Krista Nymark VandenBrink

Dandasana

My friend VernieHos has diagnosed it as Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It being my need to rearrange the dishwasher so that the glasses are in the right spot. It being the need to re-fold the towels in the linen closed because they’re not all folded the same, correct way. It being the need for things to be perfect. 

I suppose I can’t disagree with her, it’s just that I’d rather be labeled a perfectionist instead of obsessive compulsive. It’s about semantics. I don’t want to be one of those people on A&E  that can’t get out of bed in the morning because the buttons on their shirt don’t add up to 27. I don’t want to be grouped with the people who must circle their car 16 times and sing God Save the Queen before backing out of the driveway. After some serious, obsessive reflection I’ve come up with the following:  Am I a perfectionist? Yes – I fear failure, and I fear judgement, and due to these irrational fears, things in my life need to be perfect…according to my definition of perfection of course. Do I have OCD tendencies? *Sigh* yes. But the most painful question and subsequent answer?

Do my drives for perfection and my Obsessive Compulsive Tendancies pale in comparison to the giant stick rammed up my ass?

Yes.

*Double Sigh*

The stick, I fear, is the biggest problem. It makes me appear rigid and stiff, as you can imagine a stick up the ass would. I don’t want to be perceived this way, unless of course I’m in dandasana (staff posture) in which we’re supposed to look rod straight. The obsessed Krista would want to ask, “how on earth was this stick inserted without me knowing?”  “Let’s psychoanalyze this stick and try to understand all of the rings in its cross section, just like we would a tree trunk.” The perfectionist Krista would find the perfect approach to dealing with the stick – the least invasive, painless, most strategic way of carrying on without interrupting work flow or productivity. BUT… this blog is about new ways of doing things, adventures, discovery and solutions. With that in mind, I will make myself uncomfortable, blow past those questions and ask myself this, instead:

“How the hell am I going to remove this stick without tearing out my insides and subsequently wallowing in the pain of its removal?”

Do you see the difference? I’m not analyzing the history of the stick. I’m not finding out a way to carry on with the stick, I’m trying to find a way to remove the stick and still be ok.

What will it be like to not live my so upr(t)ight and straight? This stick removal will certainly send my insides: my mind, my heart, my breathing, my digestive system, into a tail spin. Removing the stick means doing things outside of my comfort zone. It’s like venturing into the Bermuda Triangle, I don’t know that I’ll come out alive. The stick will be tugged on causing nausea, panic, short, shallow breathing and pain. Physical and emotional pain. The stick has been holding me up, keeping things in their rightful place for so long, what’s going to happen once I remove it? I have mental images of my physical body collapsing like the sick figure in those Robaxacet commercials, melting into a warm puddle of goo, never to stand upright and be in control again.

*GASP*

Note to self – must address my flair for the dramatic in a future blog post.

In my last blog entry I diagnosed the stick by calling it perfection and suggested baby steps to let go. It pains and embarrasses me to report that I failed miserably in the toilet paper challenge. That poor role didn’t stand a chance at seeing the bathroom from a different perspective. So now I figure I have to go big, or go home. You see, whenever I’ve tried to change things up, in keeping with my flair for the dramatic, I’ve done bizarre and wacky things that impact my entire life. This is how I’ve tried to dislodge the stick in the past. Two examples: Go back to university and bring my post secondary education up to seven years and increase my student debt exponentionally. Uh huh. Leave loving husband and dog to go to India and study yoga, meditation, chanting and pranayama, become a vegetarian and vow to be in silence  for 4 – 8 hours every day for five weeks. Got the t-shirt. When I look back, these two examples just scratch the surface of the of the wacky decisions I’ve made in the past. Wacky as they were, I can say with 100% confidence that while the time leading up to these experiences was wretched, painful, full of anxiety and second guessing, the experiences themselves were life changing.

