in the early morning light

Tampa Bay looks like a sheet of aluminum foil that’s been crinkled up and then smoothed out again. It’s got a stern gleam.

I stand on the rocks at the edge of Davis Island beach and watch the fissures of small waves painted gray-silver. I’ve never seen the water like this, because I’ve never been up to breathe nature at 8am before (I just taught a 7am yoga class).

Many say morning is a most auspicious time, the time of day when everything is still precious, tacked in possibility, before the ripe noonday heat sears everything. And then, the sun opens from cloud cover and the bay sweeps transparent; the silver sheen is washed away to reveal the rocks and crab holes at the shallow bottom.


The beach is pretty empty at this early hour, except for a city crew emptying the public garbage bins. One guy tells his coworker, “This is the shittiest job in the world.” She shrugs, ties a plastic bag, hurls it in the back of their pickup truck with the City of Tampa logo on the side. As I stroll along the shoreline, I notice an old guy in the distance playing the ukulele. He’s got to be at least late sixties, wearing the old dude uniform of khakis and orthopedic sneakers.

It’s late November, and windy, which pushes the water to the ragged shore where I stand in my sneakers and sweats. That sound, that gentle lapping—it’s as if nature were whispering Remember me? I can heal you, but in the distance Tampa’s downtown cranks and grinds with the waking city.


The factories on the edge of town hurl like giant, dumb mechanical gods. Across the bay the Big Bend Power Station chugs warm, clean water in to a canal where hundreds of manatees gather to warm their bodies every winter. It’s actually quite lovely and fascinating, this intersection of nature and machination.

Do the steel pilings, earth movers, bollards and swinging cranes anger me, when I think of the environmental sacrifices in the name of industrial development? Sure. Do I live in a cushy society that benefits from all that metallic purl and heave? Sure do. Boy, am I feeling conflicted and postmodern on the beach. Ukulele notes pluck the wind over the waves. At once the grinding noise of the city quiets, and music fills the beach.

Hot Yoga, Indeed.

Male Friend: “I’d be interested in taking a yoga class, but I dunno, I feel kinda weird, ya know?”
Me: “Come on! There are lots of hot chicks in spandex bending over. Why wouldn’t you go?”

Why do I instantly advertize yoga’s sex appeal, not the real benefits of the practice, such as stress reduction, lower blood pressure, stronger muscles, mental clarity? Maybe because there is something undoubtedly beautiful and graceful about yoga, even sexy—I mean, there certainly is a lot of bending over.

And as the yogic tradition is enmeshed in Western culture, it shifts and adapts (many, including myself, might say this is a detriment). In a way, Americanizing yoga seems to dilute the pure spiritual nature of the practice. Gyms are lined with mirrors so students spend the whole class checking themselves out, and comparing themselves to others. Many American yogis often buy overpriced yoga clothes and all manner of yoga paraphernalia, from no-slip towels to lavender-scented eye pads. Are we buying our way to nirvana?

For some yoga is not just a path to inner peace, it’s a path to flat abs and tight buns. In fact, this blog was prompted because I just saw a Yahoo! article titled “The Great Sex Yoga Workout.” Ladies, you can do kegels while in bridge pose! At this point, I’d assert that we’re not doing yoga anymore…we’re working out, which is perfectly fine. But to me it ain’t yoga. The intention has shifted from having good holistic health to just having good sex. And then again, who am I to be dictating or judging anyone’s intentions?

So I’m wrestling with the idea that yoga is sexy, because this feels inherently wrong. Maybe that’s my Catholic upbringing. Even so, shouldn’t yoga transcend that first chakra sexual energy into a more aware, centered sensibility (say, third eye chakra)? Of course yoga also fosters self-acceptance, body awareness, compassion for oneself and others. These benefits can (and should) permeate other areas of life, including the bedroom. But I don’t think it should be the whole purpose. On the other hand, sex sells. And the yoga market is exploding at the seams of its lululemon nylon pants.

Even the American Sex Guru is using yoga to peddle skin. In 2009, Hugh Heffner’s Playboy website featured a video of a playmate doing yoga. Naked. (No, I haven’t seen the full video. But am I interested to see it? Um, yeah, yeah I am.) Elephant Journal featured some interesting thoughts on the very subject I’m grappling with. Check it out here, plus a preview of the cleavage yogini in uttanasana. Link: http://www.elephantjournal.com/2009/10/playboy-yoga-videos-with-sara-jean-underwood/

But naked yoga isn’t a new thing. In this discipline stripping down for some sun salutations isn’t supposed to be arousing. It’s supposed to be liberating. Practitioners aren’t focused on sex, they’re focused on accepting and celebrating their bodies and others without judgment…or an erection. These classes happen in studios and clubs in a safe, encouraging atmosphere. While I haven’t tried it, this style seems to have its intention in the right place. But there I go again making judgments. Guess I need to do more yoga. With my sweatpants on.

