Divine Play -- Portland, Oregon

The Elemental Immersion in Bratislava was hard on me. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Those intensive thirty hours left me feeling like a first rate failure -- a terrible partner, an increasingly dependent vagabond and an inept yoga practitioner.

The timing was hard. I'd just finished hitchhiking through the Balkans and was worn the f*ck out. The dear, dear friend with whom I was planning on walking the Camino de Santiago had just broken his back and everything that had once seemed so certain in my life let down its seductive charade of stability. 

Yoga was the thing left to me.  Yoga was the foundation of my sense of self. Yoga was what I was good at. 

So I went into the immersion needing to be confirmed in this identity. 

"I'm Aimee and  good at yoga." 

This is not what happened. Aimee went to the immersion and learned where she was and had a difficult time not comparing herself to where others were. 

And had an even more difficult time not feeling like absolute shit about the glaring disparity (one that was not in her favor). 

I haven't had the opportunity to practice as much as I would like... but this is just one of the sacrifices I make as a vagabond. I can attend trainings every now and again (if I have the money), but I don't have time to build communities with whom to play. I don't have a consistent partner. No one with whom to grow. God, I hate feeling so stagnant... no, even stagnant would be better than this. I hate learning something I love and then feeling that skill slowly atrophy every day.

So it was with more than a little trepidation that I packed the boot and backseat of my mom's Toyota with the suitcases of my little sisters and enough trail mix to feed an entire children's camp for a summer (we finished it in approximately four days). 

Will this be any better than last time? How can I make it better? What is in my power? What is outside of my power?

At this point... I can't change my level of fitness. I can't change my level of health. I have what I have and I am what I am. I can choose to accept and explore or judge and resist. 

So. It's in my power to not judge myself. To not resist. 

Blurgh. 

I hate it when the only thing in my power is the intangible, philosophical jargony nonsense. I want something I can hold. 

Blurgh.  

I need to be okay with not holding on to anything. Not holding on to friends. Family. Not holding on to shame. Pride. Loose hands, Bourget. You need to go to this festival with loose hands. Flexi fingers.  

My dear mother had said we'd head out around eight am, so we were on the road at nine thirty. Something I've learned from spending a good deal of time in such different countries is that just about every country has its own unique way of processing time. If a Dutch lady says she'll meet you at five pm, she'll be there at four fifty-nine. If an English lady says she'll meet you at five pm, she'll ring the doorbell five to fifteen past. If an Irish lady says she'll meet you at five pm, she'll waltz through the door at quarter to six and remark, "What's everyone doin' here already, then? I thought the party started at five!"

My dear mother is 100% German in blood but 100% Irish in the way she understands time. But as long as we're on the same page, it's never an issue. I understand that eight o'clock means nine thirty, so I don't heave my things into the car until about nine fifteen and I keep an easy-read book on hand at all times (easy-read book currently being Christopher Moore's Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal). 

I just got to Colorado. And I'm already off on another adventure. Winning. This is me not being stuck. I like me not being stuck. 

The first day passed quickly. Jaime, Anna and I belted out Veggie Tales for the majority of the eight and a half hour drive to Boise, Idaho and my dear mother stalwartly carried on in the driver's seat, taking shots of B12 and Yerba Matte whenever our singing wasn't loud/obnoxious enough to keep her fully awake. The girls in the car were surprised by all the lyrics I remembered, but I pointed out (pointedly) that in our childhood, we were only allowed to turn on the TV while we were folding laundry. 

Guess who folded the most laundry? 

This guy. Jaime and Anna were too busy wetting their beds and making more laundry for me to fold. 

My knowledge of Veggie Tales is vast. 

Here's a taste of my childhood: I LOVE MY LIPS

Do you understand me much better now? You should. 

Jaime slept.

 

Anna tuned out to her iPod (she preferred Alicia Keys to my rendition of the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything). 

I read about how Joshua (Jesus), Biff and Mary Magdalene tried to circumcise a Greek statue because idols were against Jewish law and no one wanted to see his uncircumcised man parts (although Mary's interest seemed rather piqued). 

Mom listened to Christian radio. 

There were the times Jaime, Anna or Mom had to use a rest stop (and I thanked my lucky hippie bandana that we weren't in Europe anymore. We'd have spent an absolute fortune on toilets). 

There was a great deal of leg stretching and hippie hopping  at the various pee-stops.

