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Archive for July, 2010

Kid’s Self-Made Yoga Video….awesome.

Saturday, July 31st, 2010

Favorite Kids Yoga Prop

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

 

My Favorite Prop:  Feathers!

feathers=kid-friendly pranayama prop

*originally published in “Yoga In My School”

Bringing out a bag of colorful soft feathers adds instant excitement to yoga class.   Feathers allow kids to see the breath, add a fun twist to bird poses of any kind, and make for some fun yoga games!  Feathers can even make savasana more special.  

Pranayama Practice:  Even the youngest of yogis can become more aware of breath and the connection between breath and emotions.  Simply holding a feather in front of your nose during kid-pranayama practice (which might consist of Bunny Breath to energize or Take Five Breath to calm down) makes breath visible.  Try blowing soft enough to move the fluffy part of the feather and then hard enough to move the stiff part of the feather.  Can you see your feather move, fast or slow, depending on how you’re breathing?  How does “fast” breath make you feel?  How does “slow” breath make you feel?  Practice Ujjayi breath by holding the feather under your nose and keeping your lips sealed like a letter.  

Floating Feather Game:  Celebrate the power of breath by playing this game with yourself or a friend.  Using only your breath (no fingers or toes), keep your feather afloat.  Don’t let it touch the floor!  Try playing a little feather-volleyball with a friend.

Find the Feather Game:  “Find the Feather,” is an intuition game.  Invite one yogi to be the “seeker”, and ask her to hide in the corner of the room, with no peeking.  Then, hide the feather under another yogi’s mat. Invite the seeker back and ask her to guess where the feather is hiding.  Talk about what it means to “go with your gut” and use your intuition.  You’d be amazed how many times the yogi will find the feather on the first or second try!

Bird Asanas:  Feathers make learning our bird poses even more fun.  Hand out feathers when working on Pigeon pose or Flamingo.  Let the kids be inspired to feel the source of their asanas even more fully given the feathers.  Decorate your pigeon with a feather or two or allow your swan to ruffle its feathers in movement.

Savasana:  Feathers are great to use during savasana/relaxation.  You can give your savasana-students “Feather Massages.”  As always, ask kids if they want to be touched.  (I have students put a thumb up in the air during savasana if they want an adjustment or massage.)  Lightly move the feather across the third-eye area.  Kids will lie really still in anticipation of a feather massage, so this helps in savasana management!  You can also gently place a feather on the belly or chest during savasana so there is an awareness of how breath effects the body when it enters and leaves.  You may even want to place several feathers around each relaxing yogi and lead the class through a “Bed of Feathers” guided visualization.  All of these techniques keep young yogis more still during savasana time.

Let your imagination soar as you and your students invent even more ways to use feathers in yoga class!  Even hanging some feathers in the yoga space can act as a constant reminder of this important, but invisible, part of the yoga practice.  Breathe deep, and let the feathers fly!

