight-fitted top that would make it impossible to breathe in, much less leap. We practiced alongside marching band. Dance team was an addition to the mammoth that makes up Friday night football games, never its own separate entity.

I gave it a few chances, although I knew there was a distinct line between myself and the other girls. You know you're an unwelcome face when you present, to a group of girls that giggle mercilessly about hot guys, the idea that uniforms should be a little less sexual, that we should be a little less objectified. I went to the first football game with zero expectations, negative or positive. We spent fifteen minutes on the field, and three hours standing in the bleachers, cheering for the football players. Shiny pom poms were involved. We were mere presenters to the game--pretty faces to provide a frame for the football players. We got punished if we weren't wearing ribbons with the team's colors. In the yearbook, we were titled as "sports supporters." And in the course of four months, we learned about three full out dances, and three times as many pom pom cheers.

Dance team and the majorettes were the only sports (and yes, dance done properly is a sport) that didn't gain its own category. Why? Because we were lumped with football. And when a group has anything to do with football, guess who gets the limelight?

This could easily turn into a "Kira's fun times with dance team" blog (and believe me, there are stories), but let's just end this saga with saying I quit before basketball season rolled around. But I digress. I also wish not to demean the value of girls who want to be part of football culture. Dance team is great for those who want to be part of the mass excitement towards the game. But it is far from just to offer such a group as the only choreography related club in high school, and to advertise it as dance. It serves as an ornament to football.

But looking at football even from an entertainment standpoint, there are still flaws. Even coming from a friend who closely follows and respects the game, "football, no matter at what level, has turned more into a religion. It can make or break lives; people get killed over it, but you can also blind people from the truth about people or colleges." The game is valuable; it teaches sportsmanship, healthy competition, and fitness, but once people start getting free passes because they wear the jersey, that's when the line starts to blur. We see those who had human imperfections as God because of their associations. Let me be clear here: Football is a game. It requires skill, yes, but wouldn't it sound ridiculous if someone got off the hook for letting little kids be raped because he was a ping-pong guru?

Ping-pong requires skill, too. An atrocity as an atrocity, no matter which way you spin it.

And lastly, football culture is such that it invites partying and wild, Bacchanalian afternoons. Post game activities have become so out of control that it goes from a celebration to an excuse to drink, to let go of all inhibitions. Losing a football game evokes riots. So we lost. Life goes on. I don't see anyone turning cars over because the average frat GPA is less than 2.0.

Football could be a healthy way to incorporate fitness and friendly competition into a university. Instead, it has outshone a great university. It has ruined reputations and futures; football culture has been blown vastly out of proportion, and the only way to resolve this is to realize it's just a game. It's not a lifestyle.

Namaste.

The Blissful Sweater--a short story

This short story is the product of amazingly awesome yoga teachers, my own thoughts on happiness/bliss (and sweaters, apparently), and two hours at Webster's with nothing to do:

The first lesson, I didn't see your face. A chime, a chorus of "om"s guided me through the practice. I distinctly remember your light whisper reminding a lost soul that she didn't have to be an actor pretending to do yoga--she had to practice yoga. 

I came to you for nice legs that would make him squirm. I got the legs, but I didn't get him. I picture him shrugging his shoulders, saying "irony is a bitch" in between lattes and business meetings.
It was always latte runs. Never tea.

I came to you out of frustration and anger. My sweat beads filled the incense-soaked room. Lavender cascaded through my nose. I sprinted through down dog. I found Savasana--corpse pose--a waste of time.
     "You don't learn anything by just laying there," I whined, thinking of the ever expanding flab on my legs.
     "Ah, you mean to say you don't accomplish anything by just laying there," you said, tugging at your drawstring pants. "But you can learn the entire world."
I said I wanted my fifteen dollars back.

I went through the motions of life, pushing your words to the back of my mind, alongside thoughts of reality TV and the pressing realization that I was unhappy. I'd never been the type to sob through a pint and an outraged phone call to my best friend; outwardly, I was successful. I went on hikes with Stephen, my golden retriever. I sold houses to other people who were selling happiness through shiny-white teeth and boob jobs. I'm just like you, I wanted to tell them, we both sell lies. I made enough money to buy HBO and TV dinners. I never gave myself a moment to sit down. But it was night time, when I finally found Savasana, that I remembered, each night more painful than the last. 

