The never ending soundtrack of my life used to be I'm fat...terrible...unathletic...not as good as her...or whatever horrible thing that pointed out how different and unworthy I was. Hello Anava Mala and Mayiya Mala for those yogis in the know.
Don't worry if your tongue just tripped over those words. They're just a fancy way of saying I felt unworthy, not good enough, and cut off, separate, different from most everyone else in the world. And therefore deserved to go eat worms because nobody liked me everybody hated me.
But now that I've lost 70 pounds, started keeping up in the Tuesday/Thursday practice (for the most part), and pretty much love the skin I'm in my self talk has shifted to something I've never experienced before. Karma Mala. Or that nagging feeling of not being able to do enough, have enough, finish enough, oh my gosh why am I even taking the time to type this right now when there's so much else I HAVE to get done enough.
Something I used to be too fat, lazy, and unworthy to even consider. Sort of hard to worry about doing when you can't even get going. But now that I'm going. And oh am I going. On any given day I have about three million irons in the fire. Studio stuff. Cate stuff. Personal stuff. Blog stuff. Family stuff. Friend stuff. Boyfriend stuff.
Stuff. Stuff. Stuff. And all stuff that I need to do. Have to do. Must do. Or else. Stuff that people want from me. Need from me. Have to have from me.
So in an attempt to get it all done I've developed a whole new way of being which often includes skipping breakfast. Eating only an apple for lunch. Sucking down a heavy dinner because I'm starving. Staying up too late. Ditching my morning meditation.
Washing. Rinsing. Repeating.
Which is radically different for me. Because for last 26 years I pretty much did as little as I possibly could and then sat and ate ice cream and cried about how little I was doing. And forget skipping meals I stocked up on extra just in case. But then I went to therapy and grad school and found some friends who pretty much kicked that right out of me. So for the past two years I've been building up some speed. Speed that helped burn and transform some nasty patterns away (thank god because if I kept that up any longer I was going to have to buy stock in Ben & Jerry's and Prozac).
But it's built others. And now I can't seem to stop them. I'm flying down the hill no brakes hands off the steering wheel. And any minute I'm going to crash. Spontaneously combust. Fly off into space never to be seen or heard from again. Because rocking body and soul that I now got they still aren't strong enough to hold the constant doing. Moving. Going. Even God needed to rest on the seventh day.
I need a brake. Break? I'm just not sure how to safely stop the ride because I've never been on it before.
I need someone to flag down the conductor like my dad did when I was six and my cousins talked me into getting on the Siberian Sleigh ride. My tears and screaming something even 23 years later I haven't be able to live down.
But it's hard to flag yourself down. To press the stop button. It's easier just to keep going. Even through the tears and screams and threats of vomit. Because if I get off the ride. Say no to things. I might let other people down. And then we're right back were I started-eating worms because nobody likes me everybody hates me.
But I think back to what one of my very wise teachers once told me, "Saying no to one thing is saying yes to another."
So I'm saying yes to slowing down. To stopping the ride. To pausing.
At least long enough to eat lunch.
But for now I gotta go! ;)
XO,
Sara
Wishes for a New Year
On the eve of my 29th year I'm feeling like some what of a fraud. I'm a yoga teacher who doesn't have time to properly plan her classes. A counselor who often takes work related calls during dinner. A wellness coach who routinely skips breakfast and doesn't sit down to a regular lunch. And an adult who rarely has more than a grocery bill's worth of money in her checking account.
And while I have accomplished a lot this year...
5. Learn how to cross country ski
11. Teach a regular yoga class
16. Lose50 30 15 pounds
17. Learn how to knit
31. Become a yoga teacher
47. Learn to be bien dans ma peau
63. Finish all the house projects (not my house, not my problem anymore!)
94. Graduate with honors
117. Quit my job
139. Learn how to hula hoop
142. Model for Dr. Sketchy’s (or rather fully nude for the Teton Arts Council numerous times)
It's time to get down to business...
First by becoming waaay more competent with money than I am. Because no one wants to be 30 and still broke. So numbers 56. Have a fat savings account of at least six months living expenses
and 57. Pay everything off are my top priorities this year.
Followed closely by 34. Own my own business (The Joie Revolution). Since you know that will help with 56 & 57.
Then there are my I'm not really a yoga teacher because I can't goals that I need to strike off...
1. Hold Bakasana for an extended period of time (I'm soooo close on this one!)
2. Kick into Handstand on my own (Not so much on this one)
12. Finish my RYT-200 (even more important now that Anusara is in the toilet)
And since I'm still not sure where the wind will plant me I'm fairly certain these two might just happen out of necessity...