I see some more life changing decisions on the horizon. I don’t quite know what they are or what they’ll look like at this point, but this stick is making me itchy. Itchy for big change again. Itchy for some colour in what has become a neutral life palate of late – the colour of an old stick, you might say. And so I’m done with baby steps. My first medium to large anxiety inducing step will be to tamper with the perfect, acceptable, rigid show home look of my house. My husband and I are not the “Jones”. We need to stop living like them. My maiden name is Nymark. It’s weird. It’s unusual. It’s kinda unique. I like to think that it’s a reflection of my true self. So in the spirit of weird, unusual and unique, and in consultation with my husband, I’ve decided on red and orange. For the walls in the house. It’s a little odd but it’s also sunny, happy and bright. It’s reminds me of India, and what a wacky risk and decision that was. I’m hoping that all of the happiness and memories in the orange and red walls will surround me, literally and figuratively, and outweigh the feeling of the brick that is now sitting in the pit of my stomach. The brick that makes itself known the instant I begin thinking about the first orange swipe across my latte coloured walls. From classic elegance to mix-and-match spice rack. This causes me a great deal of anxiety.

That stick is really lodged in there, it’s gonna disrupt some things on the way out. And so I’m going to go with colour - adding some colour to my house to act as a metaphor for my life. Adding some orange and red to an otherwise neutral palate, making my insides uncomfortable in the process and eventually forcing the stick from my ass, freeing up some space for me to move and appreciate the wacky colours in life.

It occurred to me the other day that I haven’t actually written about teaching yoga. I’ve looked back at the posts I’ve published since coming back from India and none of them have talked specifically about yoga. My practise, my teaching experiences, my hopes and dreams for the future – nothing. 

And so I’m taking this time to write about yoga. Teaching, in particular. When I came home, I was terrified to actually get in there and do it. I mean, these people are trusting me with not only their physical safety, but also their mental well-being. A yoga class, when it’s appraoched holistically, is more than about rocking a bakasana in the hopes of having arms like Madonna (and let’s be honest, looking like Madonna isn’t a bad thing, well, aside from the scary botox and veins, but that’s another blog entirely).

Yoga is more than being able to hold a posture with great alignment, or being the best in the class, it’s about taking the time to be with yourself. Dedicating 60 or 90 minutes to be acutely aware of your body and everything it does for you. Settling into simply ‘being’ and gaining an appreciation and understanding of yourself and how you fit into the world around you.  A yoga practise is about recognizing and accepting your limitations and being in the moment. It’s about taking the time to be at peace with yourself, plain and simple. And if we really want to get into it, yoga is actually far more than just asana. That’s only a small piece of it. Yoga is a lifestyle. But, like Madonna’s scary face and bionic looking circulatory system, that too is another blog post for another day.

And so knowing that this is what yoga should be, I felt like I needed to provide my first group of students with 90 minutes of asana induced self realizations and epiphanies. Anal planning freak? Check. Perfectionist? Yes. Over-achiever? Abso-freakin’-loutely. Are any of the above qualities yogic in nature? Not an effin’ chance. The problem was, this didn’t actually hit me until I was sitting there, in full lotus, in front of my first group of  students. It wasn’t until that moment that it hit me, “this ain’t gonna be perfect because yoga, by its very nature, doesn’t recognize “perfect.” It’s not in the “yogic vocabulary.” Shit!  Shit, shit, shit, SHIT! I don’t know any other way – I strive for perfection. It’s how I operate. I have two speeds, sleep and perfection. Whether it be the hospital corners I fold and tuck neatly around my bed, the business plans and Council presentations I develop at work, or Christmas tree I put up each year – everything is done with precision. Methodical, well-planned, I’s dotted, T’s crossed, ironed, colour co-ordinated, spell-checked and quadruple checked, nothing leaves my hands unless it’s perfect, or damn-well-close-to- it (and damn-well-close-to-it, doesn’t even really count because it pains me to find out that it wasn’t perfect in the first place).