So I came back, fifteen minutes early, per usual. I heard the chorus of breath, your song of "om namah shivaya." I wanted to hate you for pulling me towards a battle with my neurotic self. But I didn't. Your advanced class poured out of the studio, opened chakras and all. I trembled as I put my donation into the jar. Ganesha's elephant belly still protruded over the window. Shiva still smiled from the studio walls. I almost expected you to confront me, to tell me yoga doesn't accept the flighty. But you didn't. 

A car horn beeped from outside. The yells of kids coming home from school wafted through the windows. We rolled out our mats. The chanting music vibrated on the floor. You told us to go into Child's Pose--"Wisdom" pose, as you prefer to call it. We stayed there for eight long breaths.
     "Inhale, feel your lungs expand. Exhale, watch your breath travel through your body." I began to feel anxious. We weren't moving yet. My thoughts clouded over my forehead. What if I was breathing wrong? What if, later on, we had to put our legs behind our heads?

You sat up; I leaped into lotus, trying, already, to show off. You smiled with your whole body.
     "Today we are going to meditate." I froze. Was this some cruel trick?
     "There is no expectation in meditation. Only focus. Here, we focus on the breath. We acknowledge our thoughts--we wave to them like an acquaintance who demands much of our attention, but we do not engage in them. We are observers, not negotiators of our physical existence." 

I watched you speak in your blissful tone. I tried to settle into empty space, but all I could think was that my physical self negotiated one outstanding sale price the other day. So I tried again. I shifted into sitting position. His face passed through my mind. My body tensed up. I opened one eye--your awareness shifted to another world.
     "We need not demand from ourselves. You have all the tools you need; meditation requires nothing new. We spend our lives thinking if we get that yoga mat or that iPad, we will finally be happy. But we fail to see the infinite joy that is already there. Bliss isn't earned, it is revealed by stripping away all the expectation we load ourselves with."

The contour lines of his face grew sharper; I breathed through it. I had always expected his replacement to come Waltzing through--as though a Jonathan 2.0 would make me happy. I thought through the idea of erasing all Jonathans. It brought a certain stillness. My body relaxed onto the floor. Then I considered dying alone. The tension jetted through my arms. Damnit. 
     "We are born with this clean slate. Think of bliss as a sweater where all good things happen. Our mothers sing to us in this sweater. We see a beautiful bird. We laugh. We sing. But then we get bored with the sensations of this sweater; it is too plain. So we go buy more trendy clothes, those belly shirts all the young people wear. We get bored with those clothes too. We keep piling things onto the sweater until we forget it was ever there. But we are never satisfied. We keep shopping for the perfect item, when really, we could clean out our clothes closet and find bliss at the bottom. Meditation is finding that sweater."

Was Jonathan that sweater? Were you? If I stopped moving, would I be worth that bliss? Without movement, would I be too scared to find that sweater?

We lay back into Savasana. 

Namaste.   

"Don't Just Do Something, Sit There!"

Today, kudos to the inspiration that is Lila Yoga Studios, I bring you an old yoga adage: "don't just do something, sit there!" I, like many others in the Western hemisphere, have problems letting go and sitting still. I twitch. I check out how that person is sitting, what that person is wearing, how I'm sitting, what I'm wearing. I think about all the text messages my phone may be collecting, all the theories I could be memorizing, all the check marks I could be swiping on the productivity scale. Then I start wondering if there's an app for productivity. Then I start getting hungry for apples.

It's a strange place, my mind.

In our culture, we expect. Oftentimes we rush through one accomplishment so we can get our claws on the next. I mean, I know John Green's treadmill desk is absolutely brilliant and sign me up for one please, but it says something about our mindset: that simply working out, or sitting back to create some genius literature is no longer sufficient. We must do both at the same time. We seem to focus less on how we do something, but how much we do.

There was once a time when I tried to write a story, do math homework and watch True Blood all at once. The math homework turned out all wrong (all I can say is "X" is fantastic at playing hide 'n seek), my story filled with clichés, and I apparently missed that Tara and Pam made out because I was too busy wondering when I would fit in time to straighten my hair. Clearly I should've worked out my priorities and set the homework and writing aside.

