Tag: creative nonfiction

Upside Down and Out of Control

As Week Two of my Yoga Teacher Training wrapped, I caught myself marveling that I can, in fact, do hard things. The rhythm of my days looks a little something like this. I get up early and walk to the training through my empty barrio. I wind my way through the narrow maze-like roads, my footsteps echoing off the stone buildings. The maze ends and suddenly there is open sky and morning sunshine as I cross in front of Cathedral de Barcelona. I stop for a quick espresso at my favorite coffee shop that is tiny and local and almost always has the little old man whom I have named Sandro.

By the time I have arrived at the doors of the Yoga Shala I feel ready for the day head. This is when the real work begins: a half hour of meditation. An hour class of yoga. Learning different asanas (postures) and how to correctly do them and teach them to avoid injury. After learning, there is more practicing these asanas, and then, sweet relief…breakfast. The rest is short lived because next comes another full hour long class of yoga, this time led by one of the students (yours truly included). Then there is some more learning, more stretching, and I realize that I have made it through another day.

Week One I characterize with the word “Ow”. “Ow! My arms!” As I shrug on a coat. “Ow! My shoulders!” As I pull my purse over my head. “Ow! My legs!” As I walk out of the Metro station, climbing the handful of stairs to the street level.

Week Two “Ow” faded away and I realized that I was craving this daily movement. “Ow”, I realized, was shifting to “Wow”.

Wow, I made it through Week One and Week Two. Wow, when I stop my body wants to keep going. Wow, I can’t believe I just did that.

Wow, especially, today.

In life,I do not like going upside down. At all. I do not like roller coasters. I could never do a cartwheel as a child. As a swimmer, I chickened out of learning the acrobatic “kick-flip”, where you do a little somersault under water and kick off the wall, shaving valuable seconds off of your lap split.

And in all of my years doing yoga I have never, ever done a headstand.

Until today.

There was no great build up to this. We were in our first yoga practice of the day like any other, and we were in some variety of a Surya Namaskar (sun salutation) when we were guided simply and gently into a headstand preparation. Internally I rolled my eyes, willing to go as far as a downward dog, when our teacher walked behind me and encouraged me to “just kick up”. And in what turned out to be an anti-climatic moment, I did.

I did a headstand.

And it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t dangerous. It was strangely…peaceful.

I came back down safely and found respite in a quiet child’s pose. What had been holding me back all these years? I told myself I did not have the strength to do a headstand. I convinced myself it was unsafe. Every yoga class that incorporated it I would sit back on my heels and watch. I’ll just sit this one out, I would think as my yoga progress stalled at this very place again and again.

While I am not on my way to the Olympics for swimming anytime soon, I also see how my progress in swimming has stalled as I opted out of kick-flips. Joining leagues or Premium swim teams always felt so out of reach – how would I explain that I cannot do this simple little somersault a child can do?

As I lay curled into a simple child’s pose I realized with a start that all of this delayed self-growth was in the spirit of… not losing control.

I mean, who likes to lose control? Control of our time, of our work life, of our love life – “losing control” has a notoriously bad reputation. But what if this learning to let go, to loosen the reins a bit and trust the process is exactly the moment when we become a better version of ourselves? What if…we face our fears and come out the other side relatively unscathed. Perhaps that is the moment when we realize that we are less fragile than we thought. That our inner strength is actually much greater than anything we ever imagined. Today it’s a headstand. But how will this one little headstand reshape my opinion of exactly what is possible – and what might be next.

Italian: Level 1

My beloved and I made a deal before our European adventure: He would try to learn some French, and I would study Italian. This would cover us, we figured, for the month that lay ahead of us. My Italian would help us through a five day hike through the Dolomites, Venice, Cinque Terra, and Florence. Then we would head to the South of France and finally Paris, where my beloved would navigate us with his French.