77. Throw out everything that I don't adore
26. Drive cross country with an important boy and see silly things
And if that important boy is smart he'll help make this one happen...
27. Ride in a hot air balloon
and this one...
4. Eat at the crazy french fry place in Boise
Then they're are just some fun ones...
68. Go on a yoga retreat
95. Make (gluten free) biscuits, pancakes, and pie crusts by heart
And a tedious one...
106. Back up all my files, clean my computer, update my software, get a freaking battery! (because my god I can't go another year fearing I'll lose everything I'm working on because the magnetic. MAGNETIC power cord gets pulled loose. Most brilliant and stupidest Apple invention ever.)
And one that quite frankly scares me...
137. Write a book
But if I had a dollar for every person who told me I should do this, well then I'd have $5 dollars. But those are five very important dollars given by five very important people. And since I wrote this list years ago it finally feels time to give this one some serious thought. Ok make that six dollars. As the important boy reading over my shoulder just threw his 100 cents in.
So it seems like I got my work cut out for me this year Internet. But if this one is anything like this past one I'm fairly certain the planets will align and I'll get it all done. No seriously. The planets will align. Huffington Post said so.
I'm also fairly certain this year will bring me things I can't even imagine. Because I'm typing this in my boyfriend's house in Idaho. IDAHO. Didn't really see that one coming.
So I can't wait. Really. This year's going to be amazing. Especially since I have you.
Thank you for everything you do. My life wouldn't nearly be as wonderful without you.
So much love,
Sara
And while I have accomplished a lot this year...
5. Learn how to cross country ski
11. Teach a regular yoga class
16. Lose
17. Learn how to knit
31. Become a yoga teacher
47. Learn to be bien dans ma peau
63. Finish all the house projects (not my house, not my problem anymore!)
94. Graduate with honors
117. Quit my job
139. Learn how to hula hoop
142. Model for Dr. Sketchy’s (or rather fully nude for the Teton Arts Council numerous times)
It's time to get down to business...
First by becoming waaay more competent with money than I am. Because no one wants to be 30 and still broke. So numbers 56. Have a fat savings account of at least six months living expenses
and 57. Pay everything off are my top priorities this year.
Followed closely by 34. Own my own business (The Joie Revolution). Since you know that will help with 56 & 57.
Then there are my I'm not really a yoga teacher because I can't goals that I need to strike off...
1. Hold Bakasana for an extended period of time (I'm soooo close on this one!)
2. Kick into Handstand on my own (Not so much on this one)
12. Finish my RYT-200 (even more important now that Anusara is in the toilet)
And since I'm still not sure where the wind will plant me I'm fairly certain these two might just happen out of necessity...
77. Throw out everything that I don't adore
26. Drive cross country with an important boy and see silly things
And if that important boy is smart he'll help make this one happen...
27. Ride in a hot air balloon
and this one...
4. Eat at the crazy french fry place in Boise
Then they're are just some fun ones...
68. Go on a yoga retreat
95. Make (gluten free) biscuits, pancakes, and pie crusts by heart
And a tedious one...
106. Back up all my files, clean my computer, update my software, get a freaking battery! (because my god I can't go another year fearing I'll lose everything I'm working on because the magnetic. MAGNETIC power cord gets pulled loose. Most brilliant and stupidest Apple invention ever.)
And one that quite frankly scares me...
137. Write a book
But if I had a dollar for every person who told me I should do this, well then I'd have $5 dollars. But those are five very important dollars given by five very important people. And since I wrote this list years ago it finally feels time to give this one some serious thought. Ok make that six dollars. As the important boy reading over my shoulder just threw his 100 cents in.
So it seems like I got my work cut out for me this year Internet. But if this one is anything like this past one I'm fairly certain the planets will align and I'll get it all done. No seriously. The planets will align. Huffington Post said so.
I'm also fairly certain this year will bring me things I can't even imagine. Because I'm typing this in my boyfriend's house in Idaho. IDAHO. Didn't really see that one coming.
So I can't wait. Really. This year's going to be amazing. Especially since I have you.
Thank you for everything you do. My life wouldn't nearly be as wonderful without you.
So much love,
Sara
Walking the Line
"Sometimes you walk the line
and sometimes it walks you."
Dear Internet,
Noah opened the weekend by telling the story of Shakuntala. For those of you not familiar with ancient Indian myths I'll give you the Reader's Digest version below. For those of you who are you can just skip this next part.
