Into Habit: Bikram Part II

I have officially attended 15 classes in 3 weeks. Phew! I actually joined the challenge they offered, 20 classes in 28 days. 10 of my classes count towards this, so I’m right on track. Can I just say how proud of myself I am right now? I’m SUPER proud of myself!!!

These are the hard things I’ve noticed:

1. My knees hurts.

2. My back hurts.

3. Ok. Everything hurts. They remind us it’s supposed to hurt. I remind myself I’m not alone.

4. It’s freaking hard to make it to 5 classes a week! Do these people have jobs????? I mean, seriously.

5. I have to do way more laundry than I want to. Stinky sweaty clothes and towels everyday!

These are the positives I’ve noticed:

1. I can literally see myself melting away. Ok. So that’s not literal, but I like saying literally. (In an English accent)
Really though, in 15 classes, my clothes fit better and my tummy is slimming. Total win!

2. My skin is sooooooo soft! Is this supposed to happen? Maybe the constant sweaty detox action. I love feeling my oh so soft skin! Another win!

3. I drink tons of water now and skip the soda. Maybe it’s because I know I’m working so hard. I don’t wanna ruin it, or maybe I just realized how much I like water. Come to think of it, maybe all the water has everything to do with my soft skin. Hmmmm Win again!

4. I have made my lunch for work every night before bed. This is a result of trying to save money, cause Bikram money is no joke. Ouch in the pocket book! But also, it’s helping me eat smaller portions, experiment with yummy recipes, and all around add to the happy feelings I have about myself.

4. I drink less alcohol. I like to drink, not like fall down drunk, more like a drink after work drink. I like to hang out at my neighborhood hole in the wall and watch the Spurs with friendly faces. I walked in the other night on my yoga night off and I heard “Where have you been” from several peeps. Maybe I was there a bit too much.

5. I am more pleasant to be around. I’m not as grumpy. I feel light and centered. Balanced. I even did my taxes early! Coincidence? I think not people!

6. I’m making yoga friends. These people are REALLY nice. It’s sort of weird how nice they are. It’s sort of weird how nice I am. Weird, weird, weird. I mean, my friends think I’m awesome and all, but I wouldn’t call myself nice exactly. “I smiled at the son-of-a-bitch ‘for I could help myself!” If you don’t know where that’s from you are missing out. Look it up.

7. I want to go. I don’t like missing. So far, I’ve been to five classes a week. If I didn’t have night meetings, I would go another day.

This is starting to be a habit. I bought a one month unlimited membership, but I will definitely buy another, and maybe the six month membership. This feels too good. I can’t stop now, and I won’t. #winning

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Passion

Passion- any strongly felt emotion/intense desire, ardent affection, or enthusiasm
———-

I’m busy, and I like it that way. Once in a while I like the opportunity to kick off my shoes and silence my mind, but there are to do lists zipping by and tasks that beg to be checked off. All the while, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Here’s why.

I choose it. Yep. I do it to myself, and I do it for myself.

A long, long time ago (ok not that long ago, maybe three years, two months, and a few days ago) someone told me she didn’t see that I was passionate about anything. It didn’t seem to matter, that at the time, I was quite passionate about her, just FYI. (See definition)

That sort of hurt. By sort of, I mean it sort of hurt like I imagine getting run over by a car sort of hurts.

You see, I have always thought of myself as a passionate person. Oh yeah, I have the actual word tattooed on my back. Well, it’s a symbol actually, Japanese. I was young, and perhaps it was a bad decision, but you get my point. Don’t judge.

I had always been the girl that never needed pushing. I pushed myself. If there was something new to try I’d do it. I was the girl who did math for fun. I was the girl who practiced the dance till exhaustion cause dancing was amazing, and practiced her violin to relax, because music. I acted, I played, I sang, painted, geez, I wanted to do freaking EVERYTHING, and I did.

Ok. Then college, then grad school, then believing in something, then protests, then voting, then Chicana power, then gay rights, then EVERYTHING! Ehem, passion.

Phew, and here was this woman, standing in front of me, telling me that she didn’t think I was passionate… about anything. Blink…(silence) blink, blink.

The sad part was, she was right, if just for that moment. In all of my ridiculous passion for her, I lost the passion for me, and all the things that mattered most to me. Cliche? Perhaps, but it’s cliche cause it’s a common occurrence that happens to lots of people, which then sends it to the realm of unoriginal cause it is, which
makes it cliche. I’m going in circles here.

So…I went and started being everything I knew I was. Now I’m awesome again. The end.

Not really. But really, after a while, (a long while, consisting of over consumption of alcohol, under consumption of food, and months of over analyzing and reflecting)I realized she wasn’t really talking about me, not the real me. She couldn’t be, and finally, I understood that it didn’t matter that much anyway. What mattered was that she didn’t and couldn’t see me at all. She had no idea who I was or who I wanted to become, and had no interest in finding out.