Fluency felt like a fool’s errand since I was starting from scratch, so I set a goal that felt achievable: order an Americano or a bowl of pasta without sounding like a complete jackass. Every morning leading up to the trip I poured myself a large cup of coffee and settled in with my Duolingo app, the little cartoon characters cheering me along. By the time we landed in Italy, I could clumsily order food and drink.

When we started planning our return to Italy, I realized I wanted to get serious about Italian. Now that I had this foundation, I glibly told myself, what if I became fluent? The fact that I reasoned a few months of Duolingo was a foundation was already magical thinking, but the dream had taken root. I caught myself daydreaming of my newfound fluency, my head thrown back in laughter, sharing a joke with a local as I trilled along in flawless Italian.

I searched for classes at the local community college. I looked for Italian tutors. I explored small language schools. It was around this time that I read a piece by David Sedaris, where he referenced that he used Pimsleur to help him learn languages. If it’s good enough for David, I reasoned, it’s good enough for me. On that logic alone, I downloaded Pimsleur and away I went.

I would pop in my headphones and take our dog for her morning walk, zig-zagging my way through the cul-de-sac, mumbling out loud as I repeated phrases that left me wondering what in the hell was going on in Italy.

Marco: “Do you speak Italian?”
Gabriella: “A little.”
Marco: “When can we eat?”
Gabriella: “Not now.”
Marco: “Later? Can we eat together a little later?”
Gabriella: “No, not now, and not later.”
Marco: “What about ten?”

I found myself mentally chastising Marco. She said no, Marco! Leave her be! Then, a plot twist.

Gabriella: “No, I am married and will not have dinner with you.”
Marco: “You are married? Where is your husband?”
Gabriella: “He is back at the hotel.”

I thought about the people I passed by as I walked. Did they speak Italian? What must they think of this woman muttering to herself this Italian soap opera? I began questioning the Pimsleur method, and frankly, David Sedaris, but pressed on. Gabriella returned to the hotel ostensibly safe and I returned home, hoping that this would all somehow pay off.

I practiced every day, wondering to myself who was responsible for the scripting over at Pimsleur. After the, let’s call it pushy, section between Marco and Gabriella, we progressed to the section dedicated solely to asking after someone’s family. This felt like less dangerous territory to tread into, but I found myself rolling my eyes and questioning whether or not I would find any real purpose in knowing how someone’s child was, how old someone’s child was, how many grandchildren someone had, and where on earth all of these children lived currently and in the past. Where were the phrases that would get me checked into a hotel? Or the phrases that would educate me on finding the best pasta in Cefalu?

Trust the process, I chastised myself. Just keep going.

By the time we landed in Palermo, I had finished Level 1. I realized all of the conversations I had been listening to had given me the power to string together a reasonable sentence to check us in to a hotel after all. I was still patting myself on the back by the time we hit the street on the hunt for Real. Italian. Pasta. We made our way to a highly lauded ristorante promising molto autentico Sicilian cuisine. We walked in and, discovering that no one spoke English, I realized that this was it, this was my moment.

I cobbled together words for “Table” and “for two”, undoubtedly from the section with Marco and Gabriella, and was pleased when the woman responded kindly. After ordering, I noticed an older gentleman hovering around our table. As soon as I made eye contact he rushed over to check on us. As it turned out, this was the owner of the restaurant, and the woman who sat us, his adult daughter. And here it was, Pimsleur in all their glory coming through for me.

“How many children do you have?” I asked, my memorized lines from Pimsleur flooding back. His eyes lit up and he smiled as he told me he had three children, and six grandchildren. Then he proceeded to show me pictures of everyone. When I asked where everyone lived, both past and present, he answered with delight. Eventually he drifted away and we enjoyed our pasta and seafood, my eyes wide staring at my beloved. “Well I’ll be damned. Pimsleur worked.”

We are currently planning our next trip. This time we will be five weeks in Spain and I have again turned to Pimsleur for help. Now as I waltz the streets with my dog on her leash, muttering phrases about needing to work hard, I feel confident that someday soon I will be in a conversation and think: Well I’ll be damned. Pimsleur worked.