So there I was, in front of a bunch of yogis, feeling a panic attack creep up my legs and begin to constrict my airway. I’ve never just gone with the flow, walked on sunshine. I didn’t even know how to begin the class all of a sudden. What to say. How to welcome people. And then it happened; a feeling like I was becoming possessed by some kind of yoga spirit, only my head wasn’t spinning and I wasn’t spewing projectile vomit. In fact,  it was more like some gentle being found its way into my body and began to carefully slap colour into my face and speak calming, zen, encouraging words. What? These weren’t my words. I don’t tell people to be gentle with themselves. I expect people to push, and push hard, because that’s what I expect of myself. But there I was, speaking words so unfamiliar to me that I actually paused at one point to make sure I wasn’t having some sort of random hallucination. Nope. That was my voice. And what’s even more strange, I was internalizing and believing everything I said. What tha fa…?

The rest of my class flowed naturally. It was like some weird, out of body experience. I didn’t have to think about what I was going to say next, how I was going to demonstrate or or guide people into postures, or when to cue them to breathe or have confidence in themselves… it all just sort of happened. At the end of my class, when my students began to come out, one-by-one, many of them thanked me. Thanked ME. Some of them expressed how they felt relaxed and “blissed out” or that they wished they could stay longer in the silence of savasana. I felt like I had accomplished so much in that class. Not just the teaching part, but the silence – the most important to me. People experienced more than just the asana, some expressed that they experienced something bigger by awknowledging that it was more than just a work out. It was the inner silence they felt that allowed them to let go and just be.

I went to India expecting to come back as a yoga teacher, and I did, but what I didn’t expect was to come back and have my life turned a little upside down. I feel as though India has turned me into some kind of new-age, hippie-like philosopher; always looking for a deeper meaning in things, always trying to piece together and understand my life from a “yogic” point of view, the way the “universe” has it laid out for me. That first class, and all the classes that have followed, have been examples of the different perspective that crept up on me in Dharamshala. It crept up so slowly and silently, I didn’t even know it was there. I’m still a perfectionist, but I’ve started to understand that there are some areas in which perfection isn’t needed; in fact, it ruins what really matters about the situation. Now the task is to implement this new realization in other areas of my life… maybe I should just start to breathe through the travesty of a juice glass being put on the bottom rack of the dishwasher when it clearly should have been put on the top. Actually, maybe I need to start with baby steps, that juice glass is just far too expensive to not be in it’s proper dishwasher position. Hmmmm, toilet paper over the roll, not under. Yes, that’s a good place to start.

Deep breath.

I have been inspired by my dear friend, Big L, to write a short piece about doing something you believe in, no matter the risk, no matter the fear. Big L has balls bigger than my head. Big L was a corporate superstar on the fast-track to a corner office. One day, Big L woke up and decided to not go back to work. Yup, she just quit. Just like that. As she so eloquently put it in the blog she shares with another superstar, and friend Wee C, “It gave me the freedom I was craving and let me challenge my role, which helps quench my thirst for more, at least a little. It lets me say Fuck You to people who believe that you have to lose yourself and have little or no fun in order to succeed.”
 
While this post is not about ME quitting my job, or Big L for that matter, it IS about craving freedom, following that little voice inside of you to see where it takes you. I, like so many other people I know, am paralyzed by fear. Fear of what other people will think of the decisions I make…or don’t make, fear that I will let someone, anyone, down. I’m afraid of not having a consistent paycheque, not being able to have the things I want, or do the things I want to do. Fear, fear, fear.
 
I’m not sure when I became so afraid of, well, everything! Last year I had a lengthy discussion with my Life Coach about this new fear development. You see, if I had been paralyzed by fear my entire life, it’d be one thing. But, at one point in my life, I was fearLESS. Packing up and going to Europe for a few weeks – no problem. Deciding to move to Korea one day and making the 15 hour flight solo, just three weeks later – not a second thought. Going back to school, bringing my university total up to almost eight years, borrowing MORE money and being labeled a professional student? So what. But now? Now buying a pair a new shoes causes me anxiety. And India – while I had the support of my family, friends, work colleagues, husband and seemingly the universe, it still took me several hundreds of dollars in life coaching bills to get over the guilt and fear that was sneaking up on me and causing me to second guess the trip. And for the love of God, I’m still not over the guilt part of it. Why am I being spanked with fear now? I’ve been living without it for the better part of 30 years. Why now?
 
