Improbable Blessings: How People Become Love Warriors

You want something. You wish, long, ache for that something. You wish for such a long time, the ache becomes part of who you are: it has a location in your body, you can feel it’s boundaries and when they change. It maybe even has a flavor. It becomes familiar, so familiar it fades into the air you breathe. It melts into your tissues so completely that the wish no longer seems like it’s for something outside you. It exists in its own right and no longer reaches forward. The aching wish has just become a fact, like another organ. So much so that when someone, a friend, asks playfully, “What do you really want? What would make you happy?” you name other things, because you’ve come to accept living with the wishfulness of this wish and no longer imagine it happening.

It happens. Seemingly against all odds. It’s reality creeps up on you because you’ve substituted the reality of the want, which you could have, for the reality of it existing outside you. You misinterpret the cues and clues that your improbable magic dream has come to be, in real flesh and blood. Until one day something stares you in the face to say, “I’m here.” It’s here. The thing you’d thought couldn’t be, could only be in your heart, could only exist in a rarefied world of longing, has come to be in the world of death and decay, life and becoming. Holy. Shit.

You re-arrange your entire being – no. Your entire being begins to dissolve in the moment your dream’s reality dawns on you, and it begins re-arranging you. You are the wish now, it is the reality. But that means it is in peril. This is the world of life and death, being and becoming, being-with-dying. It’s vulnerable to wind and rain, love and indifference, blows and embraces.

You harden. Trying to protect the dream that is not a dream. Willing it to be as invulnerable as it had become when it only lived in your heart. Oh. My. God. What if I lose this most amazing thing? You resist becoming a living wish because the blood coursing through that living wish could run cold in an instant of loss. Because blood is now running through your dream, which makes it  a real dream: it can bleed. But it can also dance.

You thought you were a living wish before, because you’d absorbed the dream that seemed impossible. But it was a living void, which is very poignant, but not the same. You have the chance now to become a living wish: to hold a space of love and ferocity and tenderness for something not-you to grow in. This is much more risky. We all have a living void – it is at the heart of being human. But to choose to become a living wish: to tend a dream that will inevitably become bigger than you, will not bend to your will, have a life and death you have no say over, to hold that space patiently, fiercely, acceptingly, knowing that just because you assent to this adventure doesn’t mean it will turn out any of the ways you’ve wanted, that it will likely read and manifest the very things you are most threatened by, that your care and love cannot keep your beloved – or yourself – from harm, that the fulfillment of your desire and will can only lead to their own dissolution: to choose to embrace and get caught up in this madness is the hardest thing I’ve ever contemplated.

This dream may be a book or a business, an empire or a family. We all have our improbable blessings. It is so very human to bow their improbability, to have cakes or cars in their place when the improbability of the beautiful thing that lives in your soul asserts itself over and over again. And this resignation – relinquishing our illusions and attempts to force the improbable things into being – is itself part of their re-arranging us. Ceding power is part of the adventure it seems. Absorbing the longing, saying yes to living with it, even if it never reaches into the world we share with all the others, is perhaps part of the dissolving process.

But then – joy of joys! – we are called upon to resign our resignation. This penultimate step of re-arranging our being is perhaps the most heart-breaking, so far, for me the most difficult to accomplish. Can you step into the reality of that longing? To dissolve enough to become the thing that contain the waiting and joy and the tenderness and the pain and the love all in one house? Are you strong enough to yield to this coming true? Can you feel all the joy and love  and electricity of your most cherished dream wriggling toward the light, knowing that you may lose it again, for good, irredeemably, in an instant? Hop on that train now, because that loss may be just around the bend. The loss will be no less devastating because you weren’t on the train, but you will lose so much more: the time you could have been in heart-rending, soul-tearing love.

And who knows? Your improbable blessing may grow to full heart-breaking reality. To be the bigger than you thing that brings things you never could have even dreamed. New things to grow and break your heart. Could you be so lucky?

Why do I love my old stained, torn, lumpy bolster?


bolster (Photo credit: maclauren70)

I have new, sleek, white and blue, rounded edge bolsters. Just waiting in my closet. Part of the reason they’re still new is that I keep reaching for my first massage oil stained, slightly lumpy after too many times stuffed back into its laundered cover, ripped in one seam bolster. When I look for something to drape my spine over in either a restorative forward bend or gentle back bend, I’ll go across the room to grab my ratty old blue bolster, even if the new sleek ones are close by.


Sedona Ridge

Sedona Ridge (Photo credit: quinet)

Maybe its the memory of toting it all over Sedona the summer I spent a week doing yoga on the most improbable sandstone spires, or of my happiness when the motel where I’d absent-mindedly left it shipped it back to me. Or the one of my first restorative seated forward fold over my very own bolster at home. Not a sofa cushion, not three pillows: a bolster. Made for supporting forward folding and hearts. Made for yogis who take their practice to heart. Or the times I’ve wept into it. Or the smiles I’ve melted into over it.


But it’s probably just that all those lumps offer infinite variability and new ways to experience my poses. Put your forehead here and it’s perfectly centered. Here, and it’s ever so slightly turned to one side. Rest your arms at this angle and melt. At this one and feel your edge. The lumps are probably from substandard stuffing or maybe just age. The stains and small seam tears are from living. I’ll never take this bolster for my students to use: it looks like it needs a bath even when just out of the wash. I’ll keep it at home, my personal support, organically molded by my practice and my life.



