consider this your holiday letter

Happy December! If I seem enthusiastic, it is because the quarter ended last week--the teaching in the classroom part, anyway--and while I am not done with work (grading final projects, setting up next quarter's class webpage), I am at least done with the part that requires me to wear shoes for the next month.

Unfortunately I am not able to grade without typing, because that isn't much fun at the moment. Took a dive on a run the Monday before Thanksgiving--there was an oncoming bike, and I was busy watching him when I stepped into the dirt and sidewalk adjacent ground cover, rather than where I was stepping. I thought I had clear dirt. I found a pernicious root. I had time, as it tightened across my foot, to think oh fuck and then splat. A very stretched out, fully extended, but at least running uphill at the time splat.

Half of me hit the dirt, literally, and that half--except for a few neat scratches on my ribs--was fine. The half that hit the sidewalk was less fortunate. I got myself up before the poor cyclist could even dismount to assist, and toddled off toward home. At the time, I thought the scraped up knee was the issue. (Running tights are tough. Not a scuff on them, but the skin underneath was shredded.) I'd caught myself on the palm on that side, elbow flexed at about 90 degrees, wrist mostly flat, and everything straightened and moved. I feared for the wrist, but it seemed fine, and it was.

The elbow, however, having absorbed a great deal of force and shock, was sprained, which I discovered about the time I got home and tried to flex is beyond that 90 degrees in either direction. Oh ho ho, that wasn't happening. 

Since then, I have learned how very many things elbows are involved in besides bending, and how very unpleasant--or impossible--some of those things become. I have also learned how much of my yoga practice relies on straight elbows. 

I have not learned that I am bad at convalescing because I already knew that, and merely confirmed the continuation of that particular quality.

I could, and can, still knit, which is good! Because I have things* to finish by Christmas Eve. 

*Like that orange octopus D&D dice-bag beside Tinycat, except that one is mine.

mended

When there is absolutely no way to invisible repair the clapotis, repair it boldly. The patch keeps the same pattern, but sets it at an angle, and adds an extra corner at the bottom because why not. 

And! Nearly a year after tearing a hamstring, I'm back road-running. The healing period was spent running laps up, around, and down the 7 flights of parking structure, which kept the cardio and let things heal and made other things stronger. (Of course I did not rest.)

I also changed my gait completely, a mix of necessity and intent, which I'm given to understand one shouldn't do? Or something. Whatever. I am far happier than I thought I'd be to be running again. I look forward to it, even.

And! It doesn't hurt. I had forgotten what that's like.

I came late to running--in my 30s--because I'd always believed I wasn't built for it. I pronate pretty badly on a heelstrike, which is my "natural" stride, and end up pulling my body weight forward, rather than pushing off from the ball of the foot. Turns out I could, and did, muscle my way through for a while, with a scattering of IT and piraformis injuries (treated with months on an elliptical). But the hamstring, boy howdy. There was ouch and then there was ouch and then there was literally unable to touch my toes. Like, could not. Pain override.

It was the yoga that clued me in, hard. I couldn't do things I'd always done. A quick search told me what this was. Torn hamstring! Tendon?! I had to let that heal. And that meant I was going to have to stop running.

I was terrified. There was no gym access! Walking isn't enough! I'd get...well...fat.

And here let it be said: this is not about fat-shaming. This is about body dysmorphia and eating disorders.

not at all lazy days

Summer is almost over. We are not amused.

I'm in the middle of teaching my final project for the American Viniyoga teacher training. It's a 6 class series themed around The Avengers and aimed at Geeks with Ambition, which is to say--people who spend too much time sitting in front of computers, but who also have aspirations to badassery like their favorite characters. So yeah, aiming at the Comic Con crowd. In reality, I'm teaching 1-3 students a session. I don't know how I feel about it yet. Teaching yoga and teaching writing have a lot in common. I'm not exactly nervous, except that I'm not as much an expert in yoga as I am in writing. But I also don't know if I like it that much, teaching yoga. Still deciding. I do like creating sequences. That's more like algebra. There are rules to follow, and a certain elegance when those rules are well-executed.

I'm gathering courage to actually cut the Icelandic colorwork sweater I made for Nous so I can install the zipper. I have a deep-seated aversion to actually cutting stitches. This may take another week of courage.