Making solid choices, for my own good, is becoming more and more difficult because I’m afraid of something. Most of the fear stems from my obsession with financial security – but let’s be clear, I have my own definition of what financial security looks like for me. Oh. And then there’s the judgment. What will people think of me? What will they say?
 
Some days I feel like I’m a fraud. I operate very, very well in a world of suits. My suit and shoes stick out. People have plans for me and my fabulous stilettos. I’m smart. Actually, I’m really smart. I’m called upon for advice, planning and strategizing, not just in my own area, but in other parts of the organization. I’ve been Vice President of Boards, I’ve worked as a consultant to outside organizations. I do well. The problem is, some days, even in the fanciest, well tailored, put together suit and grey, sassy lace-up heels, I feel like I’m wearing flats. Boring, scuffed, faded flats with holes in the soles. The shoes, are the most important part of any outfit, they pull it all together. They are the foundation, literally and figuratively. But mine, while they look like they’re doing their job and pulling everything together, they feel frumpy, tired and old. Their soles are wearing thin, and getting a new pair, changing the style, absolutely terrifies me.
 
And so, Big L, I thank you for taking that giant and crazy leap and for not letting fear take over. You are an inspiration – I will continue to use you and your fearlessness to inspire my own choices…and shoe selection.
 
*You can visit Big L and Wee C’s blog at http://comfortablyuncomfortable.wordpress.com/
 
**The Big L entry that inspired this one, was posted on July 10, 2010 and is titled #3 of 30: The one in which I have the balls to quit my job.

I complain. I complain a lot, actually. Money, housework, my husband’s aversion to putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher, work, crazy people… 

I’ve become more aware of this whining since being in India – and really? As compared to some of the people and situations that became a part of my every day life in those four weeks? What do I REALLY have to complain about? I’ve started thinking about the things I like; the things I love, even. I thought I should start to write these things down so I don’t forget about them and become overwhelmed and influenced by the killer waves of stupidity that try to drown me everyday. The list excludes the obvious – things like my family, my husband, my wonderfully kind, funny, crazy, judgmental friends (the adjectives depend on the friend and the day but for the most part all of them can be painted with the same kind, funny and crazy brush), freedom, the right to vote blah, blah, blah. Anyway, they’re all givens. These type of things deserve a list all their own – the ultimate list of all lists. So that said, below is my stab at The Love List: A look at the top ten. 

*Ahem* 

The Ocean
I’m a Cancer. I was born and raised on the east coast. I grew up on boats, on beaches, skipping rocks, listening to the waves and smelling the salt water. The ocean is a part of who I am. It can be calm and peaceful, or angry, dangerous and loud…kinda like me. Only I’m not really dangerous…not in the traditional sense, anyway.

Louis
My dog. My best friend. My 90 pound fluffy, goofy, snuggle slut. Louis makes me smile big. Like, really big.

Writing
If I could write for a living, as in write the way I want to write for a living, I would giggle all day. For some reason, I have this idea that my life is so interesting other people will want to read about it – hence the blog. This, of course, is hugely egotistical and narcissistic. I’m ok with that, because even if no one reads, writing, for me, is cathartic. And it makes me feel smarter and wittier than the average thirty-something.

Sunshine
I’m a different person when the sun is shining. When the sun is out, regardless of the temperature, I want to turn up the music and be unstoppable.

Fashion
Superficial? Yes. Art? Yes. I am addicted to fashion. I get butterflies and start to fidget when I hear the Fashion Television theme song. The mention of Rodatre or Stella McCartney makes me dance.

Wine
Is an explanation really needed?

Yoga
Teaching, doing, talking about… doesn’t matter. Jumpy claps* are present when anything yoga is present. Love. Love. Love.

Shoes
Any bad day can become a good day with the right pair of shoes.

Laineygossip.com
So I’m a yogi that lives for celebrity gossip and Lainey Lui’s clever, bitchy commentary on crazy Carrie Underwood and Steeze. Don’t judge me.

