Exalted

This morning I woke up at 3:30 A.M.

To menstrual cramps and menstrual blood and cravings for toast and peanut butter.

James Altucher loves waking up before 4 A.M.  So today, I get to be a little bit like James Altucher, but with menstrual cramps.  I don't know if James Altucher likes toast.  

At 3 A.M., I was dreaming.  In my dream, I was sending a free copy of  my exceedingly helpful self-help book to Tim Miller.

In real life, I don't have Tim Miller's email address.



Tim Miller. In my dream, he desperately wanted a copy of my self-help book, I Let Go.
In real life, he probably doesn't need it.



In real life, there is water in my ear.  Especially the left one.

It could also be curly-haired conditioner.

Or some cerebral spinal fluid.  Must be time for some brand name Q-tips, purchased with the Boatman during our Drugstore Date.

These brandname Q-tips come in a package of 54, which 108 divided by 2, which is a very auspicious box to come from when you are a brand-name Q-tip.

The Brandname Q-tips really hit home with folks from Perth Ontario.   Perth, Ontario is the prettiest town in Ontario.  What's more, in 2008, we had four Olympians.  3 of them were born in 1984.  Since I was a gifted child, I got to be in their classes, even though I was born in 1985.  Oh look!  Here's Mike Brown:

Mike Brown. What I think in my head when I look at this photo:
What a babe.

A real champ.  I used to swim in the lane beside him.  Then I was his lifeguard.   Once I helped him with his English Essay.  Now Mike Brown has huge pipes.  Mike Brown is preparing for the Olympic Trials at the end of the month. Wish him luck.  Good luck, Mike Brown.

Mike Brown and all the other people from Perth Ontario know that you shouldn't stick Q-tips up your ears, not even brand name q-tips.  I used to know this but some conditioner or cerebral spinal fluid got stuck in my ears, especially the left one, and it has been so long since I lived in Perth, Ontario that I forgot.  So this morning I stuck some brand name q-tips up my ears.  Especially in the left one.  What I found there:  It wasn't conditioner.  I do not think that I will do that again.  Not with the brandname Q-tips.

There are 20 more days left of Lent.  Lent is 46 days this year.  Last year at this time, I started a post entitled "Lent."  It seems I didn't have that much to say about it.

Yesterday the doorbell rang and the Big Black Dog barked so loudly that the man with the pamphlet couldn't come in.  He slipped his pamphlet into my hand through the crack in the door.  On the pamphlet Jesus was standing on a cloud.  He had white hair and a crown.



Jesus says, "Where is my crown?"



The pamphlet said:  "Jesus is an exalted King.  But what does that mean to you?"  I don't know what it means to me.  Neither does the Boatman.  We can go find out at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah's witness on Holy Thursday after the Boatman washes my feet.  I am not allowed to talk about my toenail fungus ever again.

26 days ago, more or less, the Boatman and I were sitting on the couch.

 "What do you want to give up for Lent?" I asked

"What's Lent?"  asked the Boatman.  

Last year for Lent, I tried to give up an hour of my time to meditation.  I wanted to be Zen, like the Buddha.  And exalted, like Jesus.  I made it eight days.

This year, the Boatman resolved to give up eating all meat except for seafood.  Since I already never eat anything with a mother or a face, I decided I would try to give up 20 minutes of my time to meditate.   I thought that it would help me become Zen and Exalted.  As the Boatman and I observed, I became increasingly neurotic as the days and the 20 minute chunks of exalted time passed.  I worried about the gunk in my ear.  And all sorts of other things.  And I had terrible dreams that weren't about Tim Miller.

While I was meditating, the Boatman ate a lot of fish and chips.

fish and chips and peas.

Sometimes with green peas, sometimes without.  Last weekend, the Boatman and I flew to Montreal.  On the airplane we decided that while in Montreal, I would not meditate and the Boatman would eat chicken.  We had a wonderful visit.  I did not worry about the gunk in my ears at all.  Which was a good thing because I'd forgotten my brandname Q-tips.

When we got back to Halifax, our housesitter had clogged our kitchen sink with Honey Nut Cheerios, and our bathtub with Johnny Walker puke.  I cleaned up the Cheerios and have not started to meditate again.  I Let Go, like in my self-help book.  The Boatman let go too.

You too can let go, for $2.99.

Jesus is an exalted king.  But what does that mean to you?

Jesus might say:  Chicken is not the end of the world.  But watch out for the pepperoni and the French Fries.  

Dix frites ont 110 calories.  (Ten French Fries have 110 calories)  This sentence was on my grade six French Grammar class.  I have never forgotten it, and have cringed at the thought of French Fries ever since.

ONT stands for Ontario and it is also French for have, if you are more than one person, or more than one French Fry.

I was always very good at conjugation.  Mike Brown was in my class.