There will always be stuff to do. Striving to do things is not inherently bad. But we can't become masters of the universe by dinner time either. I don't know about you, but I consider it a good day if I put enough time into my makeup to not look like an oompaloompa and wear pants that don't have fuzzy animals on them.

So what does yoga have to do with all this? At first glance, yoga seems like something to do, something to accomplish. All those pretzel twists and standing on heads don't happen from just sitting there. I see your point, young grasshopper (also, good job on learning how to read; the insect community must be very proud). I was drawn into the world of yoga by the thought that I would have a tangible hobby, that I could show off a bunch of cool poses that would invoke the "wow!" reaction the performer in me adores. I mean, who comes back from a yoga class, tells their family "look what I learned!" and leans back into Savasana? It's the sideways crow that always earns the spotlight. Okay, I can't do sideways crow. But that's beside the point. It seemed there was nothing impressive in sitting there and being introspective. I am a champion of reflection. I can journal-ize like there's no tomorrow. Problem is, realizing that your carrot cake obsession goes back to your childhood doesn't earn many brownie points in the outside world. So when I first started practicing yoga, it seemed silly that my teachers stressed that yoga wasn't about the poses or how you look.

I can, however, do regular crow. Extra "points" for the jeans.

You mean to say, I would think, that we're being taught how to sit, breathe, and be? I already exist, I know how to be!

But this seemingly simple lesson is not so silly. We do exist, yes. And we know how to be happy, how to be sad, how to be productive. But we struggle to know how to be. If we strip away all the stuff--the grades, the possessions, the friends, we often see emptiness. We see nothing. And because our culture encourages us to go through the motions of life with little reflection, we keep piling stuff onto our lives in hopes that we will never be faced with a time in which we will have to be. We keep doing and doing until we feel like machines in society. If we see our lives as a yoga class, many of us tend to spend the entire ninety minutes lunging and sweating, leaving no time for meditation or savasana.

While I see myself progressing in yoga postures, I realize that is not where the true accomplishment lies. These stretches and poses are stimulation, preparation for the stillness that lies ahead. We are always faced with stimulation in our lives. But rather than getting wrapped up in that chaos, we can let yoga teach us how to observe that activity, engage in the sensations that it evokes, then settle into what will truly make us grow as humans: stillness, reflection. Everything leads up to what seems simple in theory, but what takes deep effort in practice.

So next time you're feeling overwhelmed by classes, work, and your pet turtle who keeps causing mayhem, try just sitting there for a bit. You may be surprised by how much you learn from "nothing."

Namaste. 

And your "unexpected beauty in State College" moment:

Permission to Slap me if I Don't Finish a Story

Friends, I have a story for you--a story about a story, if you will. There I was, reading Plato like a person who reads Plato, and I was all "hey, divine, inspiration, that sounds like a fabulous way to write!" And it makes perfect sense. Every time I feel some emotion bubbling inside of me (so basically every Monday, Sunday and every day in between), I have to clear my head by getting those emotions on paper. So while I'm nowhere near lacking in divine inspiration--okay maybe just regular inspiration--every strike of inspiration causes me to abandon my first work and get all excited about this new story that's basically the same as the last, just with different characters.

This is problematic in many ways. First off, in this whole learning to be an adult world, I've discovered that while kids are congratulated for ideas (my "everything should be free!" proposal in fifth grade was considered "cute"), adults are congratulated for execution. Not the head chopping off kind (although sometimes they are), but the "hey, I was productive for this amount of time, and produced this tangible object that I can sell to consumerist society" kind. Everyone has ideas. Even gossiping about how Billy Bob and Joe got in some massive fight the other night consists of ideas, of theories. Not only do we all have ideas, but we also have grand schemes for ourselves: to be the next great American [insert profession of choice] here, and exhibit all the genius anyone in that field could ever hope to attain.

But it seems that starting a million and one grand ideas (okay, ideas) doesn't look all that impressive on a résumé. It looks flighty, like someone who isn't willing to commit to a relationship with their writing. And while I have assured my stories that it's not them, it's me that's the problem, it doesn't encourage them any more. They all just kinda sit there, un-finished, giving me that expectant look that stories tend to give. It's gotten to the point where I can't venture into the Google Docs world because I'll see so many docs named "at this point, I'll never finish a story," or "a story that you can pin me down to the floor if I don't finish!" or "this is the inspiration above all inspiration, I just know it" (that last one hasn't been created yet, but you just wait). I seem to justify all new creative endeavors by claiming "oh, this will just be a short story." Then I go write some daring looking outlines and start hating my life.