The Art of ZenTravel

There is a quiet mob fomenting at the Southwest Airlines terminal. Zone A passengers are lined up by their designated poles, shuffling bags and secretly scoping out one another’s boarding passes to make sure no one is trying to sneak into a lower number section within the Zone, and therefore getting on the plane sooner, and therefore getting a seat. Meanwhile, Zone B through D passengers hover nervously, ready to sprint to the gate at the slightest flick of the attendant’s microphone.

As if flying weren’t nerve-wracking enough, Southwest Airlines has brilliantly decided to herd customers onto their planes cattle-style, first come first serve. This adds a palpable panic to the air. Will the newlyweds be able to sit next to each other on their connecting flight to Turks and Caicos? Will granny get her aisle seat? Southwest makes us sweat.

Finally on the plane, baggage stowed, seatbelt clicked, awkward/polite nods to seat neighbors completed, I can try to meditate.

Plane rides are the perfect opportunities to meditate because the practice involves sitting straight and still. This is often the biggest obstacle for me at home, where I have so many other options, like a couch, or a Facebook account, for instance. But on a plane I’m already strapped in to a prime meditation posture (seat upright and in the locked position).

Reason #2 air travel is also great for meditation: even though I love traveling and plan to scope out every inch of this fabulous, insane planet of ours, I get a bit shaky at takeoff. What can I say, I’ve been scarred by Final Destination. (The first FD…you know that horrible first plane crash scene I’m talking about--shit scared me so that for years I had to check every tray table as soon as I sat down. I nearly ran off a plane once when my tray table latch was painted red instead of the ubiquitous beige.)

As the metal phallic object I’ve entrusted my little life to is hurling down the tarmac, I get suddenly Catholic. I get suddenly any religion, whichever one will have me at 5,000 feet and climbing. I use The Secret. Happy thoughts: I survive this flight, I envision myself landing, I see my bags chug down the baggage claim carousel, of course they haven’t lost my bags, and so forth. I try to focus on my breath. I deeply inhale the stale recirculated air. A man three rows behind me sneezes violently. Some kid screams. I exhale. Positive, happy, healthy thoughts!

Then the sensation of liftoff: the scoop in my stomach, the centrifugal force, the rush of engine, the lack of control I have over everything happening. It’s frightening and strangely exhilarating. God I hope the pilot isn’t drunk.

Rolf Gates calls yoga “a refuge from our need to control.” It makes sense: we try to arrange our lives in neat, perfect angles. Get the decent job, buy the nice car, the comfortable home, maintain circle of witty and attractive friends, whatever. But things don’t always go our way, and many of us haven’t learned how to cope with that very well. I haven’t anyway (if you have, I’d sure love to know your techniques). Even in yoga and meditation, we try to control the experience. I need a nice, quiet space to sink into a blissful, super-zennified mood.

This is clearly not flight 287 to Phoenix.

But one of my meditation instructors also says that the conditions to meditate will never be perfect. In fact, it’s better to be still in the midst of the chaos rather than when I’m already calm, when the sage incense is already burning. If I can find an iota of stillness on this flight, then maybe I can find stillness at home, too.

At cruising altitude, a little boy behind me looks out the window.

“How cool, I can’t believe I wasn’t looking before,” he says to his mom.

I look out, too. It’s weird and beautiful, the earth carved up and spliced into life. I sit and watch. The plane slips through a patch of clouds like an anhinga through water, white flashes against my small oval window. There it is; the moment. Just breathing, being right now on flight 287 to Phoenix. Until the turbulence. Then I force some deep breaths and pray to every deity I can remember.

*
One thing’s for sure: I’m a fraud.

*
When Gandhi made up his mind about something, that was that. Take meat. One day he figured it was no longer such a good idea, so he immediately cut all meat out of his diet. When he found out his clothes were manufactured by British companies he stopped wearing or buying them. Hence the loincloth. Gandhi’s mind became a solid wood-carved bowl, his intentions clear inside, not getting muddled or distracted. Gandhi wasn’t one to waffle.

*
Here’s my mind in a recent yoga class:
(looking at a guy two rows in front of me)
Look at this schmuck. I bet he thinks he’s a super yogi. Yeah, buddy, you do two more pushups instead of an updog during vinyasa, we get it, you’re like, behemoth strong. Don’t think I don’t see right through those low lunges in warrior II. You’re showing off and I’m not buying it. Prick. Fuck this guy. Trying so hard, I bet he’s not getting any of the mental benefits of yoga. How can he find inner peace when he’s peacocking all over his mat? Fuck this guy.