_______________________
Shakuntala was out wandering in the woods, as young beautiful women in these kind of stories are apt to do. Meanwhile King Dushyanta was out with his army hunting and killing things, as men in these kind of stories are apt to do. He sees her and immediately has to have her. So he asks around about who she is. Finding out she's the daughter of a sage he's bummed because having her is a big no no. Some caste system thing.
Heart heavy he decides he'll focus on killing deer and rides to the ashram in order to get permission to kill said animals on the sage's land. Some ancient custom thing.
And lo and behold who's there? The girl from the woods. Who upon further inquiry turns out not to be the real daughter of the sage but the ADOPTED daughter. Thus making his lust perfectly ok.
So they meet and instantly fall in love and birds begin to sing, and flowers bloom, and they get married and all is well. Except the King has kingly things to do and must ride off and go kill more stuff leaving Shakuntala alone at the ashram. As a promise that he swears he'll come back for her, he gives her his signet ring.
While he's gone Shakuntala is sooooo in love she doodles hearts and Shakuntala and Dushyanta Forever all over everything and can't really be bothered to properly do her job. She forgets her duty and slights a very important guy. In return, he curses her (of course). The curse is that the object of her thoughts will forget her and will only remember upon being shown a personal token he's given her. Shakuntala blows this off because she's got the ring she's good (you know where this is going don't you).
Soon she gets tired of waiting for her slow poke husband to come back for her and sets off to find him. Along the way she loses the signet ring in a river. Yeah. Not good.
So she winds up in King Dushyanta's (her husband) court a stranger, pregnant, and claiming to be his wife. Riiight. Like single pregnant ladies have NEVER pulled that one before. So even though she pleads, "Remember you saw me in the forest and we fell in love and got married and you pledged you'd come back for me and I sang Shakuntala and Dushyanta sitting in a tree so many times," he doesn't recognize her. You know because of the curse. And the fact that she up and lost the ring in the river.
So she gets thrown out of court and has to make a go of it on her own.
A while later a fisherman gets hauled into court and accused of stealing because he's in possession of the King's signet ring. He says, "Wait a minute I just cut open a fish and inside its belly was this ring."
Upon seeing the ring, the King instantly remembers Shakuntala, rushes out of the palace, finds her, and they live happily ever after.
Yay. Love and flowers and hearts.
_______________________
Now for the moral of the story. This part you can't skip.
We've all been Shakuntala. So in love, so stirred by our heart's desires, so full of lust and desire and want we've forgotten our duty. What we're supposed to do. We've let things slide. Wandered off the path. Not washed the dishes. Not followed through on projects. Dropped the ring. Because doing what feels good is often more fun than doing what's right.
"Sometimes you walk the line and sometimes it walks you."
Because let's face it walking the line is hard. Our hearts are powerful organs. They want things. Desperately.
Sometimes those things are good and true and right and they keep us on the path. And we are thankful for that burning desire that keeps us glued to the straight and narrow.
Other times though, our hearts want things that are bad and false and wrong. And we get pulled from the path only to find ourselves wandering around the in woods lost, alone, and without a king to rescue us.
So our practice becomes distinguishing between the two. Between figuring out what is actually good and true and right and what is bad and false and fattening (as my heart usually wants Ben & Jerry's).
But we're not always good at that. Sometimes it takes us a while to recognize that our choice wasn't the best most authentic life affirming one. Hopefully though, like Dushyanta, something causes us to remember. To wake us up. To move us back to the path. And we start walking again. One baby step at the time. One shaky foot in front of the other. One breath to the next. We walk the line. Even when it's hard. Even when our hearts desperately want something else.
Because that's the only good and true and right thing we can do.
XO,
Sara
PS-I won't pretend there aren't threads of what's currently happening in the Anusara community in this. There are. My hope is Anusara can find its way back to the path because right now it's so lost and alone in the woods and it really needs a King to rescue it.
D: All of the Above
Dear Internet,
This month marks the halfway point in my internship and the beginning of my existential crisis.
When I packed up and moved across the country to live in the back of a yoga studio I never expected to love it. I thought I'd do my time. Learn some things about running a business. Get some experience teaching yoga. And let my mind reset from two long years of intense graduate school work. Then I'd move back east and get on with my life. Like a normal adult person.
But no. I had to go and fall in love with this place. Not to mention find someone who I like more and more each day.
Which presents a problem. A big glaring one the post office hammered home when I updated my forwarding address information earlier this week. "Do you ever plan on living at your old address again?"
Do I ever plan on living at my old address again? Ha. Why not just ask me how much I weigh? Or what my political beliefs are. Or what color underwear I'm wearing. At least those, while personal, I could answer.