So begins the new venture into the story writing world, but I give you all permission to slap me if I don't finish a story. This one is a character study whose title is still a work in progress (translation: I suck at coming up with titles, help meeeeeeeeeeee). It's about four friends, each in her early 30's, who met in college. Miranda is an academic who lived a comfortable life with her husband and kids, but she's at a loss as to how to continue her routine once her husband leaves. Kristen is a former supermodel whose career expires due to age, and she must re-evaluate her life. Serena is a prostitute who stumbles across deeper love and doesn't know how to manage it, and Leisha is a publisher who has spent her whole life in one place, but must move to a city due to a transfer at work. The friends were scattered post-graduation, but must come together and feel out the dynamic they created in college, as well as their differences.

So. Now that I've told y'all about this story, I have two requests: 1) I need a name for this thing. I'll give you chocolate and shiny things if you help me. You can even text me at five A.M. with suggestions and I won't rip your head off (much), and 2) if you ask me what my current writing project is and my answer doesn't match up with the plot I just summarized here, slap me. Seriously. Do it.

Glad we had this talk.

Namaste. 

Things Parents don't Understand about their 90's Babies

I love my parents as much as the next person, and their pretty chill with my technology-crazed self despite their lack of something, but no matter how much I try to explain certain aspects of life that us 90's babies take for granted, I see their eyes glaze over, or worse, I hear a "why the hell would you do that?"
It's because Twitter does things to people, parents. Don't underestimate the power of 150 characters. So, like any person who would like to enlighten other generations of sorts, I give you...

Kira's list of things parents fail to understand about their 90's babies:

1) No matter how witty, sweet, or informative your voicemail is--even if it begins with Coldplay itself beating on some drums--we will not listen to your voicemail. No exceptions. Even "hey, call me back" gets lost in the universe when people actually called each other. We'll get the little notification thingy on the phone button, then proceed to text "hey you called, what's up?" If, for some reason, we are forced to actually interact with people's voices, we will text you to see if now is an okay time to talk.

2) We're not facebook stalking. We're gathering information. How else will we know to talk about Metallica when we want to impress that guy in our bio class?

3) "Truth is" is not about the truth. Facebook makes us no more blunt, it just transfers our mind games to the internet world. Truth is was designed by people who are obsessed with flattery and giving people superficial compliments because it looks nice and shiny on their walls. Speaking of which...

4) When we refer to "writing on someone's wall," we are not taking marker and scribbling in a person's bedroom. No, we continue to write cheesy compliments on internet walls and hope they remain permanent for future generations to realize how desperate we were for approval from our peers.

5) Email is outdated. Letters are cool because they're antique. We check email for the soul purpose of yelling at Amazon when they screw up our textbook orders and hoping to the heavens above that class is canceled.

6) When we text while you're talking, it doesn't mean we're not interested in what you're saying. We simply find it impossible to ever do one thing at a time. We live in a generation where we watch movies and write novels at the same time. We need something to do with our hands so that we can get distracted from the sorry state of the world--and as it turns out, texting is a more socially acceptable way of providing such distractions than playing with a bunch of stuffed animals.

Also, if said texter is under the age of 25, their sex lives' fate most likely depends on those texts. You're welcome.

7) We watch youtube vloggers, 1) because they're short and our attention span can no longer stand films, and 2) we feel like we know the vloggers, like they're talking directly to us. Sure, our comments get lost in the strand of fangirls and creepers, but don't snap us out of our fantasy that we have deep connections with Alex Day. It will only make us cry.

8) Texting "U R 2 Cewl" does not make you hip. Sorry.

Namaste.

I've got Some Beef with Socrates

So I'm all for questioning. I encourage critical thinking, farther asking about topics that some may take for granted. I use the Socratic method when people want to smack me over the head with a frying pan. But recently, after reading Socrates bash poetry in Republic 10, I'm not so keen on continuously congratulating this guy anymore.