Round two with the agent and revisions. I was not in a good place at first, having to do another round. You know. The doubts descend: it's clearly not good enough, just fucking quit and go watch more Veronica Mars (which I recommend with some reservation) and get on with knitting those baby hats.  For the record, the agent's been stellar and nothing but encouraging, so the issues are mine; I think she's trying to get this manuscript as clean and flawless as humanly possible, because the style's difficult and it won't be an easy sell (which I knew, and I'm happy as hell I found someone in the field who also likes a book where you have to pay attention to the words). The Rat has agreed to read the whole damned thing again, which only proves she's the best friend in the world.

Baby hats, yes, but not my baby. The Rat and Shan are having Evan in October, probably right around the day that revisions are due, school starts, and my final yoga weekend commences. The hats, by the by, are finished. Shan hopes very much that Evan's head is as tiny as the hats appear.

Visited parents. Parents visited here. Next year I'd like to spend a week in CO, in a cabin someplace where we can bring the cats, and just get some damned hiking in. People can come up and see us. We shall see. The job hunt begins again for Nous, so next summer is this vague shape of Things Will Happen.

Honestly, I like my summers blank and dull, with a few weeks of interesting, so that I can catch up on knitting projects and get some actual writing done. I've been lax on the latter this summer, or at least, I have produced nothing of length for submission. I do have a pile of books to read for research, however, for the next project.

And! This is how I started my summer. I tell ya, if I'd had tattoos in my 20s, I'd've been a lot more diligent with the sunscreen. This is the Hårdby swordwoman they found, which lots of folks are calling a valkyrja, and which lends support to the idea that women in the Viking age might've fought.

up and down and up again

Yoga training for this summer was postponed until September (exactly when I can't commit to 25 hour weekends)...and then un-postponed again within 24 hours. My teacher wants to run it for the seven of us who committed, even if he he might not do better than break even on the work. I suspect his assistant wasn't too thrilled about sending the second email, but I know *he* wasn't thrilled to've cancelled in the first place, and evidently *his* teacher suggested he go ahead anyway. So I am back in training starting a week from Friday, which will entail some creative logistics to get me from last day of class, ending at 1:50, to the training site by 2.

Mom's got hernia surgery today. It's out-patient and supposedly easy and minor, but it's still general anesthetic. One frets, long distance.

Mid-April, an agent asked for revisions on a manuscript. This was both an up and a down--up, because omg, someone read my work and liked it and down because it wasn't an offer. But those revisions are done and go out today, as soon as I get enough courage up to press 'send' on the email. The Rat, despite crazy work and her father visiting, came through and read the whole lot of it for me, catching typos and stupid sentences and generally making sure it all makes sense. She is my hero. I would buy her a beer except she doesn't drink. I think I'll buy ME a beer, then.

Really, I think this day just needs beer and yoga, and not in that order.

yorick's lucky

My various gods and ancestors, the migraines. This is the season for them. Thanks, changing weather! Thanks, super sensitive barometric sinuses! My eyeballs feel hot and fuzzy. That's only slightly less awful than the icepick behind one of those fuzzy eyes, making it water and blur.

There was something I wanted to rant about, and I delayed it long enough that by the time I sat down to write, the headache has struck. Which I guess is okay, because seriously, who needs more ranting on the internet? --Oh. Nevermind. Now I remember. But I won't rant, or rather, it's been long enough that I am not feeling ranty (which was the point of waiting). And also, headache! Which means my time in front of a lambent (I love that word) screen is limited.

I ran across myself in a blog the other week. The blog belongs to a work-friend, who also happens to be my boss for these past few quarters, and who will be my boss again next year, too.  She is a hardcore Ashtangi. Seriously hardcore. We've talked about yoga together a few times over the years, and I read her blog because it's a glimpse into a world I don't inhabit and about which I am curious, because I am almost always curious about other people's experiences.

In one of my semi-regular passes, I saw a mention in this blog of a work-friend who is "dithering" in her practice, because said work-friend will not accompany her to an Ashtanga shala no matter how many times she asked. And since she'd just asked if I wanted to go to a workshop with Kino MacGregor, and I had said 'lemme check,' I knew she meant me. Well, that and the last two or three times she's said 'come practice with so-and-so and I will go with you' I have declined.