*
That’s one reason why I’m a fraud.

*
Today I drove to Target, all by myself in my mid-size sedan, turning into the four-story parking garage in a NASCAR-style swarm of other shoppers driving alone in their sedans.

*
That’s another reason.

*
When I watch documentaries one of two things happen: I cry like it’s The Notebook or the New Jersey comes out in me and I yell at the TV, telling this politician or the corrupt EPA to go fuck themselves. I’m usually so fired up after these movies that the heft of everything wrong compresses my ribcage and I want to scream and fix it and I don’t know how so I usually zip online and fill out a few email petitions and that satiates me for a while, until the next flick.

The latest one was Fuel, a really well done one about energy consumption and how running my sedan on McDonald’s leftover cooking oil can save this jacked up little planet of ours. My boyfriend and I swore to try and get a biofuel pump at our local gas station, but the past two weeks I’ve been filling up with the regular old devil’s juice. But not at BP—does that count for something?

*
Sometimes I want to give away everything I own and go to the Himalayas and meditate, even though I’ve got a hunch New Jersey will follow me to Tibet. Sometimes I think, what the hell are you doing with your life, Melissa, you slothful, selfish chump? Go help the people in India, or Japan, or Haiti, or anywhere. Go! Now!

But I stay in Tampa, in a nice apartment, adjacent to a main strip of nightspots and eateries. And I kind of hate that I kind of like it.

*
I say I’ll join the Peace Corps. some day. Those last two words scare me. I’m worried I’m lying to myself. It’s too soon to tell.

*
Is it possible to be a beer-chugging vegetarian (with an occasional bite of a chicken sandwich, usually precipitated by aforementioned beer chugging)? Can I come to terms with the fact that sometimes my mind is tranquil while most other times it’s a backfiring switchboard, smoking and sparking with wires coiled tight? Can I strike a balance?

*
Gandhi had a little Jersey in him. He was sarcastic and hot tempered. But also humble and fiercely compassionate.

*
Maybe being a fraud isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s all I can ask for right now, and instead of fighting my duality I should embrace it. Maybe this whole split personality thing I feel—one minute zen goddess, the next one a jealous bitch—is keeping me on my toes, making me investigate my mental switchboard, taking a mechanic’s eye to rewire where necessary.

Whether I’m chained to a cypress tree or telling bad jokes at the local watering hole, the other half of me is always there, and for now I’m ok with that.

What Does Singing Karaoke, Puppies, and Yoga Have in Common?

They’re all opportunities to be fully present.
I’ll elaborate.

I was at a lovely little English pub (aka hole in the wall) the other night with my pal Fotios, and we were singing karaoke. (“The Distance” by Cake and “Don’t Look Back in Anger” by Oasis to be specific.) And while I was up there, belting my heart out with a microphone in one hand and a beer in the other, I wasn’t worrying about my student loans. I wasn’t worrying about checking my email, or contemplating my car trouble, or anything else. I was just happy, fully alive, crooning “soooo Sally can wait” to a roomful of half-drunk strangers. The past or the future did not matter, because they did not exist. My awareness was entirely entrenched in the beautiful, off-key moment.

You might be thinking “I don’t need to sing karaoke, I don’t really worry about stuff.” Become aware of the thoughts as they float through your head during any given day. You might be surprised where they take you. Maybe your mind swims back to a fight you got into on the playground in third grade (I forgive you, Mark Cohen, for kicking me in the shin.) Maybe you’re obsessing over a future meeting, or scanning through a bazillion possible outcomes. Maybe you’re brain is steeped in a fake argument you invent with an annoying coworker, and your body physiologically responds, clenching your shoulders and jaw—maybe you even mumble a comeback out loud, even though you’re alone in your apartment and this fight is all a figment. (I’ve done this more than I’d like to admit, and I always feel really crazy when I “wake up” from this intense daydream to realize I’m behind the wheel of my car.) The mind is that powerful.

So, what’s your karaoke song?

If you don’t want to sing your way into low-level nirvana, then get a puppy. I find that when I’m petting my roommate’s dog I’m instantly and totally absorbed in the moment. My blood pressure lowers, I’m smiling, gushing in a ridiculous voice: “How is the handsome man?” and “Who is a schmoopy-walla-walla-face-head-Jones-McGee?” (What am I even talking about? I don’t care. I’m happy.) Nothing else matters except for this little bundle of fur and there, hush, I’m present.