That brings me to now. Why on earth am I still thinking about this and her and what impact she made blah blah blah. Who cares already?

I do. All of it matters. She was a kind of backhanded motivation after all. Applause. The applause are for me. Whatever the motivation, positive or negative, (and we’ve already seen that it was quite on the negative side of the spectrum) I have fully come back to myself. I am me, the me who pushes herself, who is adventurous, fearless, and fierce. I am who I want to be, and all the tasks on my plate are of my choosing. Now, passion is a conscious choice. It’s where my groove is. It’s my jam. It’s making choices one after another to do the things that matter. It’s me, being fully present in every moment possible. It’s who I’ve always been.

Yeah, so maybe we all need a break sometimes, me included. But for me, I know that break will only be long enough for me to reflect and refuel. Then, it’s up and at ’em. There’s lots of life to be lived, and only so much time to live it. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself in my 37 years, it’s that I’m passionate about life, all of it.

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Dia de Los Muertos

Today is November 1st.  Halloween parties have ceased and I only have gummy bears left in my candy jar.  We had our students color decorated skeleton masks and dedicate them to someone they have loved and lost.  It may seem morbid to some, but to me, and many of my culture, November 1st is a day to celebrate the lives of those who have passed.

My mother and I make a traditional altar every year. It has pictures of family members who we have lost, along with their favorite foods, and drinks, and trinkets. Sadly, we have added one more picture this year. After the altar is finished, all there is left to do is remember.

My Grandma was one of 11 children.  She was born in Terlingua, Texas in 1915.  She only finished up to the 6th grade, but she was the wisest woman I have ever known.  She had 6 children, one of whom died at the age of 3.  My brother is named after him. My grandfather was a hard worker, but an alcoholic.  My grandmother left him, but wanted to be buried next to him when she died. She was.  She knew English, but refused to speak it. She was a cook at an Italian restaurant in El Paso, Texas. I always remember her hating pizza and spaghetti.  She paid $12,000 for her small two-bedroom house.  I remember her always telling me how important it was that I finish school.  She warned that without it, I would be “dumb” like her.  We both knew she wasn’t.

She taught me to sing by loving singing herself, and if I close my eyes I can hear her deep melodic voice.

“Tengo una muneca vestida de azul, con sus medias blancas y sombrero azul.”

I still remember all the coros she sang to me, and sometimes I sing them out loud to myself…and she is with me.

In my early twenties I took my then partner home for the holidays.  I was the defiant niece who refused to hide in the closet or behind closed doors.  I never told my grandmother, but during that visit, she called my female partner my “husband,” in front of all of my family.  I never heard a negative thing about my being gay from anyone in my family again.

………………………………….

My Uncle Ray lived in Corpus Christi, Texas for all of the time that I knew him.  He was the only man in my life of any consequence.  I didn’t really know my father until I was 18. (a story for another day) My mother and I spent as much time with him as we could. We both adored him.  We lived with him when I was very young, and then moved back to El Paso at some point that I don’t remember.  Even in El Paso, so far away, my mother would curb bad behavior by telling me she was going to tell Uncle Ray. The behavior stopped.

Uncle Ray was a Vietnam Vet, and we always knew there were things we couldn’t talk to him about. Sometimes he would fall silent, and we knew he was somewhere else. Other times I remember hearing him sob from behind his bedroom door.  He wasn’t a mean man, but he rubbed and pinched my cheeks red when I told him I wanted to wear makeup. I didn’t ask again.

We went to the beach a lot. That was our favorite place. One time he was stung by a man o’ war. We were scared.  Another time a drunk man in a truck almost ran over me and my cousin while we were making sand castles. He pulled the man out of his truck. I didn’t see what happened next.

He didn’t like tv, but he loved his guitar, and so after dinner we would gather in his small livingroom and he would hand us instruments.  My favorite was a percussion instrument that had rows of silver beads you would turn with you palm. To this day I have no idea what it is called.

My mom would sit in the most coveted place in the room, by his side.  He would begin to strum Neil Young, and I would wait in anticipation of my mother’s amazing voice.

……………………………………….

My Aunt Julie lived in Philadelphia. She passed away this summer.  She had a beautiful family of a husband and three boys, one of whom is gay.  According to stories I’ve heard throughout the years, she never liked school.  My grandmother would drag her there by her braids.  She was a stubborn woman.  It runs in the family.

I didn’t get to spend enough time with her, but this Spring I was sent to D.C. for work and I was able to drive up and see her.  I am so grateful for that now.

Today is a day to remember, but it is also a day for the living to celebrate life.

It’s a time for us to be grateful for all the beauty and wisdom that has been passed on to us.

I remember, and I am most certainly filled with gratitude. Thank you.

Aunt Julie