 My only Primary Series exposure has been filtered through other practices; my favorite instructor, who does Viniyoga, taught a whole quarter last winter that was Ashtanga prep. Loved it. Loved the sweat, the challenge, the power of it. I told her that, when I was new to yoga and she was not and we were discussing my practice. I had it in my head, back then, that what I wanted from yoga is the physical badassery, and to some extent I still do; but I've been practicing for a few more years, now, and my opinions have evolved a little. So has my situation. When I thought I might want to be an Ashtangi, Nous was hip-deep in dissertation and I was, well, lonely. At loose ends. Feeling like I needed something that consumed my life like his diss consumed his. Something that was mine in a way that diss was his.

Well. The diss is over.

The  implication of the blogpost in which I found myself a supporting character was that my dithering about my practice was in some way indicative of some hesitation or fear about leaping into Ashtanga. Let me be clear: the post was not about me. It was about asana practice and diligence and her relationship to those things. I was there only as 'this is what I was like, too, once, and I wish I'd stopped dithering sooner." And there was an implication there that I was afraid to commit to Ashtanga, and that was the reason for all my refusals.

And then another invite appeared on Facebook to a workshop here in L.A. in March at her former shala. Come with me, she said. I'll be right next to you. No fear.

And that is where I got all...not angry. Okay. Maybe angry. Huffy, I think, is a better descriptor (which both amused and annoyed me: seriously, self, wtf? Get over it). I decided that, if I was clearly so attached to her opinion of me, and so reactive to it, that I'd best examine why that is. (I blame the Aristotle I've been inflicting on my students lately, and his relentlessly reasoned approach; also, I blame Vulcans, but only in an admiring way.) So anyway, I went off and thought about it. Am I dithering? Am I...afraid?

Yes and yes, but not for the reasons I think she thinks.

One: I like where I practice now, both for location and price. I like being able to walk to practice. I think twice before driving anywhere in this damn city. The two shalas I know of are north and south of an hour away. That adds 2 hours to any practice I schedule. No. I won't even drive 10 minutes to get to a Yogaworks. So I am dithering about driving to the workshop.

Two: You cannot beat the price of my gym membership with a stick, and although they cost extra, the yoga classes are also a great deal. This workshop, for the single session I would attend, is not cheap.

Three: I am generally pleased with the breadth and quality of my classes. I love my Thursday teacher because she can balance the student skill-levels and challenge everyone, and because she knows all our names, and because she will make a point, every class, of speaking to all of us and offering at least one correction. She pushes me at things I am not ready for, sure; but by doing so, she makes sure I don't stagnate, and that I work actively in my home practice to get to those impossibilities. I don't think there's a jot of Ashtanga in her practice. My favorite teacher is trained in Viniyoga and if  he gets permission to do a teacher-training this summer, here in Irvine, I will do it.  Commit. In a heartbeat. (I am not in love with my Monday class, but that is another tale for another time; the instructor is fine, but he is not as good as Thursday's teacher at managing a multi-level room.)

Anyway, I like being an eclectic. (Do I sound defensive? I'm trying to be Aristotelian.) I don't want to do Primary Series, and only Primary Series, until such time as I graduate to Secondary. I don't want to get up at 4 am or 5 am for practice because that's when Ashtangis get up for a reason I haven't yet confirmed but which is based in spirituality. Do not want.

Which is not to say I don't derive something other than visible gut muscles  from my yoga. I do. Focus, detachment, discipline. But  I have my own spiritual practices, and a sense of purpose not reliant on my yoga. Yoga applies to my thaumateurgy, not my theurgy. It's a supplement to other things, not a center. It is not my priority. I am not interested, at this time and probably ever, in making that shift.

But I know I have it within me  to wish for a structure by which to regiment my existence. It's so much easier, with routines. With habits. With rituals. And I have sworn off rituals.

That said, I did agree to go to the Kino workshop for a single session. I will  keep an eye on my work-friend because I don't know the Sanskrit words for the postures, and she does, so I can follow along. And I will come home sore, after an hour in the goddamned car (probably more, on a Saturday), and impressed all over again by the badass Ashtangis in the world. She can believe I'm afraid, and that's fine. I know better.