And if you have bronchitis on karaoke night and are allergic to dogs, then do yoga. Actually, do yoga regardless.

The practice of yoga and meditation gives us the space to let go of our spindled-up thoughts. We concentrate on our breath and our bodies and our minds without judgment or attachment. Even fifteen minutes of this can be profoundly transformative. And while the first two methods can bring temporal, fleeting sensations of presence, the presence you can develop through yoga and meditation is not limited to your mat. It seeps and sieves into other areas of your life, and suddenly doing laundry is an exercise in pure consciousness. Traffic is a chance to breathe, relax, maybe meditate (with your eyes open, alert, hands at 10 and 2, the whole deal). Chopping celery becomes a sacred task.

Every moment becomes yogic, every moment gets to be the fullest expression of itself.

So go sing, stretch, breathe, and give a dog a hug.

**Thanks to Niji Bentivegna and Alexis Bentivegna's shin, which appears in the photo.

The Zen Run

I wake up at noon on a Wednesday. It’s summer, and I’m in graduate school, so life is pretty good except for the whole poverty thing. My roommate Cassandra (who was job hunting at the time this actually happened, though she now works a 9 to 5er like most people) and I decide we should do something healthy, something good for ourselves. Let’s go for a run.

I strap on my ratty pair of sneakers, which are a little too big because I didn’t actually buy them for running: I needed them for a Villains and Heroes costume party as GoGo Yubari from Kill Bill 2. (I chose to inhabit the badness, the yang self, because even though I’d love to be enlightened, I’m still having a lot of fun wrestling with my darker energy.)

I go jogging about once every fiscal quarter, so I had no illusions of grandeur. There would be no dashing down Bayshore Boulevard, a buoyancy in my stride, ponytail gleefully bopping in the wind. But it ended up going down much worse than I thought.

Living in Tampa, you’d think we would realize it’s 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. So naturally blazing noon is the best time for outdoor cardio. Once we step outside I start to sweat like Lindsay Lohan in church. (Just kidding. Lindsay Lohan can no longer feel feelings, so clearly she can’t feel guilt.) After a few blocks Cassandra, a much more avid runner, darts ahead in her new sleek kicks.

I figure this jog is the perfect opportunity to practice meditation. The rhythm of my soles pounding the pavement, the sparking endorphins through my neural synapses, the deep breathing (okay, panting like a Labrador). Sometimes I try to repeat a mantra Om Shanti.

In yoga and Buddhism, om is considered to be the vibration that struck the world into being. It’s kind of like a poetic interpretation of the big bang: all these subatomic particles whizzing around space, knocking into one another and causing wavelengths to ripple out into glittering vastness. Everything vibrates: quantum physics has shown us this on the Hertz scale. Your liver cells, your turkey sandwich, even your desk is vibrating at various subatomic levels. And vibration is recognized as sound on the most material level for humans to perceive it (think of a guitar string being plucked, sending out waves of music into the atmosphere). Om is the sound, the giant guitar that sent this whole fabulous planetary dance into motion. Plus, om fun to repeat because, well, it just kinda has a nice ring to it. Ooooommmm.

Shanti, put simply, translates from Sanksrit as peace. So Om Shanti, to me, means peace for everything in this beautiful creation.

So here I go, trying to slip into this “runner’s zone” that resembles a meditative zen-like state. But my brain has other plans for me. Here’s a transcript of my internal monologue:

Om Shanti. Om Shan--
Do I look like an idiot when I run? I should swing my arms by my hips, I think my JV track coach told me that a decade ago, it would probably help that damn shoulder injury, and it might make me look cooler--
Oh yeah. Meditate. Don’t forget you’re supposed to be concentrating your mind, Melissa. Let’s do this.
Om Shanti. Om Shanti. Yeah, this feels good. Om Shanti. Om--
A rollerblader is approaching. Should I smile? Give the old nod of recognition? How can I time this out? What if they don’t smile back? It takes a lot of balls to be a rollerblader, the potential for looking goofy and falling is really high, I’d probably need knee pads. Not cool.
Okay, enough, back to the chant, thinking about how good you’ll feel when you master this meditation thing, how your brain will hum with tranquility. Om Shanti, Om Shanti--
FUCK! MY ASS! Why is there a sharp pain in my left ass muscle?
Okay, calm down, breathe it out. Oooom--
CAN YOU PULL YOUR ASS FROM JOGGING ONE MILE?
Don’t stop. Run through the pain. Use your meditation, now is when it counts.
Ooomm, sending deep healing blue energy to my ass. Heeealing my ass muscles. Ommm, relaxing the shoulders now. What if I need to see a physical therapist for my stupid ass after one stupid jog? Ommm Shanti.