But that one. The one about where I'm going to live. How exactly do I answer that Internet? Because well maybe, who knows, it depends on...doesn't exactly fit into the yes or no box I had to check. Much like most of my life really. Except what I currently own. I could probably get that into a box.
But this. What I'm doing. Where I'm going to live? Who I'm going to live with? If I'm moving back home? If I ever plan on living at my old address again. How I'm going to make a living. Not really yes/no box material anymore.
What I do isn't neat and tidy. I don't punch in at 9 and out at 5. I have many boxes that I juggle on any given day. Daughter. Friend. Employee. Yoga Teacher. Counselor. Intern. Blogger. Figure drawing model. Girlfriend. Skier. Really terrible broomball player.
This isn't third grade anymore. I can't just check a box and hold hands at recess. Relationships. Jobs. Life. Isn't as easy. There are consequences to your checks and I's dotted with hearts.
Boxes now have meaning and weight. Sometimes they are hard to hold. They're heavy (Student Loan Ower, Broke Intern) and you'd like to huck them off the side of a cliff and never see them again (Student Loan Ower, Broke Intern).
Other times you have so many boxes checked you have to go to bed and start over in the morning because you can't hold them all (Intern, Personal Assistant, Counselor, Girlfriend, Sane Person).
But then sometimes you don't have enough. And those boxes you want to check (Successful, Financially Secure) seem just out of reach and you wake up anxious about how you're going to pull everything off this month. How you're going to pay for your gluten free, vegan soup AND mortgage.
Others are so easy they help lighten your load (Girlfriend, Friend) until they do something annoying like dye their hair or don't return your calls.
But none of them are simple. Are yes/no and forget about it. They all take work. They all have repercussions. And your checking them or not can hurt.
And I'm not ready for that particular hurt. So, I let that yes/no where are you going to live box hang over my head. Let my mail be on temporary forward. Let what my permanent life looks like be on hold.
Because I honestly don't know what to do. Which box to check.
Yet.
And I have plenty of others to tend to (Intern, Personal Assistant, Counselor, Girlfriend, Friend, Daughter, Sane Person).
XO,
Sara
This month marks the halfway point in my internship and the beginning of my existential crisis.
When I packed up and moved across the country to live in the back of a yoga studio I never expected to love it. I thought I'd do my time. Learn some things about running a business. Get some experience teaching yoga. And let my mind reset from two long years of intense graduate school work. Then I'd move back east and get on with my life. Like a normal adult person.
But no. I had to go and fall in love with this place. Not to mention find someone who I like more and more each day.
Which presents a problem. A big glaring one the post office hammered home when I updated my forwarding address information earlier this week. "Do you ever plan on living at your old address again?"
Do I ever plan on living at my old address again? Ha. Why not just ask me how much I weigh? Or what my political beliefs are. Or what color underwear I'm wearing. At least those, while personal, I could answer.
But that one. The one about where I'm going to live. How exactly do I answer that Internet? Because well maybe, who knows, it depends on...doesn't exactly fit into the yes or no box I had to check. Much like most of my life really. Except what I currently own. I could probably get that into a box.
But this. What I'm doing. Where I'm going to live? Who I'm going to live with? If I'm moving back home? If I ever plan on living at my old address again. How I'm going to make a living. Not really yes/no box material anymore.
What I do isn't neat and tidy. I don't punch in at 9 and out at 5. I have many boxes that I juggle on any given day. Daughter. Friend. Employee. Yoga Teacher. Counselor. Intern. Blogger. Figure drawing model. Girlfriend. Skier. Really terrible broomball player.
This isn't third grade anymore. I can't just check a box and hold hands at recess. Relationships. Jobs. Life. Isn't as easy. There are consequences to your checks and I's dotted with hearts.
Boxes now have meaning and weight. Sometimes they are hard to hold. They're heavy (Student Loan Ower, Broke Intern) and you'd like to huck them off the side of a cliff and never see them again (Student Loan Ower, Broke Intern).
Other times you have so many boxes checked you have to go to bed and start over in the morning because you can't hold them all (Intern, Personal Assistant, Counselor, Girlfriend, Sane Person).
But then sometimes you don't have enough. And those boxes you want to check (Successful, Financially Secure) seem just out of reach and you wake up anxious about how you're going to pull everything off this month. How you're going to pay for your gluten free, vegan soup AND mortgage.
Others are so easy they help lighten your load (Girlfriend, Friend) until they do something annoying like dye their hair or don't return your calls.
But none of them are simple. Are yes/no and forget about it. They all take work. They all have repercussions. And your checking them or not can hurt.