Not that I have signed up for the workshop session yet.  Perhaps I AM dithering, after all.

achievement unlocked: sirsasana

Two weeks ago Wednesday, I did my first unassisted headstand in yoga. Not the tripod version, hands and head, but the forearms and head version. All shoulders, core, and back, plus a lot of balance. Which is not, might I add, a matter of getting into the right place and going rigid like iron and holding it. It's a constant in-and-out, correct and overcorrect and breath and shift and recover dynamic process which occasionally ends in a crash to the mat. I have spent the last two weeks getting into the curled-up ball version, legs tucked, hips over shoulders. I haven't dared the straight legs--a combination of the clutter of the old apartment, and the awareness that if I went over, I'd get hurt among the boxes, and the old doubt and fear of what if I can't do this again?

Today, I replicated the full extension on the floor of the new apartment and held it for 5 breaths. That is fairly weenie, as major inversions go--5 breaths!--but for me, it was kinda monumental. It is one thing to get hips over shoulders over elbows with the instructor right there in case you go over. It's quite another to do it with only the cats as witness. Sirsasana is no longer 'that pose I will be able to do someday' or 'that pose I managed with Juris watching that one time.' It's one of many poses I can just do.

I should not be crazy-proud of myself, but I am. I wanted to get this before 40, and I did. I am terrified of inversions. And for years, I just wasn't strong enough. I have a lot of my mass in my lower half. I had to get the shoulders caught up to the thighs. And, let us be honest! ...it was a serious challenge. I am not just in yoga for the wellness and the mental health. I want the arm balances. The hard stuff. The things that push my boundaries and my comfort level. Headstand scared the poop out of me last year. Now it doesn't.

Next: scorpion.

this is not the story of a born again yogi

So I started yoga reluctantly, because my pilates teacher was quitting and I needed something to do in its place and she said--oh, do yoga! You will love it.

So I did, and she was right. And here's why: for that 75 minutes, I am totally in the moment. I am not worrying about students, or how much grading I have, or that godsforsaken query letter I am supposed to be working on, or how guilty I feel because I haven't made much time for Swedish. There is something very... freeing... about that kind of concentration. Sure, sometimes it hurts it's challenging. But it's exhilarating, too. Probably all the breathing. I'm not always totally focused. Sometimes I notice the chick next to me with her 19 year old rubber limbs and no muscle strength. Or the chick over there who can't touch her damn toes and wtf? She's maybe 20! Or that woman, lord, who is wrapped in a knot and making it look easy and maybe, maybe, I can get another half...and...inch...into this twist....!

At which point I remind myself "let it go," and most of the time, I do. More of the time, now.
Yoga reminds me that no, that right hip Has Issues(tm), probably related to over-training and bad posture in martial arts years ago, and exacerbated by running (which has been largely replaced by the elliptical). That my elbows have nerve tweaks, and that while upward bow is possible, it may not be a good idea.  That  I am also not 20 any more, and I can't just muscle my way through the poses and trust that I'll heal by morning. I need to respect my body, and my limits, which are subject to change. A bad day is just a day. Let it go.

Yoga also reminds me that I am very, very lucky: my body is healthy, northern European-sturdy. That I am strong., and flexible, and that I can do the stronger variations of most of the asanas, most of the time.

But oh, the ones I can't do piss me off. My favorite yoga teacher told me (rather sternly) this afternoon that I have a "nice practice" and "if headstand is going to lead to injury, you don't need it." But I want it. And the badass arm balances. I want to be more than I imagined I could be, three years ago. I want to be more than I am, right now. I want headstand by 40. Let's see if I get it.

power to the yogi, baby

I was all fired up to write this post last week, in a spasm of outrage after so-called "power yoga." Then I put it off and didn't and now it's power yoga day again, so this is like pre-emptive outrage. I would have said, before this quarter, that I had not met a yoga class I did not like. Even the mellow ones. Even the hard ones. Whatever. But this... this... I do not like. I knew power yoga would be all aerobic and shit, fine. I like pain*. I like challenges. I like feeling achy and exhausted at the end of a practice. And while this class delivers all those things, it is not made of win. I was expected ashtanga-lite. I am getting... pushups? What? When we have vinyasas, we are doing pushups? Why in the name of the many gods...? And then, for the Savasana, instead of either blessed silence or something worldess and meditate-y, she played this smarmy love-yourself, you're wonderful! song that required me to sing Amon Amarth to myself so I could focus.