The second I step into my sweet air conditioned apartment I crash to the floor. Lying there, recalibrating my body, I think about running, thoughts literally racing through my asphalt mind. I think about what I run away from, what I run toward. I often run away from difficult people and situations, as we all probably do. When negative situations arise my sympathetic nervous system kicks in and wham! I’m fleeing out the door. I feel like I’m constantly racing toward my goals, chasing down my definitions of what will make me really super happy. With all this bustling around, with all this busy-ness, it’s hard to slow down and just be present, in the moment. Right here.

I realize now that there is stillness in every movement, no matter how fast we may be speeding along. Regardless of what I'm doing--running a marathon or searching for my yet-again lost keys--I can discover the calmness, the quiet heart of every motion, every act. There is also movement in stillness. While sitting and meditating, my breath is flowing through me, blood circulates through my veins, I hum to the greater cadence of the world. Sometimes it takes a good run to figure out how to stay still.

Zen Dancing: How to Be a Hipster at a Concert

You’re getting ready for your latest indie pop rock show, which ultimately means you’re going to have to assimilate into the culture of apathetic, unconventional hipsters. Like Jane Goodall, you must walk amongst the primates without being noticed as an outsider.* Now, this may seem contradictory considering hipsters “do their own thing and don’t care what anyone thinks,” but this is simply not true. News flash: Hipsters do care what other people think and, sadly, most people, including myself, care as well. Oh, enlightenment and oneness with the universe just can’t come soon enough, so we can all stop worrying about such trivial things. But in the meantime, you need an outfit.

An outfit that will showcase your awesomeness to the other rockers in a subtle way that really exclaims you as too cool for your own good. This, friends, is quite the fashion dilemma. Thank god (or Buddha, or Indra, or whatever) for you, I’m here to help your existential crisis.

Rule #1: Neon. There is nothing indie rockers respect more than a mind-blowing, faux-acid-trip-induced display of bright color. Wearing bright colors will camouflage you among the tribe, and garner acceptance from fellow concert goers. Hot pink is the indie rocker’s catnip, especially as tank tops on skinny boys. If it makes your grandmother’s retinas bleed, then wear it. Wear a lot of it.

Rule #2: Kicks. This is both a fashionable and practical decision. One must realize that to really immerse oneself in the indie rock culture one must dance his/her fucking face off. Therefore, it is imperative that one said indie rocker should choose footwear that is both comfortable for bouncing around to electro beats while at the same time appealing to the eye. Brands that have successfully manipulated young minds to agree with this philosophy include Converse, Vans and Puma. I have also found, thanks to uber-cool friend and Thumbs Up Blogger Corey Janssen, that cowboy boots pair well with little vintage dresses in the same way cheese pairs with wine.

Rule #3: Hair. You’ll impress indie rockers by only gazing out of one eye, as your hair has been waxed across your forehead over your other eye, rendering it blind. Indie rockers take this hairstyle as seriously as the Chinese took foot binding. This look is especially important for indie boys to impress one another, since it exudes indifference and edge at the same time. The only other acceptable hairstyle for guys is a beard and wild, free flowing locks. Beards are also highly respected in the indie rock environs, and the density of a beard directly correlates to how truly rock the gentleman is.

Now that you’re finally dressed and sipping on Pabst Blue Ribbon at the smoky venue, you can allow the music to seep into your veins, feel the pulsing baseline reverb in your hips, and really move like you don’t care what anyone thinks. Because now you’re dancing, and this is vital to the indie rock experience. Dancing is a pure expression of emotion, and synthed up, sugary indie pop music offers an earful of happiness to shake and jump to your heart’s content. And the beauty of an indie concert is that these people are generally bad at dancing, so there is no need to worry about style or rhythm. Just feel the music, and let your limbs do whatever they want. Close your eyes for a moment and let the sound rush through you like a log flume at Disney World. This is the perfect opportunity to be fully present, as many yogis and meditators will say, since you aren’t worried about the future or thinking about the past. You’re simply here, moving your beautiful body and enjoying the moment.

Many indie rockers will jam up close to the stage, only to stand like the British Royal Guard with their arms crossed. Big mistake: We get it, you’re so apathetic you paid money to listen to a concert and act like you’re in line at the supermarket. But you will get bumped into people like me, as I have now reached a low state of nirvana called Zen Dancing. I’m sweaty, buzzed, and deliriously, ridiculously happy.

*Thanks to Adam, self-proclaimed HippieCrite, for the Jane Goodall joke.