Resolving…again.

Every year on January 1st, since I was a child and at the bequest of my mother, I have sat down and written a list of ten resolutions for the year ahead. As a ten year old, and then eleven year old, and eventually a twelve year old, I dreaded these planning sessions. Me, stationed next to my mom at our breakfast table, a stack of lined notebook paper, blank and formidable, in front of me as I tried to figure out what exactly I wanted to change about myself in the year ahead.

Get better grades.
Be nicer to mom.
Quit fighting with my brothers.

I would finish my list and pass it to my mom, who would nod approvingly and dismiss me from the table. While publicly I would disregard this activity as lame or boring, privately I hung my list on my bedroom wall, pushing it into place with a thumbtack, my reluctance shifting to hope as I silently thought this is going to be my year.

I suppose my mom was trying to foster resilience in her only daughter, a life lesson born from a road-weary understanding that life is hard, but bouncing back is half the battle. And bouncing back each year I did: no matter where I was in the world, my list of ten was crafted and pinned up on whatever wall I called home at the moment. On the wall of that crappy apartment in San Francisco. In the commercial warehouse I lived in illegally that had no walls around my bedroom, technically, but had a decent post to pin my list to. In that craftsman style house in Seattle that I shared with three others. And nowadays on the wall of the sweet home I share with my beloved in Arizona.

December comes and I feel the itch, that familiar pull to write my list and start dreaming of the year ahead. It is my annual ritual of hope and resilience. I may not have crossed every item off the list the year before, but I see the power in moving the needle just a touch. Looking across the span of the last thirty years (my very own longitudinal study), I see the impact of my resolutions. The biggest accomplishments – starting as a high school drop-out who lived in her car to becoming a college graduate and eventually earning a Master’s Degree – can be traced back to the mindset shifts that appeared on my list, year after year.

Don’t give up.
Quit procrastinating.
Don’t be influenced by the opinions of others.
Establish boundaries.
Show up for others.

It is so easy to get swept up into instant gratification, and in a culture where Insta and the like sends the message that success happens overnight, the truth is that success is often a long burn. It starts with the germination of an idea, a small seed that is watered and nurtured and over time, sprouts new growth and eventually is a bonafide, living thing.

This past year has been a moment of deep, profound personal growth and reflection. Read: it’s been hard, y’all. But here we are, at the start of the new year, my blank page ahead of me, and no matter how hard it has been, I recognize that familiar spark of hope. It’s time to bounce back, and move that needle again, even if it is just a nudge.

Renting Bikes in Amsterdam

“I think it’s just up here.” Brie was leading us to the bike rental shop, eyes steady on her phone as the little dot on Google Maps brought us to our destination. It was our second day in Amsterdam, and, jetlagged, we found ourselves out the door so early our voices echoed off the buildings.

We lifted our gaze to find the address and realized we were no longer alone. The man in our path was close to seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and a mop of wild curls pointing in every direction. And he appeared to be…dancing. He spun around in tight circles, eyes closed, smile on his face, jumping high and clapping his hands to a beat only he could hear.

Brie and I shared a glance. Years of city living conditions you for how to respond in moments like this: trying to remain neutral when a naked man boards the train, crossing the street when a woman screaming at herself starts moving your way. We slowed our pace, assessing the situation: Was he coming home from an all-night bender on cocaine? Was this a psychotic episode? A whirling dervish? Our new friend did a quick spin through an open door. That’s when we saw it: “Bike Rental”

We had arrived.

He danced back out of the shop and onto the street. We approached slowly, steeling ourselves.

“I have a reservation?” Brie held out her phone, showing him the screen.

“YES!” He screamed at us in a thick Greek accent. “WONDERFUL!”