First off, Socrates relies on the assumption that truth is only found in one form; he completely disregards manifestations of truth, the ever changing perceptions that make up human kind. His analogy of the bed and the chair and all those manufacturers are clever and all that jazz, but he assumes that the tangible object is the only valid truth in the world. He's all "oh, art and poetry only imitate truth," but that would imply that painting and writing are only humdrum activities we do when we're bored, or doomed to not being good at math and science. The whole "imitating is inferior to calculations" claim is absolute phooey, because let's ask ourselves: Who makes more money: Brad and Angelina, or Scientist Bob in his little lab corner over there?

Okay, okay, money doesn't buy happiness, and I in no way belittle the importance of science. But does that make humanities inane because they don't make you qualified to stick a bunch of needles into people and diagnosis them with long, scary sounding words?

No. No it does not. Oh look, Socrates, I answered a question with a clear cut answer. Hah.

What Socrates fails to acknowledge here is that imitations and perceptions change the course of history. The truth isn't some object we can pick up and throw at Sarah Palin. The only thing we can be sure of is that we exist. And through our existence, there are perceptions. There are beliefs. All of these can be transcribed through writing, through art--through expression of what makes us real. 

Let's examine the bed analogy. Sure, there are people who make the tangible object that we sleep on. There's the consumer--the person who uses the object. Right, okay, we see the bed, we know it exists. But what's so fantastic about literature--an interpretation of these truths--is that it presents the truths of humanity in a complex way. Maybe Socrates didn't enjoy reading between the lines, or he just had some obsession with buying furniture. So we have this bed, we know it exists. Cool story, bro. But in literature, we can look into the lives of two best friends who bunk together in some crappy freshman dorm and laugh about drunken nights and odd professors. Or we see a loving husband and wife sleep together (literally) in some queen sized bed, then as the years progress, we see the sign of love and closeness turn to animosity and distance through two twin sized beds. We see the complexities that make up human nature in literature that no simple bed could offer, unless someone decides to invent magic talking beds.

Literature does not sway from truth, it merely examines truth. Life isn't made up of true/false statements (unless you're taking a really dull college class)--it is made up of what wraps around truth, what enhances it. We care to look at the signified in life, rather than the signifiers. To illustrate, I give you our fictional friends Dick and Jane, all grown up, and completely unrelated ('cause otherwise the story would be weird):

Dick [Raises eyebrows]: I like your dress, Jane.
Jane: [Blushes]: Thanks. So. You playing some football tomorrow night?
Dick: Yeah. We're playing [insert good football team here that I'd research if I cared enough about football]. You should come.
Jane: Totally. I've got some girlfriends who would be interested...
Dick: Awesome. That's totally cool if you just end up coming. We could grab some coffee after.
Jane: [giggles] Sure.
Dick: Good. I like a girl who likes a buzz.

Stiff dialogue aside (I wrote this at midnight, cut me some slack), this scene presents us with TONS of signifiers. But through the obstacles that is adolescent discourse, we are able to wade through the mess until we can more clearly see the truths that make up human nature. Literature isn't cut out for the lazy, but that doesn't mean it merely imitates. It explains, it hypotheses, but hey, guess what? So does Science. And Socrates sees no inferiority in that practice. Why should the theories in literature be any different? With practice, we can dissect the dialogue between these friends, concluding they mean:

Dick: I can totally see your tits through that dress.
Jane: You've paid attention to my more desirable assets and for that I am grateful. Can I see you exude total masculinity tomorrow night?
Dick: Yeah. We're playing a really tough team which shows both our skill and superiority. You should watch 'cause I'm totally sexy when I play football.
Jane: I'm bringing up my girlfriends because I want to see if this is a casual thing or if you just want to see me.
Dick: I just want to see you. And then I want to talk to you and convince you to have sex with me.
Jane: I'm nervous and excited at the same time.
Dick: [same. The kid likes a girl who likes a buzz]

Now, just because there are multiple hypotheses about what make up the truth of this conversation, doesn't make them any less valid. Scientists are doubtful and wrong ALL the time. Calculations, data, formulas, and authority in the field are all involved. Yet there are still multiple hypotheses. Why do you think experimental treatments exist? For kicks? Yeah Socrates, let's just play dodgeball with some human lives. Sounds like one giant party.

The study of characters/phenomena may contain a multitude of signifiers, which may not take us to one truth. Instead, it takes us to many theories that through examination, may lead us to the truth. But it in no way is less valid than the chair I'm sitting on, the computer on which I type, the pillow pet of which I adore.

