Back Side of the Heart

During a recent Yin Yoga class, our instructor lead us through a series of cat and cow postures. In her very best yogi-voice she whispered, "Relax your belly, let it drop down towards the earth. Lift your head and chest upward toward the sky, opening your heart." Me, breathing-in, breathing-out, breathing-in, breathing-out. She begins again with, "Now, slowly drop your head and arch your back toward the ceiling like a cat. Bring your chin to your chest. Feel the stretch of your spine, opening fully—opening the back side of your heart."

My ears perked up immediately. The flow between postures momentarily disrupted. What? How have I never heard that before? In all the years I have practiced yoga, I had only been taught postures that were about opening the heart from the front. But of course, without speaking those words, postures like the 'cat' were doing exactly that. Opening the back side of the heart. An aha moment. And why wouldn't we address all sides of the heart, whether speaking about it physically or symbolically?

Not having ever breathed in that intentional opening through the back, I imagined my own heart looking a bit lopsided, dim and neglected. Very excited by this revelation, I began the breath-work of resuscitating inhales and noticing how happy my heart was starting to feel. To finally be receiving some long overdue love and attention—from both sides.

You know how once you hear something you can't un-hear it? In this case, I was grateful for her words. Locked forever inside my senses and intentions toward my heart. Another moment of grace—received.

I am curious now. What does the back side of the heart actually look like? Combing through the images I found during my research, the posterior view (back side) of the heart organ, anatomically carried the familiar lines and contours of the heart symbol in illustration. You know—the shapes we girls romantically draw in the sand, on paper and sometimes as the dot over the letter "i".

Who knew?

Now what—you might be asking? Nothing more really, other than to acknowledge the heart holistically. With equal breaths in-and-out, attention, healing and opening—front to back and back to front. The image of the heart etched in my brain. I will never be able to look at someone's back without also seeing—the back side of their heart.

Do Bold Things

The truth of this statement, if I had to sum up my life's mission right now, is all I would need to say. There is nothing like the passing of friends, especially when they are young, it's unexpected or when they are your own age, to send you into a cerebral head-spin around a few quintessential questions. "What's it all about?" "What am I doing with my life?" 

With the first friend, in this trilogy of loss, I was hit hard, very hard. Only a few days prior we had lunch together, making girly notes of her new coif, she was the epitome of her joyous self. With one single blow, that memory was knocked silly when another friend delivered the news that she had taken her own life. I've never known someone personally who made that choice and it shook me to my core. I stared at the portraits I had taken of her and combed incessantly through her social media pages looking for answers. Between the note she left (eight pages), her two brothers' crying her history of pain during the memorial service (one they didn't fully understand until after) and a quote from Niccolo Machiavelli, which I found favorited on her Facebook page, I came to understand. Mind bending.

“All courses of action are risky, so prudence is not in avoiding danger (it's impossible), but calculating risk and acting decisively. Make mistakes of ambition and not mistakes of sloth. Develop the strength to do bold things, not the strength to suffer.”

Some people feel that taking your own life is an act of cowardliness. I disagree. I have come to view it is an act of courage. My friend, whether you agree with it or not, made a bold move. When I read repeatedly Machiavelli's quote on her page, all I could think of was that she was letting us know, right there in two lines of text, that she had taken an action of risk, calculated and chosen very deliberately, not to suffer. "There, but for the grace of God, go I." With unabashed understanding and no judgment on her choice, I cast myself forward to take in all that she no longer would. In some strange way, I felt it was my obligation, more than ever, to live a larger-than-life existence, since I am still here. Bathing in the millions of colors in the sunrises and sunsets, taking the dreams of some-a-day and doing them, quitting on the things that silence my spirit, taking flight and mingling with the clouds. Doing bold and earthly things—now.

This is not where I thought I was venturing off to with my writing today. I imagine that this commitment to one year of writing is also taking a bold course of action. I've come to understand, more fully than ever, what it means to remain gifted with this life. She and the others are a consistent reminder to do bold things—in this life I am living. In loving memory of my beautiful friend, Anamarie.

What is on your "Do Bold Things," what I like to call my "Live it List?" What are we waiting for?