He danced around us in a circle. “MY NAME IS NICO!” He shouted. “NICO IS A GREEK NAME! I AM GREEK!” His voice lowered conspiratorially as he leaned down towards us. “This is the name that is born from Nicholas, which means ‘victory of the people’. What are your names?” We answered obediently. A cloud of confusion passed over his face when Brie introduced herself.

“Like the cheese.” She offered.

The cloud cleared and his smile was back. He clapped his hands together and did a spin, laughing loudly. “BRIE!” He screamed. “BRIE! LIKE THE CHEESE!”

We got down to the business of choosing our large, slow bikes, all of which were tattered and in questionable repair. He continued to dance around us, arms akimbo. “Okay! Now! You give me your license in exchange for the bike.” Handing over an important document to any stranger draws a beat of trepidation, but this had me wondering what the Dutch black market looked like for American Driver’s Licenses.

Then I felt something shift. Instead of feeling nervous, I found myself feeling… charmed. Nico was full of verve and delight, dancing his way through life, radiating joy. I thought about my own guardedness and felt something soften. Why was I not dancing through life? When had I become so tough?

As we pedaled away from Nico and our important documents, I promised myself to let down my guard a little more, and to let joy in.

Just like Nico.

Cycling Through Amsterdam

I have found there are many archetypes of cyclist here in Amsterdam, where the only way to get around seems to be by bike. It is the Dutch way, the Amsterdammer way, and as a tourist whose main goal is to blend in and not be perceived as a tourist, has quickly became my way to explore this cobbled city.

Among these archetypes you have the young and chic: ladies cruising on their omafiets (translated: old lady bike), something that looks like a beach cruiser, only older and clunkier, often adorned with baskets and racks. While the bike may be a beater, the ladies are effortless in their style. Tights and skirts and hair in french twists, oversized sunglasses, and always, always Airpods poking out of their ears, the clear go-to accessory for any Amsterdammer.

Then there are the parents, an endless stream of attractive thirty-somethings, a baby seat in front, an older child seat behind, or for the more boujie of this set, what looks like a Santa sleigh on the front carting children, dogs, and in one case, a small elderly woman donning sunglasses. These bikes are apparently the SUV of Amsterdam, and in true hipster mom vs soccer mom fashion, there is some debate about what kind of person might ride one of these.

We also have the elderly riding sleek, modern bikes in hip matte colors, some complete with built in alarms, which did surprise me as I accidentally bumped into one while unlocking my bike one day. The alarm, in true Dutch fashion, was less a wailing warning to back off, and more of a gentle “ahem” as I clumsily fiddled with my lock.

While the archetypes vary, I have found they all have one thing in common:

They are all faster than me.

Not that riding around Amsterdam is about speed. Still I can’t help but feel that I am getting in the way during the evening commute as I clumsily try to steer my bike, point my finger in the direction I’m headed, and try to merge with 20 speedy Amsterdammers into one slim bike lane. I pedal my legs faster and still within seconds “ding ding” rings behind me and I am being passed, far too close for my own comfort but business as usual for the locals.

My daily inner dialogue is some iteration of the following: “oh no, you’re tire is so close, please do not hit me, ohhhh, keep it steady, one jerk to the left and I take us all down. Oh, please do not fall, I repeat, do not fall. Oh no, I need to turn left, how do I do that when three other roads feed in to this intersection? And there is a train to contend with? Who has the right of way? What do I doooooo???”

Luckily, I have found power in mass: when in doubt, follow an Amsterdammer through the intersection and hope for the best. I can only imagine their inner dialogue as I tail them in as if in a hot pursuit police chase, “I have to lose this girl, why has she been following me for twenty blocks?” Still, it’s worked to keep me alive so far: I have managed without being hit by a car, train, or other bike.

In the few moments when I have found myself riding the wrong direction (which is apparently okay on city streets, but not okay on the bike paths), I have managed to worm my way out of the situation without any grave injury.

And when I have been scolded by another cyclist for any indiscretion, it has been done so in Dutch. I’m just going to call that a win.

xo HZ