And I'm not ready for that particular hurt. So, I let that yes/no where are you going to live box hang over my head. Let my mail be on temporary forward. Let what my permanent life looks like be on hold.
Because I honestly don't know what to do. Which box to check.
Yet.
And I have plenty of others to tend to (Intern, Personal Assistant, Counselor, Girlfriend, Friend, Daughter, Sane Person).
XO,
Sara
Takes A Lickin and Keeps on Tickin or Finding Lila on the Ice
Dear Internet,
Apparently I have sucker written across my forehead in bright red letters because I got roped into playing on a broomball team this season. For those of you who have no idea what this fine sport entails just go outside and throw yourself down on the pavement a few dozen times. Then get up and try to hit a ball with a stick while on ice in your regular shoes.
Yeah. I know. I can hear your screams from here.
I do it once a week. And I suck at it. Seriously. I'm terrible. And the worst part is I can't even look cute while playing, like say if it were roller derby, because you know we are outside. On ice. In the middle of stupid cold winter. Fishnets and mini skirts aren't really an option. But I swear to God they would help. Seriously, if you are going to routinely fall down you need something to pad your ego.
But I don't have that luxury. All I got is ripped up snow pants, old rollerblading pads, and my terrible terrible athleticism.
At this point a big glaring, "But why on earth are you doing this Sara you suck at team sports especially ones that require hitting things with other things remember?" might come to mind. Don't worry I've had that same thought.
And the only rationale I can come up with is I enjoy torturing myself and I must be The Valedictorian of Everything. Including asinine sports invented by people before there were things you could do to entertain yourself during winter that don't require falling down. Like say watching New Girl. Inside. On your couch. While wearing footie pajamas and drinking chai. And possibly doing your nails.
Except there's one major flaw in this rationale. Unless some miracle happens and my hand eye coordination exponentially improves, I'm not going to be the Valedictorian of this "sport" anytime soon. This of course drives me mad. So mad that every Tuesday morning I wake up with a knot in my stomach wondering just how much of a complete fool I'm going to make of myself. How many times am I going to fall down? Miss the ball? Cause our team to lose? Etc, etc, etc until I've fallen into a shame cycle so deep the only solution is that I am a completely worthless human being undeserving of the very pads that protect my fragile posterior. My poor performance later in the evening just solidifies it, I'm unworthy of love. Clearly. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
I worked myself into such a tizzy this week I almost feigned sickness in order to get out of going to our game. But I committed and have a team and they are blah blah counting on me blah blah (although they'd probably be happy if I actually did quit). But being the solider on kinda girl I am, I got in the car and went. Brian, bless his heart, gave me his best dad taking his kid to a soccer match pep talk, and it made me realize I might need to reevaluate this whole broomball cycle of shame. I mean the sport was originally played with duct taped brooms. Why on earth attach my self worth to something as stupid as that? And since I seriously doubt I'll get that miracle, I need to quit beating myself up. The ice does a good enough job of that and plus there are lots of other things I am indeed good at. The Valedictorian of even. Someone else can have broomball.
So instead of hardening. Of contracting. Of getting so worked up about how bad and terrible and awful I am. I tried to let go and just have fun during our game. To laugh every time I whacked at the ball and missed. Or tripped over my own feet. Or landed spread eagle on the ice for no apparent reason. Because we all need to play sometimes. To do something just for the sake of doing it. To let go. To open ourselves. To fling ourselves headlong on the ice.
Because if you can drop your ego. Forget perfection and winning. And Valedictorian. Even if just for a second. You get an amazing taste of possibility. Of space and openness and joy and love and laughter and connection. And that feels so good it doesn't matter that you landed on your butt. Or that you looked stupid doing it.
But don't take my word for it, "Play energizes us and enlivens us. It eases our burdens. It renews our natural sense of optimism and opens us up to new possibilities," Stuart Brown, MD and play expert.
I just hope my next possibilities don't cause so many bruises.
Love,
Sara
Apparently I have sucker written across my forehead in bright red letters because I got roped into playing on a broomball team this season. For those of you who have no idea what this fine sport entails just go outside and throw yourself down on the pavement a few dozen times. Then get up and try to hit a ball with a stick while on ice in your regular shoes.
Yeah. I know. I can hear your screams from here.
I do it once a week. And I suck at it. Seriously. I'm terrible. And the worst part is I can't even look cute while playing, like say if it were roller derby, because you know we are outside. On ice. In the middle of stupid cold winter. Fishnets and mini skirts aren't really an option. But I swear to God they would help. Seriously, if you are going to routinely fall down you need something to pad your ego.