Fully Alone: In the Company of Me

For nearly ten years I dreamed, rather fantasized, of taking a road trip. You know, the kind where you throw some things in the truck, van or whatever, gas up and hit the highway. Maybe a loose idea of where you are headed, but open to making a right or left turn at the crossroad. At the "Y" choosing this way or that way—and none of that mattering, because the only purpose is to be going somewhere. "Anywhere will get you there," and in this case, that adage works.

In 2004 I bought a sport utility vehicle. The first thing on the must-have-on-board list, behind the heated seats, was the ability for me to crawl in the back, and make a bed. Just thinking about the road trip fostered the most incredible feelings of freedom. The fantasy of being a gypsy rebel hippie-type felt so right. All of that, saddled with the responsible, level-headed, what-the-hell-are-you-thinking—societally crafted woman. But know this, it might take this Renaissance woman some time to make something happen, but when she does—watch out!

I never did take that SUV out for that self-promised adventure. During my next car purchase, a compact sporty hatchback, I used the same evaluation techniques—crawling into the back to see whether I could fit in there comfortably in case I got the itch to just take off. I did fit, yet sadly it's 2008 with no heated seats—a sign of our times. I bought in anyway.

Fast forward with 50,000 miles under my treads and still no road trip. At the opening of last year I could feel a real tug, no nonsense this time, to hit the road. Sunset Magazine, three months in a row, sending me front-cover options. The Grand Canyon, Highway 101 to Big Sur and Yosemite. I held onto all of them like a bible, this was surely a sign—I only need to choose. My soul screaming louder than ever. "Just pick one!"

You know the saying, "He/she who hesitates is lost." I didn't want to be lost any more. Hesitation cast aside I commit to a trip to Yosemite—alone. Big gulp. And with it comes racing in my internal voices of reason, doubt and fear, compounded by the fears of others when they hear about my plans. "What about the bears?" "You're going—alone?" And there it was—the thing that had been holding me back, out in the open. Alone. Well, I live alone, and I've been doing my life alone. What was this all about, the idea of driving a very long distance—in the company of me? That was my fear. Who would I find during this long and seamless 400-mile drive? Would I be bored with her? What if she snores? (Obviously that was a joke.)

Here's what I found. The road trip was an amazing opportunity for self-
discovery. From the minute I rolled onto the highway, my left brain busy with the details of driving, the right side in complete creativity and awareness. Solidly present to my surroundings, and more importantly, to my heart and soul. I sang out loud, laughed out loud, laughed at myself and raced a train, making portraits of life all along the way. It was an entertaining time that passed far too quickly—such a surprise. The outward journey was also an inward journey of self-appreciation and love. They say if you can't love yourself (all of you) then you can't fully cast that love out to anyone else either. All these years living in the fantasy of a road trip, which I thought was about being away from the daily grind, turned out to be far more than that. It was about being in the company of me—fully alone. I filled up my own cup.

And I never saw one damn bear!

Is there something you've been dreaming about—that trip of a lifetime, complete with the list of why-nots to support it? If you tell me about it—I will support you in making it happen. How about now?

Writing For My Life

I have much to say going into my 57th year on this planet, volumes to share, but not everyone is up for swimming with me, in deep-end-of-the-pool conversations. At least not in person. Therefore I write. It is my time of contemplation where the in-spired thoughts are revelations that come up for air and out-breathed into the universe. Maybe read, that would be nice, maybe not—the intent really is writing for my life, giving it an acknowledgement and over conversation, the penned thought can live as legacy to a life long after departure.

I also have experienced myself time and time again, where during a conversation my wits of words and wisdom are not about me (not sure where they go actually), my exchange falling in short strokes of what I really had to say. Often holding my breath in depths of hope of finding my wits. I don't think they know how to swim.

Writing is a cathartic process, an artful expression of co-mingled vowels, consonants, punctuation marks and phrases. The words, paddling their way to the surface, are in no hurry. They know there are so many of them to choose from, they wait patiently along the writer's edge for their turn to dive into a verse, chapter or song.

I am—WRITING for my life, on behalf of my life, for my livelihood and FOR my life.

What are you doing that is acknowledging your unique passage through this journey called—life?