So okay. It's not the yoga. It's the instructor. This woman vacillates between hippy-dippy peace and love and drill-sergeant. Which would be fine, if she inspired in me any confidence. I think she's knows yoga just fine, but her pedagogy does not work for me. I wish she did not a) make a habit of touching without permission and, b) when she does so, shoving the body in question into a more extreme version of the pose.** And c) most damning--no precision at all in the practice. I know power yoga is about speed and movement. That's great! But without proper alignment, all the moving with your breath in the world won't help. And you are likely to get hurt. And this class is full of beginners. Out of shape beginners. They need help. I should not be the one spotting a Rubenesque newbie trying to jump into a handstand in her second week of yoga class EVER. The instructor should be, and she should be explaining how one aligns one's shoulders over wrists, hips over shoulders, and offering alternates for those who are not physically able to manage. She should not be haranguing those of us who know our limits or simply don't want to try that pose. I don't respond well to insinuations that I am too timid to try something, but I am certainly strong enough, so go up and try! Whatever, lady. I have wrist problems and if I want to do upward bow later, then I need to save them, because once they're done, they're done. There is some pain I don't push through.

So why go, cinnabari? Why subject yourself to aggravation, which is antithetical to yoga? Because I paid for it. Because I'm stubborn. Because maybe I am catching her on two off-weeks in a row and I will love her teaching in another week. Okay, mostly the first two.

*I know that's not a yoga-sort of thing. I'm not always good at the mental part of yoga.

**I get why. Some students are tentative. But not all of us are, and some of us sport injuries and joint weaknesses that do not benefit from adjustments. And really, it's fucking courtesy to ask before handling a student. Even if you're a woman handling women.

finnish metal

 So we braved the drive into L.A. last night to go see the Finnish Metal Tour at the Key Club. I suppose I should feel all properly Angelino, now, having attended a show at such a famous venue. Alas! I am not hip enough to give a damn. I was happiest that the parking was under $10, and close, and that there was a kick-ass pizza place down the street that made calzones the size of a football (seriously). It's probably famous, too; there were many famous people's signatures on the walls. But I don't care about that, either, because the calzone was good. So there.

Finnish metal did not, alas, include Amorphis, but there were parts of old!Amorphis in Barren Earth, and parts of Moonsorrow and Swallow the Sun, as well. Recipe for win! And I loved them live exactly as much as I love them recorded. They're also a poor fit for the LA crowd of bouncy jaded can-I-mosh-to-this metalheads, being doomy and dark and melodic and...okay, I was going to say "talented" but that's not exactly fair. L.A. recognizes talent just fine; it just values flash a lot more, and Barren Earth is not flashy. Still. They were my favorites. They were also the first band (after the competent opening local act), so between them and Finntroll we had a couple hours of other bands--not exactly killing time, because that's not fair, but not as pumped up for them. But bonus! Vreth from Finntroll was wandering the crowd, and ended up spending Rotten Sound's set talking to the VIPs not 5 feet from me. If you don't know why that's a good thing, google him. Assuming you are inclined to slim dark long-haired men, you will see why I approved of his proximity.

And let me just add, as an aside, that I love how the bands do wander the crowds before and after their sets, and sometimes hang out at the merch tables. You can talk to them. They talk back. Or at least--you can wave and mouth "Good show!" or flash them horns or whatever, and they acknowledge and wave back.

I wanted to like Ensiferum, and I guess I did, musically, on their own merit (female keyboardist for the win!)--but their crowd was peppered with baby skinheads (and one elder skinhead), which was distracting. I get that so-called Viking metal appeals to the white power dipshits, but I always depressed when I see those people, especially the young ones, especially in a place like L.A. where 'but I've just never met anyone besides white folks' is not an excuse, and especially-especially when they're sharing a pit with non-white folks who love the same band. I share my spouse's disappointment in universal justice: the refrigerator-sized Mexicans should have crushed the baby skinheads in the pit, but they didn't. Possibly because the baby skinheads were staying near the edges (where we were, letting us get a nice eyeful of their crappy little hate-filled tattoos) and avoiding the middle of the pit itself. The elder skin had no such fear, however, and was more violent than necessary in the pit itself. Doubly vexing: the elder skin, who had to be north of my age by a good handful or so, had a massive Thor's hammer on his (massive) chest, and an Odin scowling out from between his shoulder blades. Fuck you, dude. May Hunin and Mugin feast on your eyes.