Cheese
Mmmmmmmm cheese. Even better with wine, by the ocean, in a fantastic pair of shoes and a floral dress from Stella M’s most recent resort collection.

Stella McCartney's floral numbers - Any one will do.

* The term jumpy claps has been stolen from Laineygossip.com. I love jumpy claps, too. The act of jumpy clapping was a close eleventh on the list.

So this is my Love List. I have been so consumed by stupid and grumpy since I’ve been back to reality, I thought it about time to slap myself and find my way back to happy. The Top Ten make me happy. I must do, indulge in, appreciate and / or visit all of these things more. Must actively show The Love List some love.

I’m home.

After leaving Belgium and getting to Toronto and then back to Calgary, I took a break from blogging. It’s not that I didn’t think about firing up the lap top, because I did, I just couldn’t bring myself to steal time away from my husband and my dog. I missed them so much, and I’m so grateful to be back with them; my little family. On the more practical, less sappy side of things, I’ve been having trouble keeping my eyes open. This jet lag is kicking my yogi ass. Getting home at midnight on Monday and going back to work on Wednesday? In hindsight, not the wisest decision I’ve made.

But it’s now been about a week. My bed has never felt so comfy, my showers have never felt so warm, nor have they been this long (I used to be in and out in five mins, now, I’m creeping toward the ten minute mark!). The glass of wine I’m sipping has never tasted this good. I’ve never appreciated drinking tap water, not hand sanitizing every ten minutes, and I’ve never realized, until now, how soft our toilet paper really is.

I’ve never felt so restless, frustrated and foggy.

I’ve had a life experience that I’ll never forget. An experience that has changed me forever. I’m experiencing what I think is reverse culture shock. I’m irritable, frustrated, and a bit angry from time to time. I have two SUVs, a home that is worth more than several of the homes on the street I grew up on back east. I’m sitting here sipping a glass of red wine, typing on a laptop with a full stomach. I’ve slid back into suburbia, a very pretentious, entitled little suburban life.

For the past month I lived in a 250 sq foot room. A room that had water some days and not others. A room where electricity was not dependable and where bugs made themselves at home. My neighbours up the stairs couldn’t say they had that much.

I’m angry with myself; angry for seamlessly slipping back in. I’m frustrated with those around me. People appear to only be concerned about their next project, or meeting, or pay cheques. They’re concerned about their own priorities, about their cars and where they are going to vacation next.

In India I met a man named Bagdro. We chatted on a couple of occasions, but we truly got to know each other over tea one day. Bagdro was a political prisoner in China. Persecuted, interrogated and tortured because of his faith, his culture and his beliefs. Bagdro is a Buddhist, Tibetan monk. After four years of torture that included starvation, severe beatings and electric shocks up to 40 times a day with an electric cattle prod, he was released from prison. At 87 lbs, he met with his family and risked his life by fleeing Tibet and walking 40 days through the Himalayas to freedom in Dharamshala. This man brought me to tears not only with his story of survival and perseverance, but also with his sparkling eyes, and smile. You see, Bagdro explained to me that he has forgiven the men who tortured him in prison, who beat him within an inch of his life.

Bagdro and I promoting his book

Bagdro sleeps through the night now, the nightmares have subsided, and each morning he prays for the Chinese guards who made his life hell on earth, the guards who made him pray for death. He prays for these men, their wives and their children because he knows in his heart of heart, they are good people and they deserved to be loved and taken care of as well – that it’s the only way we, as a society, and as individuals, will achieve peace.

Bagdro will stick with me forever. He has impacted me more than he will ever know. So much so, that I am finding it difficult to accept reality in the west; my own reality. We have so much, yet we want for so much more. We feel we deserve more. We feel we are entitled to more – because we work hard, or because “we’re good people,” or because we give back to others.

Bagdro was beaten within an inch of his life, every day or four years, to the point where he was often times unconscious, blood oozing from his eyes and ears. And we think we deserve more? What about Bagdro? Doesn’t he deserve to go back to his own country? To practise his faith? Speak his language and eat his food? Speak to his family?

Back in January, I wrote:

“But I want to go to India. To find something.  A really big something that I can’t yet define.”

