3lastnamesblog

The Montage Episode June 14, 2020

Filed under: friendship,Humor,Uncategorized,Women's Humor,Women's Issues,Yoga — 3lastnamesblog @ 4:00 pm
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I remember being given a key to the studio by Jacqui, Om Tara’s loved and respected founder. It felt like one of the single greatest achievements of my life. When I started there I had never taken a  single yoga class and now I’m one of the teachers— with my own key!

 

I use the key to enter the studio. Today I’m not there to teach a class or take a class. I’m there to say farewell.

 

The first thing I see is the sign-in book on the front desk. It is open to March 15, 2020. Of course it is empty because classes were cancelled that day. Everything was cancelled that day. We were hearing words like quarantine, isolation and social distancing but they were not yet part of our everyday vocabulary. Everyone was prepared for a rough few weeks but no one expected it to turn into months. Sadly, my beloved Om Tara was one of the pandemic’s many casualties.

 

I venture into the studio alone. I light some candles, burn some incense, and make myself a cup of my favorite tea that I only drink at the studio. (I’ll spare you the part about me trying to turn on the air conditioner, located up by the ceiling, without the remote control. Let’s just say it involved several props and was probably my finest yoga pose ever achieved at the studio.)

 

Finally, I roll out my mat, get myself into a comfortable seated position, close my eyes and I start to reminisce. If my life was a sitcom (lately more like a drama series) this is the montage episode.

 

My face blurs and ripples like I am going into a trance.The music starts to play (I envision “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong). Then the flashbacks begin. The class is moving in beautiful unison doing sun salutations. Next we’re listening intently to one of Jacqui’s Dharma talks. There we are at a magical Reiki healing circle and now at a beautiful candle lit Winter Solstice ceremony. I see us meditating with Lama Gursam. Next we’re chatting animatedly during a book club meeting. I smile as I recall dangling from the rope wall. I clearly see us sitting on the floor during teacher training surrounded by mounds of papers and books. I remember stringing malas and getting Henna at our graduation. I recall the laughter and the tears brought on from a stirring or recognition from within.

 

But most importantly, all of the above would mean NOTHING if it wasn’t for the beautiful souls of the Om Tara community. It’s the people, not the four walls that make a space sacred. I mean, if we maintained a connection on Zoom these past few months, then we can do it anywhere! Fortunately, Jacqui has the perfect space in her house for us to gather and her dream of teaching from her home will be fulfilled. We will bring our light and love with us.

 

Feeling content, I roll up my mat, blow out the candles, grab a bunch of my favorite tea to take home, then I remember I have to turn off that darn air conditioner! Ugh!

 

I am finally ready to leave, and like Mary Tyler Moore on her series finale, before I close the door behind me, I take one last look around. I am not sad. I am grateful for everything this space has given me over the past eight years. When one door closes, another door opens. Goodbye, Om Tara. I look forward to the spin-off.

 

Just The Tip May 3, 2019

Filed under: friendship,Humor,middle age,Women's Humor,Women's Issues,Yoga — 3lastnamesblog @ 10:36 pm
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My yoga teaching training graduation was just the day before and I was still basking in the afterglow. Looking down at my Henna adorned hand, I wished it could be there forever and never fade away. I was feeling good about myself and the hard work I put in these past eight months. It was well worth it. I didn’t just learn about yoga, I learned about myself— and today was the first official day of the new yogic me.

It was also my dear friend Karen’s birthday. I texted her to wish her a happy birthday, and almost immediately after I pressed “send,” she was calling me on the phone. “She must want to have dinner tonight,” I thought. But that wasn’t the case.

On the other end of the phone was Karen yelling, “I LOST MY FINGER, I LOST MY FINGER, MY FINGER IS GONE!!!!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My heart began to pound and my breathing became labored. She proceeded to tell me she’s on her way over to my house. “ARE YOU CRAZY,” I yelled, “I WILL COME PICK YOU UP!” But she explained to me that she’s already driving— she thought she could drive herself to the hospital, realized she couldn’t make it, and was only a block away from my house.