But I don't have that luxury. All I got is ripped up snow pants, old rollerblading pads, and my terrible terrible athleticism.
At this point a big glaring, "But why on earth are you doing this Sara you suck at team sports especially ones that require hitting things with other things remember?" might come to mind. Don't worry I've had that same thought.
And the only rationale I can come up with is I enjoy torturing myself and I must be The Valedictorian of Everything. Including asinine sports invented by people before there were things you could do to entertain yourself during winter that don't require falling down. Like say watching New Girl. Inside. On your couch. While wearing footie pajamas and drinking chai. And possibly doing your nails.
Except there's one major flaw in this rationale. Unless some miracle happens and my hand eye coordination exponentially improves, I'm not going to be the Valedictorian of this "sport" anytime soon. This of course drives me mad. So mad that every Tuesday morning I wake up with a knot in my stomach wondering just how much of a complete fool I'm going to make of myself. How many times am I going to fall down? Miss the ball? Cause our team to lose? Etc, etc, etc until I've fallen into a shame cycle so deep the only solution is that I am a completely worthless human being undeserving of the very pads that protect my fragile posterior. My poor performance later in the evening just solidifies it, I'm unworthy of love. Clearly. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
I worked myself into such a tizzy this week I almost feigned sickness in order to get out of going to our game. But I committed and have a team and they are blah blah counting on me blah blah (although they'd probably be happy if I actually did quit). But being the solider on kinda girl I am, I got in the car and went. Brian, bless his heart, gave me his best dad taking his kid to a soccer match pep talk, and it made me realize I might need to reevaluate this whole broomball cycle of shame. I mean the sport was originally played with duct taped brooms. Why on earth attach my self worth to something as stupid as that? And since I seriously doubt I'll get that miracle, I need to quit beating myself up. The ice does a good enough job of that and plus there are lots of other things I am indeed good at. The Valedictorian of even. Someone else can have broomball.
So instead of hardening. Of contracting. Of getting so worked up about how bad and terrible and awful I am. I tried to let go and just have fun during our game. To laugh every time I whacked at the ball and missed. Or tripped over my own feet. Or landed spread eagle on the ice for no apparent reason. Because we all need to play sometimes. To do something just for the sake of doing it. To let go. To open ourselves. To fling ourselves headlong on the ice.
Because if you can drop your ego. Forget perfection and winning. And Valedictorian. Even if just for a second. You get an amazing taste of possibility. Of space and openness and joy and love and laughter and connection. And that feels so good it doesn't matter that you landed on your butt. Or that you looked stupid doing it.
But don't take my word for it, "Play energizes us and enlivens us. It eases our burdens. It renews our natural sense of optimism and opens us up to new possibilities," Stuart Brown, MD and play expert.
I just hope my next possibilities don't cause so many bruises.
Love,
Sara
Dye Job
When I was in 7th grade my science teacher called my parents to let them know he was concerned about how I was dressing. "Did they know my sweaters were too big and that I had a Nirvana T-shirt?" "And that if I kept it up I'd be banished to hell because heaven only accepts good little girls who wear twinsets and pearls thank you very much."
Ok, so I added that last part. But I'm sure I'm not too far off, as we all know black lipstick and flannel are gateway drugs that lead to a life of sin and whoredom. And heaven forbid altering your body in any way. So, when Brian (also known as the reason I'm now "in a relationship" on Fb, and yes I just threw up in my mouth, and yes Dara I don't have a nickname for him) announced that he was dying his hair blue my breath caught in my throat.
Blue? Blue hair?
Flashback to 1998. The night before our annual church play. Chrissy Walter's bathroom. One jar of Manic Panic Purple Haze.
You can guess how well that went over. Earned me a year long spot on the prayer list. And the silent treatment from my mom for a week, "because what would everyone think?!?"
At the time I remember thinking, "Why is everyone getting their panties in a wad about this? It's only hair. It'll grow out. What's the big deal?"
But last Sunday in Brian's bathroom I had my mother's thoughts, "What will everyone think? About him? About me? About us?"
Because we don't look like the couples I was brought up to admire. We're not clean shaven and traditional. Nary a stitch of khaki can be found in our closets. And I'm fairly certain that man has no idea what a button-up is much less a real tie-it-yourself bow tie (although he does rock the hell out of a fedora).
I teach yoga. He works at the hill. We both have tattoos and piercings. Things I was taught were a fad. Something kids did and grew out of once they had rebelled enough.