Perhaps what I’m experiencing now, is a piece of that really big something. Perhaps I’ve found perspective. The problem is that perspective comes with a whole lot a challenges; one such challenge being that it’s not useful unless you put it to work.

How I go about using this perspective is yet to be determined. Right now the only way I seem to be able to apply it is to tell Bagdro’s story. To tell the story of the Tibetan refugees I’ve met, or just the stories of life, as it is, in Dharamashala.

When I asked Bagdro what I could do to make a difference in Tibet; to help the cause, he answered quietly,

“Tell my story because it’s not just my story, it’s the story of so many of us living here and in other countries.”

And so, Bagdro, I promised you I would tell your story, and this is the best way I know how. This is step one of what I hope will be many steps of story telling. Stories about forgiveness, peace, politics, perserverence, and perspective.

That’s right!

On May 7, 2010 I was presented with a certificate stating that I am qualified to teach traditional Ashtanga, Hatha, Meditation, Chanting and Pranayama. Qualified according to the Yoga Alliance the WORLD Yoga Council, The INTERNATIONAL Yoga Federation and the Yoga Confederation of India.

WHAT?!

Graduation day

Now that I’m home, I’m itching to get my teach on. I’m thankful and fortunate to be starting very soon! Beginning June 10 I will be teaching Ashtanga on Thursday evenings at YARD, one of the most established studios in town. I’m hoping to teach at another local studio as well. Details will follow.

Namaste

Where to begin…

How about somewhere between Dharamshala and Delhi? I’m typically a very comfortable flyer. I’ve been doing it since I was wee. It doesn’t fuss me, it’s like driving. That all changed yesterday. Yesterday I saw my life flash before my eyes when out WWII era plane started hopping in mid-air, swaying to one side and then the other, making odd noises. For the first time ever in a plane, I prayed. The good news, we landed witha giant thud and everything and everyone was safe and sound. I should have taken this death flight as a sign of things to come…

Melinda and I arrived in Delhi at around 2 p.m.; luggage in tow, happy to be alive and happy to be spending our 10 and 12 hour lay overs witheach other. Melinda is a fellow yogi. She’s from Germany but has been living in Zurich. We spent the last month together and now get to spend our final day in India together as well. We walk up to the armed military at the door (I’m talking, armed – machine guns strapped to their backs) and they decidedly announce that we can’t come in. We muct wait across the street until 3 hours before our flight.

Huh?

I’m not sure if this is as a result of the serious threat of terror attacks in Delhi this week, or if it’s just because we look like criminals. Regardless, even our charming smiles and sweet talking attempts did nothing to sway these men. This was not going to be pleasant.

We trucked across the way, with our 50 kilos of luggage in tow, to a “visitor centre” that seemed to be having A/C problems. Unfortunate considering that when we landed it was 46 degrees Celsius. We sat down, ordered some dosas and tried to make the best of it. And we did. We chatted, girl talk mostly, met some northern Californians who were pretty groovy, I gave Melinda a make-shift manicure, and after sitting there is sweltering heat with about 300 others, we decided to try our charm with the armed men, once more. This time, we were only wanting to get into the airport about five hours early… we crossed our fingers, and with a positive yogic attitude we marched across the street.

Success!

Well, a minor success… Melinda was able to check her bags with her airline, but I wasn’t. Her flight was earlier than mine; mine flight was still five hours away, and they wouldn’t check me in. At my urging, Melinda went through security without me; she needed to arrange transportation on the other end once she landed in Frankfurt.

I didn’t really find it odd when a very animated Indian man laid into one of the airline employees at the counter. Screaming is pretty commonplace in India – from what I gather, more so in Delhi than in Dharamshala, but I digress. The screaming and hollering went on for about five minutes (which I considered quite brazen considering there were men with machine guns everywhere), but when something similar to a riot broke out, I paid a little more attention.

Enter emotional breakdown *here*.