So much for the new yogic me, I was hysterical. So of course, just as I do whenever I’m hysterical, I called my boyfriend Demos. “KAREN LOST A FINGER, SHE’S ON HER WAY OVER, I MIGHT HAVE TO GO GET THE FINGER SO THEY CAN REATTACH IT, AND BY “I”, I MEAN YOU!! One thing about Demos, he was born to come to the rescue. He jumped in his truck and was on his way.

Karen arrived with her hand wrapped in a rag and blood dripping down her arm. I grabbed a towel, ran it under water and told her to wrap the finger tight and hold it up. I COULDN’T look at it; I can’t deal with blood and wounds. I made the decision to call an ambulance because I wasn’t sure how much blood Karen had lost, there’s a finger that needs to be retrieved, and I was shaking like a leaf. Karen was LITERALLY hopping around like Tigger, not knowing what to do with her nervous energy. She was crying over being a freak with a missing finger. You’d think perhaps the last eight months of studying yoga might kick in at this point and compel me to say something like “BREATHE”, or “RELAX”. But no, I told her I know lots of people with missing fingers.

In what seemed like an eternity for the ambulance to arrive, Karen explained to me how all this came to pass. There were bad storms the night before and her electricity must’ve gone out. She was leaving for work and her electric garage door wasn’t working. She opened it manually and pulled her car out. She then went back to close the door, but it was heavy with a lot of momentum and her fingers got caught between the panel openings. She managed to get all of them out…except for one.

Finally, I saw the emergency vehicles on my block. I ran out into the street and waved them down to my house. The first thing they noticed was the “blood” on my hand. “It’s Henna”, I explained.

The EMT had good news and bad news. The good news was, Karen lost “just the tip” of her finger, but unfortunately they don’t reattach the tip, there’s not enough blood flow. The bad news was, she still needed to go to the hospital. At this point, I was wondering what was taking Demos so long to get here. Just then he pulled up and explained that he got a speeding ticket!! Now, the irony of this is extraordinary because I am constantly telling Demos he drives too fast and the one time he actually has a good excuse to speed, he gets a ticket. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to getting the tiniest bit of satisfaction from that. What kind of yogi am I?

I called Karen’s sister to let her know what was going on, Karen got taken in the ambulance, and Demos and I brought Karen’s car home before heading to meet her at the hospital. When I pulled into her driveway, I saw the finger hanging out of the garage door. I can never un-see it. I had Demos take a picture of it. Why? Who knows?

I arrived at the hospital and told the nurse my friend was just brought in by ambulance. She told me I have blood on my hand. “It’s Henna,” I said. I found Karen and as we waited for her to be seen by a doctor, we started to brainstorm how she’s going to cover this up for her son’s wedding in December. We’re thinking there’s probably enough of the nail bed left to attach a long fake nail to cover the stump, or at the very least she can wear long satin gloves like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. If anyone can pull that off, it’s Karen. Believe it or not, this conversation brought us comfort.

To speed up the story– Karen’s sister and son arrived. Her sister told me I have blood on my hand, I told her it’s Henna. I left. They called in a plastic surgeon and she had a skin graft to cover the tip of her finger. They put the finger in a splint, her arm in a sling, bandaged her up, and sent her home. Her sister called me with an update and I promised to check in on her and make sure she eats…

The story’s not over.  I called Karen to say that I’m going to pick up dinner and bring it over to her. She proceeded to tell me that her finger somehow slipped out of the bandage and she couldn’t get it back in. She tried calling the doctor to no avail. I told her to keep it covered with something, ANYTHING, so it doesn’t get infected and I will be right over to take her to the walk-in emergency clinic. When I got to her house I accidentally caught a glimpse of the finger and had a mini freak-out. So much for Namaste and all that crap.

The first clinic we went to refused to see her because with the splint on the finger and the sling on the arm, it looked to them like more of an orthopedic type situation and the visit would be considered a follow-up, so they turned her away.  We decided to try one more walk-in place before heading over to the hospital ER. I said to Karen, “TELL THEM YOU HAD YOUR FUCKING FINGER CHOPPED OFF TODAY AND THE BANDAGE FELL OFF AND YOU NEED IT WRAPPED! STOP BEING SO FUCKING NICE!” They took her.