Seventeen Magazine.  I read it in grade six, when I was ten.  Recall that I was a gifted child and thus the youngest person in grade six.  Seventeen Magazine had a column called Ask Anything.  The question I never forgot was:  Why do I always get the runs when I'm on the rag?  I can't remember the answer, but I never forgot the question.  There are so many reasons to ask it.  Especially at this time of month. 

Runs on the rag.  My friend Fern calls it "Peanut Butter and Jam."  Gross.  I hope I sleep better tonight.  Tomorrow I will be Zen and Exalted.  Today is brown and bloody and very high in calories.  But my team spirit and conjugation are impeccable.  My memory is also rather impressive.

James Altucher says that you must always bleed in the first line.  Today, I don't have to try at all.  I have been bleeding since 3:30 A.M.  I bled in my first line, I am bleeding in my last.  I will bleed all day.

The End.

Peanut Butter and Jam, Vice Versa

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

The Earth Will Shake Us Off Like Fleas
Holy Thursday
Spiritual Beard, Secular Vagina

 

The Drugstore Date

For nearly a fortnight, I have been meaning to tell you all about the lovely and romantic Valentine's Day that I enjoyed with the Boatman.  We went on a date to the drugstore.  This happens to be an excellent way to keep your romance alive.  You can go to the drugstore with your loved one any day of the year.  If you do not have a loved one, the drugstore is the perfect place for you to find romance.

During your drugstore date, take your time through every aisle. That's what me and the Boatman did. Hand and hand, we perused the Hair Aisle, the Tooth Aisle, the Bad Digestion Aisle, the Stationary Aisle, the Family Planning Aisle.  The options for conversation were endless:  how to choose the perfect pair of tweezers, the perfect toothbrush, the perfect comb.    We shared intimate details with each other like the Boatman's struggles with dandruff and my struggles with toenail fungus.  Some people might say that these two afflictions are two sides of the same coin!  That's why the Boatman and I are so meant for each other.

In the greeting card aisle, we each read aloud a Heartfelt Valentine which we would not purchase.  This way we got to express our Heartfelt Feelings without spending too much money.  As the Boatman read me the Heartfelt Valentine, my heart beat fast and I blushed.  Poetry always does that to me.  So does the Boatman.

Me and the Boatman, at the peak of our romance.
We are at the airport, one of our other favourite date spots.

One of the most exciting features of the Drugstore Date is blood pressure machine.  Don't miss out.  Me and the Boatman indulged while we were waiting for the pharmacist to fill out  the Boatman's prescription for blue cold sore pills.  (For his oyster-shaped cold sore)  The suspense while we were waiting for the cuff to inflate was excruciating. My blood pressure was lower than the Boatman's, but my pulse was higher.  It must have been the heartfelt poetry.

If ever your romance wears out (which will never happen for me, but I try to think of others besides myself) , the blood pressure machine will always be there for you.  Most drugstores are open twenty-four hours a day.  What a gift.  While the cuff is inflating, you can smile at the cute white-coated pharmacist behind the counter.  He or she will be happy to answer your questions about kidney disease or thyroid inflammation.  This kind of discussion is always a real treat.

At our Drugstore Date, the Boatman and I got to wait in two line-ups.  One for the blue cold sore pills, and the regular lineup where we purchased one another's Special Gifts.  The Boatman's Special Gift to me was an emery board for my toenail fungus, a tube of toothpaste and paint-by-number eye shadow.  My Special Gift to the Boatman was an emery board even though he doesn't have toenail fungus, brandname Q-tips, and unscented aluminum-free biodegradable deodorant.   Standing in the lineup with the Boatman was just plain titillating.

Please note:  If you are going on a Drugstore Date by yourself, be sure to buy yourself a Special Gift. Choose something satisfying yet unregrettable.  Some trail mix, travel-sized vaseline, rechargeable batteries or a bottle of Perrier.  I myself am partial to brandname Q-tips, but only you can decide which Special Gift will do. 

Brandname Q-tips from Days Gone By

Some people think that when you fall in love, you become boring to hang out with.  That's totally bogus.  Me and my life are more interesting than ever.  The Drug Store Date is proof.

The End.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

The Kiss Test
Why I am like Jane Fonda
Mythological, Unconditional Love

The Day Yoga Almost Gave Me a Stroke

I had been practicing Mysore style with Darby for around two months.  During this time, I was dating the Vegan Life Coach.  The Vegan Life Coach was a devoted vegan and Ashtangi whose dharma was to become a finely tuned instrument of God’s love.  He liked to practice his dharma on me.  

While I was dating the Vegan Life Coach, I ate a great deal of salad.  I became very concerned with liberating my soul through the elimination of eggs and dairy products.  The Vegan Life Coach also recommended that I cut down on caffeine, since the stress induced by an elevated cortisol level had probably caused the large creases above my forehead.  He promised that an impeccable diet had the potential to counteract premature aging. I was twenty-one.   