See, at yoga school, our instructors referred to the tearful hysterics that appeared from time-to-time, as “emotional break throughs.” Yoga is an emotional practise, it opens up chakras and nadis that may have been closed for years… it was a stressful month. It happened to all of us. But this? My tearful breakdown in the Delhi International Airport, surrounded my military men and ammunition? This was not a break through. This was a legitimate break DOWN. There had been ANOTHER volcanic eruption in Europe and none of us were going anywhere.

So here I was, coming up to my 12th hour in Delhi, after a month in India, so excited to go home and see my husband, and I’ve just been told that volcanic ash has shut down Brussels and parts of Spain. No estimated time of departure. They’re searching for seats with other airlines, but haven’t been successful.

After a about 16 hours in a dirty, scary airport ,surrounded by angry people and armed military we got clearance from Brussels to leave Delhi. Another two hours on the tarmac and a glass of wine later, we were in the air.

After about 8.5 hours we landed in Brussels with another giant thud. This time, I had no idea we were even close to the ground. I couldn’t actually see the tarmac until we hit it. The ash is THAT thick here. I had to take some photos out of the windows in the airport. There is dark soot on top of the exterior gates and you can’t see any more than about 50 or 100 meters in front of you.

So, here I am in Belgium. We were supposed to board a flight to Toronto about 3 hours ago, but clearly the ash is still causing issues. We’re supposed to board within the next 15 minutes so I’m crossing my fingers. The upside? It’s Belgium. Beer and chocolate. I’ve spent about 40 Euros on truffles, and another few on beer. I deserve it. I’ve been up for going on 36 hours. I’ve not bushed my teeth in that long. I’m covered in sticky dirt from the 46 degree heat and pollution in Delhi, and I’ve sworn off all of the bad stuff (including chocolate and booze) for the past 6 weeks.

I’m hearing a boarding call for Toronto!! Whoop whoop! Fingers crossed we raise from the ash and get the hell outta here. I can’t eat any more chocolate!

I forgot the USB cord for me camera, but Sandra from Germany came to the rescue. I thought I would upload a few photos to give you a glimpse into my life over the past month. This is a small sample from many, many photos…

First, my hometown, Mcleodganj, Dharamshala. This photo was taken on a 6:30 a.m. walk to a Monestary. The view was amazing and it overlooked our town.

Mcleodganj

My home base. The room is more than big enough with a bathroom (bonus: western toilet!), a shower head (albeit, across from the toilet in the middle of the bathroom), and a small kitchenette. My favourite part is my homework table outside. The balcony has a studding view of the mountains and is lined with potted plants. Quaint, non?

The humble abode

A meditative walk around the edge of a monastery close to our studio.

The Cora

A quick glimpse of the Dharamshala wildlife. Exhibit A, $#&^!@ monkey. Exhibit B, sacred cow roaming the street – they have the right of way.

%#%$ monkey

Sacred cow, crusin' the strip

When I’m not doing yoga, I’m eating. A lot. Here are some of my beloved yogis waiting for breakfast at a rooftop restaurant near our studio.

Brekkie!

And finally a few pics of asana. First, Saskatoon. Brinn is a Saskie with some killer flexibility. I cannot do this. I repeat, I cannot do this. Please don’t ask me to. Next, a demonstration of my limited range of flexibility. I know and accept my current limitations, doesn’t mean I can’t laugh at them. HA!

Saskatoon

Trying to increase the flexibility of the inflexible students

I’m going to see His Holiness, The Dalai Lama. IN PERSON. AT HIS TEMPLE. ON TUESDAY!

Insert jumpy claps *here.*

Today we were presented with an option for Tuesday morning’s meditation / pranayama class: do the regular class from 6:15 a.m. to 7:30 and finish the day on time at 6:30 p.m.. OR go see the Dalai Lama at his home temple, a 15 minute walk away, and have a longer day, i.e., not finish class until around 7:30 p.m..

Ummmmmmmmm? Really? Is there even a question?!?!