 Not to mention some manner of strange, interpretive dance.

We arrived in Boise early evening and made ourselves at home in our Best Western Hotel. 

"Okay, who's sleeping with who?" I asked when I saw our room's two queen-sized beds. 

"Well, Jaime dances in her sleep," my mom pointed out. 

"Anna!" I spun towards my youngest sister. "Wanna share a bed with me?" 

"Sure," she giggled. "Mom snores anyway." 

First Bourget girls only road trip. I have good feelings.

SEESters

There was a gorgeous sushi dinner. Then there was a raucous pillow fight with Anna on our queen-sized bed (I used my surpassing weight and height to push her onto the floor. Several times). Mom and Jaime attempted sleep on the bed two feet to our left, but were somehow unable to drift off. 

We breakfasted at a church that had been remodeled into a cafe. 

What kind of world would it be if ALL churches were remodeled into hospitals and schools and cafes? I want to live in that world. 

I was still stuffed to bursting from the night before, so I just ordered a pumpkin spice chai latte -- but my sisters went all out with breakfast burritos, omelets and crepes that would make a French crepe maker's crepe making identity shrivel and die the way the Bratislava Elemental Immersion annihilated my yoga identity. 

There's nothing wrong with a little identity annihilation every now and then. It just hurts. Like hell. 

 

Thursday's six hour drive seemed infinitely longer than Wednesday's eight hour drive. My theory is that we were all bored stiff because I'd finally exhausted my extensive repertoire of Silly Songs with Larry (the part of the show where Larry comes out and sings a silly song).

Hence, getting to Vancouver, Washington took positively forever. 

At least I have Biff. 

We met my Aunt Julie at half six at a pizza place near the home she shares with her daughter, her son-in-law, her grandson and a dancer named Anthony. 

I LIKE this lady, I thought to myself as a gave my vivacious auntie a hug. I've only met her like, twice... but I LIKE her. Serious liking happening. Yes.

I especially appreciate that she laughs so easily. And that when she laughs with my mom, snorting and knee-slapping follow laughter more often than not. 

mmm... people who know how to laugh properly are almost as great as people who close their eyes when they eat cheese.

I slept fitfully that night.

What is in my power? What is not in my power? 

Loose hands, Bourget. Flexi fingers. 

Julie and my mother dropped me off in Portland the next day. My bag was full of trail mix and water and a camera that I hardly used at all.

My hands hung at my sides.

LOOSE. 

As with the last two events I'd attended (in London and Bratislava), many of the attendees had arrived with buddies.

Being alone at these events is never ideal... especially since I feel like such a burden as a partner. But this is just something I'm going to have to learn to handle. I'm a solo yogini. Who loves partner yoga. I'll reconcile that conundrum one of these days. 

We spent Friday learning transitions. Jumping in and out of Star. Kicking in and out of Cartwheel. Lowering in and out of Unsupported Shoulderstand.

My partners were amazing. They were encouraging and supportive. Like Jessica, they helped me to remember the fun in acro yoga. The playfulness. The joy.

THIS IS WHY I DO THIS! 

I returned to Julie's home that night, bruised, aching and ecstatically happy.

My sisters, mom and aunt didn't seem too worse for wear either.

While I'd been eating trail mix and flopping around upside down, they'd been moseying around Portland, eating street food, visiting bookstores and drinking tea.

And balancing on poles in water. Apparently.

My second day of training was even better. I learned to pop in and out of poses, some new Thai massage techniques and acro yoga flows that made my head spin (along with other parts of me).

By the time I crawled into bed, I could hardly move. My body was speckled with bruises and my upper body was stiff and throbbing.

So... good... I thought as I passed out like a pineapple.

too many pops

The third day was more challenging for me. Each workshop I'd chosen seemed to focus on one particular washing machine (this is a term for an acrobatic maneuver that begins and ends in the same place. With a middle that is usually moderately interesting). The washing machines didn't come easily to me at all, and I found myself losing my courage and tightening my hands, strangling that "MUST BE A GOOD YOGI!" identity to death between my desperate fingers.

Loose hands. And breathe. I hear that's good for you.

All in all, this festival was encouraging, informative and liberating. I didn't make as many friends as I would have liked (acrobats and fellow yoga teachers intimidate the hell out of me), but I was able to connect with a few lovely, loving human beings who helped make my time immensely rewarding.

And I got to hear my mom snort laughing with Julie.