pigeon pose with feather

boys

Friday, July 2nd, 2010
I hardly recognize myself, eating fried vegetarian food and drinking iced coffees and the occasional vodka tonic. What happened to the steamed vegetable only, room temperature water girl, whose worse vice was the occasional Dominican cigar smoked over the streets of NYC on a long walk home? I guess I’ve been tainted, I guess I don’t give a damn, I guess I stretched out beyond those walls and can’t get my shape back. I guess he sunk into me that way, with his almost nightly beer I began taking sips of the same way I like to take bites off of other people’s plates at restaurants even if my dish looks better. So I began drinking, too, and going to the deli for cheap coffee for the energy to wake up at 6 and go on mind-runs. Before, it was prana and the blond boy whose worse vice was spitting watermelon seeds out his fourth floor window. Before that, it was the tall boy who smoked in alleyways and near vents, then went home to light incense and jazz. My intake seems to be influenced by these boys, they seep into my habits, even after they leave, in the coffee, the alcohol, the urge to be on stage, the silly voice I used on a pillow and then with the world, the thought that I may be beautiful to more than just my mother, the thought I need to defend myself, even among those who supposedly loved me most, when they leave.When they leave. When they say “I love you” and start attaching “but” to the end. When will it come Straight, not over a shoulder with one foot out the door? Someone glad for the moment I stop walking and start sticking, straight and centered….. not scared by that or antsy for the next. Its like City Boys find their materialism kick in City Girls. City girls collect handbags and shoes, and boys collect girls, shop for them along glittery Manhattan sidewalks and broken Brooklyn ones. Flipping through blocks like a magazine or slick catalog….image, image. Even the non-materialistic ones are image-shoppers. City Girls do a lot to look like magazine girls, and City Boys do a lot to Look, even if that means saying “Goodbye” or insulating in heavily feathered nests of rent-stabilized apartments on the edge of town no one will ever move to. Oh, Apple Store Ipod shoppers, Oh Fifth Avenue designer tshirt pursuers, when will you stop shopping and come home? And buy into love, taller and shinier than the Chrysler building? Love, when will you root deeper than subway tunnels, when will you settle on a neighborhood and lock the door? It is too painful to keep moving like this, and aren’t we getting a little old for the latest greatest over-the-shoulder-gazer handbag MP3 player of the future

City Boys and Girls

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

I hardly recognize myself, eating fried vegetarian food and drinking iced coffees and the occasional vodka tonic. What happened to the steamed vegetable only, room temperature water girl, whose worse vice was the occasional Dominican cigar smoked over the streets of NYC on a long walk home? I guess I’ve been tainted, I guess I don’t give a damn, I guess I stretched out beyond that and can’t get my shape back. I guess he sunk into me that way, with his almost nightly beer I began taking sips of the same way I like to take bites off of other people’s plates at restaurants even if my dish looks better. So I began drinking, too, and going to the deli for cheap coffee for the energy to wake up at 6 and go on mind-runs. Before, it was prana and the blond boy whose worse vice was spitting watermelon seeds out his fourth floor window. Before that, it was the tall boy who smoked in alleyways and near vents, then went home to light incense and jazz. My intake seems to be influenced by these boys, they seep into my habits, even after they leave, in the coffee, the alcohol, the urge to be on stage, the silly voice I used first on a pillow and then with the world, the thought that I may be beautiful to more than just my mother, the thought I need to defend myself, even among those who supposedly loved me most, when they leave.

When they leave. When they say “I love you” then start attaching “but” to the end. When will it come Straight, not over a shoulder with one foot out the door? Someone glad for the moment I stop walking and start sticking, straight and centered….. not scared by that or antsy for the next. Its like City Boys find their materialism kick in City Girls. City girls collect handbags and shoes, and boys collect girls, shop for them along glittery Manhattan sidewalks and broken Brooklyn ones. Flipping through blocks like a magazine or slick catalog….image, image. Even the non-materialistic ones are image-shoppers. City Girls do a lot to look like magazine girls, and City Boys do a lot to Look, even if that means saying “Goodbye” or insulating in heavily feathered nests of rent-stabilized apartments on the edge of town no one will ever move to.

Oh, Apple Store Ipod shoppers, Oh Fifth Avenue designer tshirt pursuers, when will you stop shopping and come home? And buy into love, taller and shinier than the Chrysler building? Love, when will you root deeper than subway tunnels, when will you settle on a neighborhood and lock the door? It is too painful to keep moving like this, and aren’t we getting a little old for the latest greatest over-the-shoulder-gazer handbag MP3 player of the future?

book life

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

its not an ordinary thing
to want to be contained
in a book

but its always been that way
for me
poetry the dialogue between
spirit body mind
i want my body in a book
my book to be my body

my girlhood on page 9
up to my knees by 13
breaking out and over by 25
what was hard turns soft, what was black turns light
by 30

i’ve always felt peculiar everywhere else
but there
numbered stitched and bound
lined up along lines

there
it is so easy to construct the skirmishes
discover the escapes

i have written
myself
i have written a book
about me.

the lead singer and the pickpocket

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

“you’re just my type.” the worst first line ever. i don’t know why that stopped me, other than he was mine, too, tall with nice hair and a good face. or maybe i just needed to hear that. i had just rolled out of bed, feeling depressed over my latest breakup, hadn’t even showered yet, but, here, on my way to get coffee, i was being showered with compliments.