Also, Socrates, emotion is real. Stop saying it's only a woman's or poet's job to cry your eyes out. You sexist little nit-wit. 

And on that note, to all the appreciators of literature and truth,

Namaste.

Walk on: Your Guide to Pedestrian Prototypes

As one of many pedestrians on Penn State's campus, I've done some observing during my fifteen minute sprints to and from class. While last semester I could just kinda roll out of bed and appear in my classroom, this semester proves a farther challenge: Getting from the East end of campus to the West end in the time it would take me to eat a slice of pizza.

This brings thirty minutes or less to a whole new level.

So until apparating becomes legal on school grounds (and, you know, physically possible for muggles), I'm gonna have to truck it to English. But ever since entering the freshman badlands that is East halls, I've noticed, 1) that bikers' favorite catch phrases are: "I'm on the highest gear in the world!" and "get out of the way!" Bikers aside, I've also noted that there are many different types of walkers. And so, friends, I present to you:

Kira's list of pedestrian people:

1) The meander-er
This person enjoys seeing the view, commenting on the lovely weather we're having, perhaps stopping to pick up a dandelion or two. A meditative walker, this person sees no rush, even when they're ten million minutes late to class. A walk contains no destiny in the meander-er's mind, only a journey. The point is discovering, pondering, and not scuffing up your shoes by the time you get to class.

2) The "move it or I'll smack you in the face with my textbooks"
This pedestrian is always in a rush, not only to be on time, but early. They let the mountains and sunny skies fly past them as they're sprinting to class. Even a cute puppy leaves no room for stopping. They're determined--those people with the grimaces on their faces? That's a clear signal that they're the ones who won't stop, not even for free food. And we all know how much college students love free food. These walkers see the destination as the journey, and they won't breathe until they get there (oftentimes, you will see this type overburdened by a million credits, honors courses, and volunteer work).

3) The "oh heyyyyyy!"
The "oh heyyy" will always find someone to catch up with--even if it's that guy who was kinda weird in your intro to something-ism class. The sidewalk, to this pedestrian, is the perfect place to start a deep conversation about the meaning of life and make dinner plans. The "oh hey" is also known to practically tackle the target of choice; alternatively, they may choose the making someone (as Jenna Marbles may say) blind as a fucking bat and "guess who?" approach.

4) The jogger.
I don't understand you. Really I don't.

Next time, I'm taking the bus.

Namaste.

Because it's a Double Blog sort of Day

Hello internet friends,
So this is less of an introspective blog post about my inquiries on life and more of your average list about what I'd like to accomplish this semester. My first semester of college was quality...I learned some stuff, I met some people, I ate some food (and then some more), but it didn't have that, well, je ne sais quoi we've discussed earlier. It wasn't great. I woke up, went about my day, and went to bed. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary--nothing that stretched me beyond my perceived limitations. I know this is what "real life" oftentimes is: monotonous, stressful, and filled with too much caffeine, but college is still within the boundaries of that blurred line between adolescence and adulthood. It's a time to discover, to go forward and frolic with friends.

And so, it's time for spring semester to have that frolicking and discovering and whatnot. And what better way to ensure that then to make a list?

So, here it goes...

1) I hope to take challenging classes that seem intimidating at first glance, but that stretch my mind in that "aah" (soothing aah) sort of way. I want to be able to enhance my critical thinking skills, to be able to see both sides of an argument, and also to figure out what the heck all the little goshdarn details in my bank statement mean.

2) I vow to talk to at least one new person in each of my classes.

3) I vow to join two new clubs and actively participate.

4) I hope to laugh every day.

5) I hope (but this one is shakiest in terms of follow through) to exercise daily. Okay, four times a week. Okay, when I don't feel like collapsing on my bed.

6) I hope to find time for pleasure reading and writing.

7) I hope to gain a lot of knowledge from my eastern religions class...this is the course I'm most excited about because I feel it will pertain most to my future adventures ahead. ^_^

8) To eat chocolate. Everything's better with chocolate.

What are some of your spring semester resolutions?

the Self, an Inspection on Adolescence and other Worldy Pondering-like stuff

In preparation for my Shoshoni adventures, I've been reading a book called The Essence of the Bhagavad Gita. It basically is a (well-written) Spark Notes version of the most popular sacred text in Hinduism--it explains how one becomes united with the divine, and how to erase all suffering. While Shoshoni uses the Guru Gita for all (or most) things chanting, the two texts are quite similar and give a myriad of techniques for how to be enlightened and content.