Does the mental/physical distinction make sense regarding health… or yoga?

Lately “Mental Health” has been getting a lot of play. There’s a Mental Health Foundation page on facebook that promises to help you manage stress. I’ve been listening to some of the speakers on Recovery 2.0, an innovative conference on addiction and recovery organized and facilitated by Tommy Rosen. I even wrote a piece for Muse in the Valley during Canada’s “Bell Let’s Talk” week on how yoga helps me with PTSD. I recently had a Twitter convo with Ben King of Armor Down, discussing how he came to found this revolutionary organization for helping soldiers armor down after deployment.

So perhaps you’ll forgive me a moment of confused frustration with the term “Mental Health.” In Ancient Greece, there was no distinction between mental and physical health: activities benefitting and destroying your body were assumed to have corresponding effects for the person’s mental function and outlook, and visa versa. Sometime after the Enlightenment, when we stopped referring to “humors” to explain illness, we began to look at physical ailments as a class separate from purely “mental” ones. The shift was complete by the time Freud adopted the diagnosis of “hysteria” for his female patients suffering from a variety of symptoms. Though even he used physical images to describe what he surmised was causing his patients’ suffering, and much of it came down to disorders of the “nervous system,” these were used as a metaphorical correlates for the very distinctly physical system.

Regions of the brain affected by PTSD and stress.

Regions of the brain affected by PTSD and stress. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We currently prescribe drugs and investigate the impact of exercise, mindfulness and diet on depression, addiction and other “mental health” diagnoses, however it doesn’t seem that those suffering from these imbalances are accorded the same latitude as those affected by “cardiac health,” “metabolic health,” “musculo-skeletal health” or other health phenomenon. Which is strange. Because there’s an equal and growing recognition of the psychological effects of cardiac ill health, as well as all other forms of disease. Yet insurance coverage, work policies and social stigma persist regarding “mental” health.

Truth is, being sick can make you sad. Being sad can make you sick. Trauma sucks and has lasting results on the nervous, hormonal and cardiovascular systems, effects that can be mitigated and reversed through lifestyle choices like meditation, yoga, group therapy and, yes, medications. Depression is a physical illness, affecting  body chemistry in known ways. So, too with bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. The brain – hold on for the revelation – is part of the body. Whoa. I know, deep, huh?

No underestimating the profound effects of addiction, depression, PTSD, bipolar and schizophrenia here. Just questioning setting them aside as “mental.” There are two possible assumptions behind setting aside some illness as mental, so far as I can see:

  • A simple taxonomy of providers and research that allows specialists to group together for professional and training reasons. Emergency Professionals train together, as do Cardiology pros (surgeons, nurses, etc), as do Psych pros. 
  • A classification of some symptoms as originating from a different mechanism than physical ailments. Mental symptoms are caused by ideas, while physical ones are caused by electro-chemical reactions within the body on which we can have meaningful impact with diet, exercise, surgery and drugs. Symptoms caused by ideas skip this physical mechanism and are healed or helped by other ideas which similarly skip physical causation.

The first is really just practical. The second is really just false, as suggested by exercise and pharmacological suggestions for psychological symptoms and meditative help for cardiac ones. Clearly, if you’re having “the big one” or you’ve sawed your arm off, you have a certain range of therapy you must seek in a finite range of time. This speaks to acuity and profundity of the symptoms rather than their source, however. We know that surgical, pharmacological and electrical interventions are often nearly as  damaging as they are helpful: that’s why we approach, prescribe and consume with great caution. Only when the gain in quality strongly outweighs the loss in trauma and side effects is it wise to engage. In extreme and emergent situations, the gain of life over probable death or profound loss of function justifies using tools that operate rather immediately on a gross level instead of ones that cause change slowly while operating on processes that are less concentrated and longer range tests are required to detect.

As a yoga teacher (were you wondering what all this had to do with that? ;>), the basis of my practice is that breath, body and mind are different ways of referring to the same experience. The experience accessed through sensation, breath, feeling and thought is that of “me:” my identity, history, person, singularity or unity. In Western Philosophy, the fallacy represented by option two above (originating from a different mechanism) is called “The Mind-Body Problem.” It’s only a problem if you think they’re distinct. We can have useful discussions about whether one causes the other, or if one is created by but has no causative force on the other (epiphenomenalism), or if they are identical, but if you begin with an assumption that they’re different in kind, you land in a briar patch that no one in the history of philosophy – in East or West – has ever escaped.

Once you’ve accepted that all well-being and dis-ease have both molecular and emotional (which also have molecular) effects, it’s easier to see that just like cardiac health, mental health is a continuum. And the lifestyle choices we make that increase our well-being on one continuum, are likely to have effects on the other – whether those lifestyle choices are pharmacological, exercise or nutrition choices.

Would we lose anything by ditching the “mental” distinction for psychological specialty symptoms? Nothing except a freakishly outdated notion that ideas are caused by ideas which somehow magically skip concourse with our bodies and directly change our emotions… which are, er… um… wow, this could be embarrassing to admit, huh? Embodied. It’s one thing. Your mind and your body are different ways of relating the one irreplaceable experience of you, and your health is singularly important. All of it. All of you.