“are you married? engaged?”

i held up my bare left hand and looked at him over my bug-eye sunglasses.

“got a boyfriend?”

“its complicated.” i didn’t want to get into it on the corner of 6th and 14th, in the middle of a barrage of strangely direct questions. i wondered how he spoke so clearly around the foot in his mouth.
and wondered again why my feet had stopped, but they had, along with the conversation i’d been having on my cell phone.

“hello? hello?” my friend was calling out into thin air. oh. “hey, one second,” i replied, pushing her into the palm of my right hand to muffle the sound of me breaking the cardinal girl-friendship-rule #1, no putting boys before friends.

“can i have your number?”
i squeezed a few small-talkisms out of him, about what he was drinking and where he was going before replying, “i never give out my number. especially on the street. 917….”
he said he’d call the next day, and did. good sign. probably a bad sign for him that i didn’t call back for 3 days, but i was busy, with yoga school and living my life and all. we made plans to meet for coffee, and i got the sense it would have been dinner if i hadn’t taken so long to call back. touche!
he showed up sweaty from the gym. kkkkk…..i was talkative and filled him in on the art of the perfect americano. turns out, he’s a writer. i’m a writer. what the f**. not bad, for an unshowered, foot-in-the-mouth pickup. and not just some writer who doodles melancholy poems in notebooks, but one with a novel, and another one in gestation, and new york times book reviews and a teacher gig, yadda . yadda.
five years ago i would have been tickled magenta by this outward success. upon hearing he was also a retired rockstar, again, not a garage-band-wanna-be but record-label blow out kind, the color pink i would have felt five years ago crossed in front of my vision. but i’ve long since taken off the rose-colored glasses. i rolled my inner eyes and squinted my outer ones, taking a long, hard look at the man.
because i want someone humble. humility is way up there for me now. someone skilled in the art of how to treat people. that’s also moved waaay up on the list. kind. committed. (not to the asylum or his work, soley, but also to above stated “how to treat people” and the idea of practicing that within a relationship with no backdoors or easy outs. noo more jump-shippers, please.) someone still excited by life, excited to be alive, not so jaded…is that impossible in new york? to both believe in miracles and not take them for granted?
i noticed his eyes kept hopping over my right shoulder where a girl in a yellow halter top temporarily lived. i noticed his

4th Part

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

They say OM is made of 4 parts: A, Au, M and the silence afterwards. The fourth part is a full silcenc

Friday, July 2nd, 2010
Yes, we’ve all heard this before. But sometimes its nice to re-hear.

I have related to the 3rd stanza a lot in the past few months….today I am relating to the rest of them….

*I want to know if you can see beauty even if its not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from The presence.*

*I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the sliver of the full moon, “Yes!”*

*It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.*

*It doesn’t interest me who you are and how you came to be here. I want to know if you will

stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.*

*It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.*

*I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.*

*Oriah**** Mountain** Dreamer, Indian Elder** May 1994*

The Exhale

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

Today my yoga teacher said something that struck me as simple and amazing: The exhale will save your life.

I was in my triangle pose, like, wow…..
This makes me think of a dharma talk I attended this week in which the teacher spoke about the “rock” we all carry around with us…the rock of emotions (some would say baggage, but it feels more like a rock to me) that we protect and shelter at the same time its bringing us down.
Why is it so hard to let go of these things, to exhale…and how great to practice, and how great when one does it….even a bit….or fully….
I think about the tightness some people have from carrying things for years…decades…without even thinking about it…and how even when we do think about it sometimes there are blind spots…
Exhaling, letting go, over and over…

Yoga and Creative Writing Workshop

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

November 22nd, 1-3:30

Strala Yoga
178 5th Ave at 22nd

In this workshop, lines of