One part of this book that really struck me was the author Paramhansa Yogananda's view on atheism. The ultimate goal in the Bhagavad Gita is to become united with God--no matter the form of the divine. What I like about Hinduism is the polytheistic nature of the religion. "Oh, you have that God?" they'll say, "cool--add him/her to the list!" Yet as someone who was not raised with a strict religion, I have struggled with putting my entire life into the hands of another being. I cannot definitively say there is no God, but oftentimes I have questioned the idea of a man in the sky who goes bowling whenever it's thundering and decides the fate of every being. As a kid, I used to think, "but there just aren't enough hours in a day to hear that many prayers!" I may have watched Bruce Almighty too many times in my youth.

However, the Essence of the Bhagavad Gita has a much more abstract view on the divine and how it can be channeled through the self: "True, God doesn't really have a human form: He is pure, absolute Bliss--infinite, eternal, and ever-conscious, as Shankaracharya later claimed. Shankara wanted to persuade people that the forms in which they had clothed God were purely for their own devotional upliftment: They were not literal realities" (81).

That, to me, is much more tangible--ironic, how I place more belief in the unseen. But I do often feel a greater force pushing humanity. I don't necessarily see someone who will instantly make my life happier, but I can't completely ignore a massive shift in human kind. My first resistance has thus been fixed.

Another main portion of the Bhagavad Gita deals with the self--there are quite a few passages about the physical self being different from the astral/casual body (although there are MANY vocab terms so I may be mixing them up). I love the idea of separating the ego from the larger self, but because Western culture is hellbent on attributing achievements to a person's worth, it takes quite a bit of practice to see there is a self who just...is, rather than a self who does. I've talked about this in terms of status, but as a person who has spent much of her life relying on external approval--even for the little things--it can be a challenge to see that criticizing your work is not akin to criticizing your self.

This distinction is quite universal. Even though I'm studying a Hindu text, my best friend (who is Catholic) distinguishes the sin between the sinner.

I tried to refute this advice by saying "well, if we put a gap between our achievements and ourselves, won't we all turn into a bunch of lazy bums?" Yet let's think back to a time when we were all sure that the world revolved around us and everything we did, we were.

Yes, my friends, that was a scary time...and that time was adolescence. Everything everyone said was surely a reference to myself, every annoyed facial expression must have been directed towards me. My ego enjoyed hanging over my head and going "har dee har har, you think you're good enough? Think again!" And cackling like there was no tomorrow. And at that point, when my ego was the most prominent its ever been in my physical existence, what did I get done? What did I accomplish?

I wallowed like a boss in my room and learned to scare the shit out of my parents. Bam.

However, when we start to realize that there is a world outside our own ego's limits, that's when we leave room to do--to stop wondering if so and so thinks you look weird when you start pick axe-ing up the wazoo (been there). Without the ego pressing on our every whim, on our whole being, there is more room for compassion and joy. When you stop wondering and equating, you start doing. You can waste a lot of time waiting for people to tell you your work is of sufficient quality--that you are of sufficient quality. By all means, create, and let your achievements bring out the best in you, but "don't wait anxiously for His smile of approval, but live in the thought that you have it already, for the freer you feel in yourself, the happier you will be" (70).

I'm still working on a lot of this advice The Essence of the Bhagavad Gita has given me, and at first glance, I was frustrated that after learning so much at Shoshoni my first time around, I reverted back to my old habits. I was convinced that once learned and forgotten, these gems of advice were doomed to never stick. But enlightenment doesn't just spring it's shiny face at you once you stop practicing. It can be easier to slip back into old habits once surrounded by tension. Here, Paramhansa Yogananda presents us with this story of Arjuna's spiritual journey: "he was discouraged, rather, because his hopes of spiritual experience had not yet been fulfilled. Torn between two worlds, but believing in the upward path, he sat back in his 'chariot' and cried, 'I can do no more!'" (62). But Krishna reminds us that once failed does not mean always failed--it just gives us a good story to give at dinner parties (I may have added that last bit. Do gods and goddesses have dinner parties?). The ego is something we hold onto tightly, but with meditation and patience, we can let it go and start being compassionate and all that wholesome stuff.