[allow me to wax briefly shallow: I appreciate that it's hot in the pit, and I get that taking one's shirt off is some expression of manliness, fine, and I know most men are athletes and that some men have...more fur...than others.  But knowing and seeing are two different things, and I'd as soon skip the second thing, kthxbai.]

Anyway, the skinhead sightings made Nous very grumpy. They made me very grumpy, too, but he has an extra special hate for them. I was glad that they all left, like roaches scattering from the light, before Finntroll came on. And Finntroll rocked. Their crowd was nearly as frenzied, if a touch smaller; and it was skinhead free.  There were more asshats, though...the sort who are big bulky men, easily three of me, shoving into spaces meant for people half my size who then use me as the padding between their asses and the metal rails as they hold back the pit. I did not appreciate that, and I have sharp elbows. Asshat found somewhere else to go, and after that it was screaming and jumping around and destroying my voice for teaching today. But no pit! I am too wise for pits. Moshers are too much like zombies for my tastes. Hairy, sweaty, bigger-than-me zombies.

Anyway, I am pretty sure my afternoon Ashtanga class is going to kill me.

my new year's resolution...

...is headstand by June.

So very excited for yoga tonight. It's been 3 weeks between classes! That's the downside to the holiday break. The upside is of course that I did not have to grade or show up in a classroom in that interim, either, although I did read and respond to work email. I am in complete grumpy denial that classes restarted today. I'm teaching zombies again--the theme of the course, not the students. I'm almost, almost getting sick of them (zombies! not students!). I am also not going to make up a new syllabus for the spring classes. We will finish this year with zombies.

Anyway. Yoga. We were talking about classes I take, not classes I teach. Stupid-excited to get back to the Monday class, even though I know partway in I will be cursing the instructor and wishing I'd been more diligent in my home practice during December and probably regretting the coffee I drank before class that I need to go brew now since the water's finally boiling there brewed now where was I?

Commas are for those who need to take breaths.

I don't know what it is about yoga I love. It's not the spiritual aspect, because a) my classes don't emphasize that and b) I would be annoyed if they did. Chanting is cool and all, but it's not my thing. I think I go to breathe, stupid as that sounds. Well. Breathe and stretch and focus, for 75 minutes, on something so totally that everything else goes away. The job, the stress about the spousal unit's job, the fretting about the next convolution of plot, the deep conviction that I will never really sell the novel even if I finish it, the slow progress of the knitting, whatever. It's all gone when I am on the mat. Which is not to say I'm in some zen place. I'm not. I'm still pushing myself to stay balanced or get that leg straight or whatever (which is not very yoga, I know). But I am entirely focused on what I am doing, right then.

That's remarkably restful.

Aha. And I just figured out I have to double-carriage-return to get my two line breaks in this update window, unlike the benighted monstrosity I use for my class websites. Score one for learning a new thing without reading the directions first!

So yeah. I am reliably informed that my blog is "very plain." Said informer implied she might fix that for me. I will probably let her, because her Photoshop-fu outstrips mine by several orders of magnitude. I am undecided... do we go with the whole scifi look, or the mythic look...I mean, are we going with DA or ME here? I don't know. My blog design, like my fictional choices, is often conflicted. Maybe I can get her to do cyborg vikings or dragons or ravens, or knotwork in chrome. (Rat. If you're reading this... whaddya think?)

 LJ tells me my paid account has expired just this very moment. Quelle horreur. The community that made me move over there 7 years ago is largely migrated off to FB or Twitter, the former of which I am on (reluctantly) and the latter of which I shun like plague. Both are free. For the price of an LJ, well... I can do other things. Like buy ebooks! or real books. Or yarn. Or whatever. Priorities, they have changed.

Although I evidently think I have something interesting enough to say that people will read it. Ha. Maybe I'm writing to myself. Maybe that's okay.