Although I did my best to do what the Vegan Life Coach recommended, one day I got home to my apartment to find a large plate of cookies on the kitchen.  Although my roommate at the time absolutely wasn’t vegan, I was so tired of salad I could have eaten someone’s head.  Instead I ate three cookies. 

Soon after, I fell asleep.  Miserable chickens and groaning cows haunted my dreams.  When I awoke, I couldn’t get up.  My ceiling was spinning.  I couldn’t tell if my lights were on or off.  My neck was all tingly.  I couldn’t feel my right hand.  I felt thankful that I lived right across from the hospital, but I didn’t know how I would get there.

With my left hand, I called the Vegan Life Coach.  He wasn’t there.  He was probably taking his daily two-hour nap which was supposed to improve digestion and cure forehead wrinkles.  I left the vegan life coach a message.  I told him that Very Bad Karma had come.  I had eaten the cookies.  Now I had nerve damage.  Probably it was also from Backbends.  And shoulderstand.  And the cookies.  I was having a brain tumour.  A stroke.  Paralysis was just around the corner.  They would have to amputate.   

I hung up the phone and decided I absolutely needed to get to the hospital.  Somehow, I got myself out of bed.  Then I got back in.  This happened four or five times.  Each time I would make it a little closer to the door.

I was halfway to the door when my roommate came home.

“Those cookies weren’t vegan,” I told him.  “I am going to the hospital.” 

My roommate told me what was in the cookies. One of the ingredients rhymed with Garijuana.   Suddenly, feeling returned to my left arm. The Vegan Life Coach called.  I went to his place and he helped me cleanse my palate with salad.  The avocados were very tasty. 

 The End.

The Vegan Life Coach is a Yoga Teacher:

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

The Benefits of a Vegan Life Coach
Are you strong or are you skinny?
The Sperm Cleanse

More Changes from 2011 and an Ode to the Down-and-Out-Club

In Halifax I met an excellent podiatrist who is helping me cure my toenail fungus from far away and long ago.

The Boatman’s mother bought me a pair jeans.  Besides yoga gear, I haven’t worn pants for over two years.  In 2009, I had a Terrible Pants Day which I blamed on my Thighs and un-raw food and so all my pants were gone.  The Boatman’s mother was perplexed by my lack of jeans and she thought that as a northern hemisphere inhabitant, I should absolutely own some.  Because it is absolutely necessary to get along spectacularly with one’s boyfriend’s mother, I agreed.  Now I own black jeans in which or in whom I can sit cross-legged in public without fear of exposing my crotch. 

I had something un-astute to say about my lost Diva Cup.  Against many odds, I had the good sense to censor it almost entirely.  This might be a sign of change, or it might not.  Either way, as far as the Diva Cup is concerned, all is well.  In the world and close to my uterus. 

And finally, I am sad to report that the ladies of the Down-and-Out Club have dispersed across Canada and across the ocean.  The Down-and-Out-Club consists of me and two other beautiful women who used to practice  altogether at Mark and Joanne Darby’s Sattva Yoga Shala in Montreal.

Every morning after Mysore practice, the members of the Down-and-Out-Club would meet for coffee.  Sometimes they would discuss being Down and Out.  Sometimes they would discuss Kapotasana.

 



Not sure who the artist is here. Found it on the Daily cup of Yoga.  I love this picture although it doesn't look very much like me and Darby.  If there are copyright issues involved, please let me know.  Otherwise, (and regardless), thank you and kudos to the artist)



On January 1^st, 2011, at 10 AM, the Down-and-out-club broke into Sattva Yoga Shala and did 108 Sun Salutations.  They held Downward Dog for 3 breaths each time.  Sattva Yoga Shala is the        studio of the world renonwn Ashtanga Teachers Mark and Joanne Darby. Two members of the down-and-out-club had keys because they washed Mark Darby’s floors in exchange for free yoga memberships.  When the sun salutations were finished, it was past noon.  The Down-and-Out club went for coffee on Ste. Catherine’s street where Montréal was just starting to wake up.  Over coffee and some unnutritious delicacy, they watched the people bustle in the New Year’s energy of the bright afternoon.  Probably most of the time, they remembered that they were each one of them, mostly down-and-out.  But so far, on that year, they had Absolutely No Regrets.  It was a good feeling. 
 

I look forward to the day when the Down-and-Out-Club is even less down-and-out than they are now.  (You see, 2011 saw each one of them shed some significant layers of down-and-outness.  Perhaps this was thanks to Ashtanga Yoga.  Or perhaps it was thanks to coffee and un –nutritious delicacies).  In any case, one day the Down-and-Out-Club will reunite in its entirety.  I hope it is somewhere Warm and Exotic, but even a shitty coffee shop will do.  Sipping coffee, and picking at un-nutritious delicacies, they’ll talk about how they used to be Down-and-Out, and they’ll talk about Kapotasana.  They’ll  think about their Whole Lives and how, so far, they have Absolutely No Regrets.  And it will be such a good feeling. 