But there we were dying his hair like it was 1998. As it turned from brown, to blonde, to a shocking shade of blue I thought back to Samson's story about the jacket that just fits. And I realized I was taught (and not just by my family, so please don't think this is another it's all their fault post, but by society, and culture, and the tiny town I grew up in) that there are more acceptable jackets than others. That your jacket must look a certain way. Must cost a specific amount. Who cares if the thing actually fits. The important part is that you look good wearing it.
And how pray tell was I going to look good wearing a boyfriend with blue hair? I may be out West but I'm still just Southern enough to care. To have images of polos and boat shoes as being what "together forever" wears. What adult, stable, real relationships look like.
So when he asked me if I liked it, I blurted out something like, "No, I don't, why don't you grow up already are you just going to sit around and work at the hill forever blue hair isn't just blue hair and could you please wear something besides T-shirts all the time you're so immature gah."
Being the solid mountain man he is, he wasn't the least bit fazed by my lengthy response to his simple question. He sweetly listened to me overanalyze the meaning of Panic Manic. Reassured me. Comforted me. Said my opinion mattered. That I wasn't crazy. That I deserved adult, stable, and real whatever that looked like to me.
And in that moment I knew Samson was right in a whole new way. It's not the color, or the size, or the style of the jacket. It's the fit. How it feels. Because when a jacket fits. When you love it. Really love it. You wear it with everything whether it matches or not. Whether it's faded or torn or says something stupid (or dyes its hair blue).
You keep it on because it's your favorite jacket and you don't really care how it looks. And people may make fun of you. They may judge you. They may laugh. You may want to take it off at times because it can be hard, and hot, and annoying, and others look so much more inviting. But you don't. Because it fits and it's yours and you love it.
And the rest of that stuff. That size and shape and color and what will everyone else think and why did you do that. That's manifestations of ego. Of lack and concern and worry and separation. And there's really no room for any of that when your jacket fits.
Plus, I'm living proof that stupid decisions eventually do grow out.
XO,
Sara
Ok, so I added that last part. But I'm sure I'm not too far off, as we all know black lipstick and flannel are gateway drugs that lead to a life of sin and whoredom. And heaven forbid altering your body in any way. So, when Brian (also known as the reason I'm now "in a relationship" on Fb, and yes I just threw up in my mouth, and yes Dara I don't have a nickname for him) announced that he was dying his hair blue my breath caught in my throat.
Blue? Blue hair?
Flashback to 1998. The night before our annual church play. Chrissy Walter's bathroom. One jar of Manic Panic Purple Haze.
You can guess how well that went over. Earned me a year long spot on the prayer list. And the silent treatment from my mom for a week, "because what would everyone think?!?"
At the time I remember thinking, "Why is everyone getting their panties in a wad about this? It's only hair. It'll grow out. What's the big deal?"
But last Sunday in Brian's bathroom I had my mother's thoughts, "What will everyone think? About him? About me? About us?"
Because we don't look like the couples I was brought up to admire. We're not clean shaven and traditional. Nary a stitch of khaki can be found in our closets. And I'm fairly certain that man has no idea what a button-up is much less a real tie-it-yourself bow tie (although he does rock the hell out of a fedora).
I teach yoga. He works at the hill. We both have tattoos and piercings. Things I was taught were a fad. Something kids did and grew out of once they had rebelled enough.
But there we were dying his hair like it was 1998. As it turned from brown, to blonde, to a shocking shade of blue I thought back to Samson's story about the jacket that just fits. And I realized I was taught (and not just by my family, so please don't think this is another it's all their fault post, but by society, and culture, and the tiny town I grew up in) that there are more acceptable jackets than others. That your jacket must look a certain way. Must cost a specific amount. Who cares if the thing actually fits. The important part is that you look good wearing it.
And how pray tell was I going to look good wearing a boyfriend with blue hair? I may be out West but I'm still just Southern enough to care. To have images of polos and boat shoes as being what "together forever" wears. What adult, stable, real relationships look like.
So when he asked me if I liked it, I blurted out something like, "No, I don't, why don't you grow up already are you just going to sit around and work at the hill forever blue hair isn't just blue hair and could you please wear something besides T-shirts all the time you're so immature gah."
Being the solid mountain man he is, he wasn't the least bit fazed by my lengthy response to his simple question. He sweetly listened to me overanalyze the meaning of Panic Manic. Reassured me. Comforted me. Said my opinion mattered. That I wasn't crazy. That I deserved adult, stable, and real whatever that looked like to me.
And in that moment I knew Samson was right in a whole new way. It's not the color, or the size, or the style of the jacket. It's the fit. How it feels. Because when a jacket fits. When you love it. Really love it. You wear it with everything whether it matches or not. Whether it's faded or torn or says something stupid (or dyes its hair blue).