The His Holiness has been home, here, in Dharamshala for the past week or two. On Tuesday he will be hosting a public prayer session for the victims of the earthquake in China / Tibet. If there is no room in the temple we will wait outside and watch him on screens until he comes outside to address those of us not able to fit in the temple. As we discussed today – waiting outside is the yogic thing to do. As westerners, we should ensure that the Tibetans get into the temple first – he is their leader after all, and more often than not, many people walk many miles to see him when he hosts public teachings or prayers. If there is room, we’ll sit in the temple, but even if there’s not, simply to be in his presence will be a joy and a truly humbling experience. I can’t quite imagine it yet…

That’s all. A simple post about my Dalai Lama glow.

I have no idea what’s going on in the world. None. It’s been more than three weeks since I’ve seen a television – not a bad thing except I haven’t seen the news. I know there was a volcano in Iceland (thanks to a local shop keeper who was complaining about business being slow because all of the flights out of Europe have been cancelled), and I know about the earthquake in China / Tibet thanks to the candlelight vigil we stumbled upon a week and a half ago… aside from that I’m clueless. My world has become very small. My purpose for being here is to focus on myself – becoming a stronger better person, figuring out who I am and who I want to be through yoga. Oh, and of course becoming a yoga instructor. My world consists of the following:

5:40 a.m.  - alarm goes off

6:15 a.m. – meditation, pranayama class

7:30 a.m – tea and biscuits and writing (in silence. we all must stay in silence every day until 10 a.m.)

8 a.m. – Asana class number one (this is the one that usually kicks all of our asses into tomorrow)

10 a.m. – breakfast (this typically includes 700 stairs, round-trip, and some sort of protein enriched meal)

11:30 a.m. – one of the following: Ayurvedic medicine class, philosophy class or anatomy class

1:30 p.m. – lunch (depending on my energy level or my pre-planning this may or may not involve stairs)

3:00 p.m. – one of the following: Asana workshop, classroom management, Ayurvedic medicine, anatomy, music and movement therapy, kids yoga, pregnancy yoga…

4:30 p.m. – Asana #2 (this used to be an ass kicking class with Suzanne, but now that we’ve morphed into teachers, it’s now more focused on teaching practicums – that said we’re still the students, and we’re still getting a moderate ass kicking.)

6:30 p.m. – dinner (99% of the time, another 700 stairs)

8:45 p.m. – cold shower

8:52 p.m. – medicated ayurvedic oils, medicated herbal cream, moderate whining

9:00 p.m. – homework and assignments, review of asana contraindications, health benefits, modifications and adjustments

10:15 p.m. – bed.

And then it starts all over again. This is why I have no idea what’s going on in the world. Sometimes, when I can’t bare the stairs at lunch, I check my e-mail and snack on some well peeled fruit – this is what’s happening today.

I did, however, tell a small white lie.I came across a small television at a restaurant the other day. It was sitting behind the counter and I could see a little bit of what was playing, out of the corner of my eye. Something that I like to call an Indian Funny. The program that was on tv was an Indian Funny and it made my day…

Indian Idol.

Seriously. Everything from cheesy Bollywood acts, to Indian rap and folk. Best. Dinner. Of. My. Week!

Another Indian Funny: birthday cake. Or should I say, cakes.

Coralie turned 32 on Monday. After our first ass kicking in the morning, a couple of instructors came in singing a traditional Indian birthday while carrying four cakes. Four. the story goes like this… One of the instructors asked Sanjieve, an employee at the facility we’re in, if he would mind running up the stairs to the bakery for a birthday cake. FOR a birthday cake. He generously obliged and came back with FOUR birthday cakes.

Best. Indian. Story. Yet!  LOVE IT! When I get a bit frustrated in Dharamshala, whether it’s the slow service, non-chalaunt attitudes toward some things, the crazy driving, stray dogs allowed to sit on chairs at restaraunts, or store keepers changing their prices for toilet paper every day, I think about FOR a cake and FOUR cakes and it makes everything better. Shit, I’m cracking up right now. Things like this make up for the little day-to-day things that make me a tad crazy from time-to-time.

Today is one of those days when things are making me a little crazy and writing about FOR and FOUR has made me smile. Ahhhh India, I can’t wait to see my husband and my Lou-dawg, but I will miss you!