And so, I leave you with one last quote to help all my fellow spiritual novices: "Even Arjuna's tears of despondency are spiritually wholesome, for they also express an unfulfilled longing for divine truth, and rivet the mind on higher aspiration: his unquenched longing for the indescribable joy of divine communion" (63).

Namaste.

Placing a Memory: A meditation on freakouts, life plans, and Lucky Charms

It's the eight month mark since I left Shoshoni, and I've been missing it like Lorelai Gilmore misses Pop Tarts (except more meaningful, since, let's be real, Pop Tarts can't "om" at you). Maybe it's the snowy weather that's triggered my Colorado memories, or perhaps it was free yoga week at Lila studios that got me pining for some yoga-intensity. Whatever the case, my mind has been filled with "om nama shivayah"s and thoughts about my "home away from home."

Life has been filled with a myriad of change lately. With that change, granted comes joy and excitement, but it also makes me realize, that, well, I don't have a plan. I'm not talking what I'm making for dinner (because clearly, that's been solved by our friend Lucky and Charms). I'm talking the grand scheme of things. The life plans--all of a sudden, "what do I want to be when I grow up?" has turned into "I'm grown up--what the heck am I?" Life has gone from having a certain je ne sais quoi to a je ne sais rien.*

*Translation, to the best of my ability: from having a certain aesthetic quality to a "I don't know anything."

And so begin the panic attacks.  A hyperventilating cashier is not the most comforting thing in the world, but hyperventilate she does, on top of wondering if she'll ever figure her life out. When I was little, my greatest wish in life was to have some stuffed cats to play with and some American Girl Dolls. My current great wish has gotten simpler in theory, yet so much more difficult to attain: and that wish, my friends, is calm.

http://images.nationalgeographic.com/wpf/media-live/photos/000/138/overrides/save-the-ocean-tips_13821_600x450.jpg

Naturally, I thought back to the last time I felt calm--not just "I'm falling asleep, so I'm gonna shut my eyes" calm, but truly at ease, truly ready to face the world in times of challenge and in times of joy. And while Shoshoni certainly presented its challenges, it is, to this day, the place that I have felt happiest, calmest, the most...myself.

The life goals and meditation techniques Shoshoni presented did not require a huge temple or wise gurus in order to make you happy--one of the main purposes (at least that I found) at the ashram was to show that you could be in the middle of Timbuktu and still find the same inner peace and tranquility that you once found in a meditation class. We are still united with the same breath, we are always guided by that core self, we are still whole...even at the times we feel we are crumbling. Think of it like a cookie: a crumbly cookie may not look as confident as its dessert companions, but it still brings the same joy, the same gooey chocolatey flavor that it always has.

That, or I just really want something sweet. Yay digressions.

And so, in these eight months outside the sweet bubble of meditations and self reflections, I have taught myself to breathe; I have reminded myself of the great connections I made at Shoshoni--the strength they continue to bring me, even when they are thousands of miles away. Yet even as I try to keep that strength in my mind, the memories grow fuzzy, the meditation techniques grow weaker. I see myself settling back into old habits, old insecurities. And at first glance, it scared me. It seemed that without physically being at Shoshoni, I would be worthless. I would be doomed to a life of fear and inability to accept change. It's much easier to be reminded of a past feeling, a past memory, when you are in the place where you first made that memory. But just because we are physically moving, that doesn't mean our memories constantly have to shift, or be erased. It is easier to be reminded of tranquility at an ocean, or an ashram, or your Aunt Edna's bakery, but it isn't impossible to feel calm elsewhere.

During my plans to return to Shoshoni, I've been feeling a certain restlessness--as though I could snap my fingers and get some insta-englightenment. While it's not realistic to be all "I wanna feel calm RIGHT NOW!," it's now more than ever that I need to step back, realize Shoshoni isn't going away, and remember to live in the moment. Ironic, to remind myself to be patient before returning to a place that teaches us patience. Sometimes chaos tries to snatch us in its fangs, to devour us while we suffer through desire and expectations. But through even the most tumultuous of times we must remember to step back, wait, and breathe. Mindfulness doesn't have a certain hibernation spot. It is everywhere. We just must remember to call upon it.

Om nama shivayah, friends. May the je ne sais quoi of your life bring patience, laughter, and joy.

Namaste.