You keep it on because it's your favorite jacket and you don't really care how it looks. And people may make fun of you. They may judge you. They may laugh. You may want to take it off at times because it can be hard, and hot, and annoying, and others look so much more inviting. But you don't. Because it fits and it's yours and you love it.
And the rest of that stuff. That size and shape and color and what will everyone else think and why did you do that. That's manifestations of ego. Of lack and concern and worry and separation. And there's really no room for any of that when your jacket fits.
Plus, I'm living proof that stupid decisions eventually do grow out.
XO,
Sara
The Perfect Fit
So I finished the find your husband book, flew south for the holidays, and changed my relationship status on Facebook. None of these things are connected (well at least not like that) so don't get any ideas. My ring finger is still empty, my yoga dorm room built for one, and my Mrs. degree incomplete. The only difference? I'm 100% completely and totally satisfied with that.
Back when I was a lowly counseling intern one of my beloved colleagues decided to ask his girlfriend to marry him. Being the inquisitive child that I am I couldn't help but ask, "How did you know she was the one?" A question I've posed to most people I know who are married because I am southern and have previously desperately wanted monogramed towels and a big white dress (ok maybe not the towels but most definitely the dress).
He said, "You know that feeling you get when you go buy a jacket and you try a lot on and none are quite right. Then you put one on that fits. And you can't really explain why. And it may not even be the color or style you were originally looking for but it's the one. It just fits. Well it's like that."
And since I have an insane love affair for odd metaphors I instantly thought this was the most brilliant and not totally throw up in my mouth sappy way to describe "The One."
Which brings me to the book and that whole idea of "The One." There's no One. There are better Ones than others. Jackets that, like he said, fit. That are easier to wear. More versatile. More apt to weather fads. To hang in your closet long after their original purchase date. But ultimately you have to decide. You can't take them all home. You have to pick. To choose either the red one or the blue one.
In the past couple of weeks I've made that decision. Not about my life partner but about my life. It finally just fits. I'm wearing the jacket I'm meant to. I'm living the life I'm supposed to. And that feels better than any ring, any relationship, any One ever could.
And the magical thing about it-when you slip on the life you are meant to wear. The one that feels the best. Looks the best. Is the best. You stop clutching. Stop lusting after other jackets. Stop needing people to tell you how amazing you are. Because you know. Because you realize you are full and complete and whole just as you are. You don't need any One because you are One.
And that my friends is what gets your Facebook status changed. Not a book, not a pretty dress, or the perfect body. No. Being the best. The most authentic you is what does it. What allows you to find that One-whether that be a husband, a dog, a child, or an amazing life in Driggs.
I hope you all know how perfect you are. And how much you deserve a life that fits.
Much love,
Sara
Back when I was a lowly counseling intern one of my beloved colleagues decided to ask his girlfriend to marry him. Being the inquisitive child that I am I couldn't help but ask, "How did you know she was the one?" A question I've posed to most people I know who are married because I am southern and have previously desperately wanted monogramed towels and a big white dress (ok maybe not the towels but most definitely the dress).
He said, "You know that feeling you get when you go buy a jacket and you try a lot on and none are quite right. Then you put one on that fits. And you can't really explain why. And it may not even be the color or style you were originally looking for but it's the one. It just fits. Well it's like that."
And since I have an insane love affair for odd metaphors I instantly thought this was the most brilliant and not totally throw up in my mouth sappy way to describe "The One."
Which brings me to the book and that whole idea of "The One." There's no One. There are better Ones than others. Jackets that, like he said, fit. That are easier to wear. More versatile. More apt to weather fads. To hang in your closet long after their original purchase date. But ultimately you have to decide. You can't take them all home. You have to pick. To choose either the red one or the blue one.
In the past couple of weeks I've made that decision. Not about my life partner but about my life. It finally just fits. I'm wearing the jacket I'm meant to. I'm living the life I'm supposed to. And that feels better than any ring, any relationship, any One ever could.
And the magical thing about it-when you slip on the life you are meant to wear. The one that feels the best. Looks the best. Is the best. You stop clutching. Stop lusting after other jackets. Stop needing people to tell you how amazing you are. Because you know. Because you realize you are full and complete and whole just as you are. You don't need any One because you are One.
And that my friends is what gets your Facebook status changed. Not a book, not a pretty dress, or the perfect body. No. Being the best. The most authentic you is what does it. What allows you to find that One-whether that be a husband, a dog, a child, or an amazing life in Driggs.
I hope you all know how perfect you are. And how much you deserve a life that fits.
Much love,
Sara