On the way home we stopped to pick up a couple of salads at a local pizza place. There was a nice man having a slice with his young son. He looked my way and pointed to my hand. I said, “It’s not blood, it’s Henna”. He said, “I know, my wife graduated with you yesterday!”

I dropped Karen off home knowing she was bandaged, fed, and not in too much pain. I felt oddly at peace. Then it hit me— Yoga Sutra 1.33! I’m summarizing here, but it says there are only four “keys” and four “locks” in the entire world. Use the correct key with the right lock and you will find peace. I showed compassion for the unhappy, one of the four key and lock combinations. Here I was thinking my yoga had failed me, when really it was what propelled me throughout my day. I went home with a renewed pride in my yoga journey. I looked down at my Henna and thought….” It really does look like blood”.

 

 

 

Om Sweet Om July 7, 2012

Filed under: Humor,middle age,Women's Humor,Women's Issues,Yoga — 3lastnamesblog @ 12:03 pm
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If you’ve been reading my blogs, you should be able to sense that I think… a lot…all day long…about every possible scenario… in every aspect of my life. I tend to “what if” the hours away, which can lead to a”bit” of anxiety (those who know me are laughing right now at the “bit”). Ok, I’m a little on the nervous side. But I’ve been that way my entire life. For instance, my daughter is now in Eastern Europe and Israel for the summer; I wouldn’t even go to day camp. At least I own up to it.

A little over a year ago, I was discussing the approaching summer vacation with my therapist.  She knows I become anxious over the summer because I have too much time to think. She suggested I take up yoga. Now why didn’t I think of that!? It’s meditative and I happen to be pretty flexible (which if you’ve been lucky enough to be with me at a party  that’s serving alcohol,  you’ve probably seen me attempt to put my leg around my neck.)

So I immediately began to investigate the best yoga studio. All arrows pointed me to Om Tara Yoga Studio in Massapequa. Next, I had to get a great yoga outfit. If I was going to make an ass out of myself, I at least wanted to be fashionable doing it. And let’s not forget I needed a fancy yoga mat with matching carrying case. Studio- check.  Outfit- check.  Mat- check. Now all I had to do was actually go.

I’ll always remember my first class.  I didn’t want anybody going with me. When I was there, I didn’t want to make new friends. I just wanted to remain anonymous. My instructor’s name was Barbara, a young sweet girl. There were lit candles and incense burning. It seemed quirky yet somehow soothing.  I had NO CLUE how to do the poses, but it was a supportive atmosphere. During a part called “savasana” you’re supposed to just lie there and not think, but of course I was making a grocery list.  At the end, everyone (except me) chanted “Om”, which up until then I thought was just a myth and quite frankly seemed silly.

Fast forward a year.

My goal of remaining anonymous failed tremendously. Within a few sessions I made a dear yoga buddy and it turned out my yoga instructor, Barbara, was not only Jewish, but she blogs! Now, I don’t “do” yoga, I “practice” Yoga. I call poses “asanas” and I know them by their Sanskrit names. I know the 7 chakras and the colors associated with them. I use ujjayi breath, yoga mudra, focus on my drishti and “om” louder than anyone in the room.  Plus, I have a killer collection of yoga pants.

But I still have a far from perfect practice. My shoulders need to relax during Virabhdrasana 2 (Warrior 2) , my hips are uneven during  Trikanasana (Triangle Pose)  and the owner of the studio has remarked that my pinky toe (yes, my pinky toe) is positioned incorrectly during  Dandasana  (Staff Pose).  Alas, I will never be going to the yoga Olympics.  However, if there’s a cute, straight guy in class, I can hold in my stomach continuously for an hour and half while stretching, extending, inverting, twisting, bending and balancing. How many young yoginis can say that?

I may still make a “To Do” list in my head during savasana, but I can say without hesitation that I am my happiest, calmest self when my yoga class is over…at least until I check my cell phone. Hey, temporary peace is better than no peace.  Namaste.