The End.

Drawing by Sara E. Enquist, D-A-O member and talented illustrator of my self-help book, I Let Go
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook 
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Toot My Own Horn
High School Reunion, Part One
Property of Facebook

 

 

Year-end Review: I Toot My Own Horn

Since it is the end of the year, I feel compelled to write an entirely astronomical post as a Final, Magnanimous, Culmination of 2011's victories and catastrophes.
 
For about five minutes, I was paralyzed at the beginning of the second sentence, but thanks to the generous inspiration from the Big Black Dog, I am able to resume.

Big Black Dog, Magnanimous Source of Inspiration

I would like to point out the both 2011 and 2010 concluded with Relatively Astronomical Cold Sores (RACS).  It is comforting to observe such consistencies as the years go by.

The Boatman with his Oyster-Sized Cold Sore acquired in the Future, February 2012. Thank you, the Boatman for magnanimously sharing your cold sore with the interwebs.

In other consistencies:

A) I am still practicing Ashtanga Yoga.  I am still looking for all three bandhas.  At the end of 2010, I was just getting back into second series since I had to drastically modify my practice in the summer due to a broken arm.  I have continued with second pretty consistently throughout the year, although there have been intermittent periods during which I've experimented with going back to Primary, since I have been working through an injury around my left SI joint and hip.  This injury has not yet completely dissipated; however, I have returned to intermediate. This proves to be un-disastrous as long as I exert thorough caution during backbends.

B)  My hair is about the same.  Large and unruly.  And I twirl it all the time.

 

C)  I am about the same size.  Same height, same weight.  It was not supposed to be my intention to lose 30 pounds in 2011.  And if it was, well, that would have been stupid.  I don't think I hate my thighs as much as I did last year.  Some of the most amazing yogis have abundant thighs.  Plus my thighs are turning out to be more important than I expected.  I hope that they are absorbing some cosmic love.  Last spring, I spilled coffee on my left thigh and now it has a permanent purple mark.

D) I still have not finished my novel Two Spines.  I pulled it out on two occasions this year, each time for a couple of months.  Both times I stagnated around page 50.  I think that there is enough love inside of me to bring this project to fruition, but I guess something is still holding me back.

This probably marks the end of the year's consistencies.  A whole bunch of things changed this year.  Even my name changed twice.  Voilà a summary of changes:

aa)  My Name.  For a brief period I had a blog in which I named myself Erica S. Natch.  My father pointed out that this probably wouldn't help my employability so I deleted it.  On Facebook, I became Exuberant J. Bodhisattva and so far Mark Zuckerman or Mark Zuckerberg or whatever his name is hasn't cracked down on me. 

bb)  I went from being pretty much unemployed to working approximately three jobs twice.  Money remains an elusive concept, but certainly not as elusive as this time last year.  This time last year, I had just quit a job that entailed stopping people on the cold streets of Montreal and trying to convince them to donate money that was supposed to eradicate child poverty and prevent female circumcision in developing countries.  The pay was ten dollars per hour.  Every day around lunch time when yet another person on the street didn't want to talk to me I would look at them with a Sad Pathetic Expression and they would ask me what was wrong and I would cry.  So I had to leave that job.  In January I was so broke that I couldn't afford to take the bus and I would walk from one unlikely employment opportunity to another, wearing unmatching mittens that Simon, my boyfriend at the time found for me on the street.  Fortunately, life picked up and became less destitute.  Looking back on times like these, everyone always says that they wouldn't have been able to get through it without the support of family and friends.  It sounds cheesy, but it's true.  Thus, a heartfelt thank you to my family and friends, especially my sister, the founding members of the Down-and-Out club, and Fern.

cc)  I quit puking in my mouth and in the toilet.  The puking-in-your-mouth phenomenon is slightly nauseating and confusing for most people.  I wrote a little post about it here:  Day 69 of Not Puking in Your Mouth. Feel free to read it, or not. What's really important is on March 18th, after years of trying so hard and then failing, I made a pact with another friend with an eating disorder, and together we renounced our puking endeavours.  This changed everything.  

dd)  I took a fair number of long breaks from drinking.  I don't consider myself an alcoholic, but I'm not sure my drinking choices have always been in my best interest.  So I've been taking many breaks, and overall, alcohol seems to be losing its appeal.

ee)  I fell in love twice.   And out of love once. See ff) and  hh).

ff)  I stopped sleeping with Simon.  We wrote a book together, and that was amazing and unregrettable, but No More Sex With Simon was essential to my evolution.

gg) I finished two books.  An epistolary novel I wrote with Simon called The Little Savage and the Hermit, and my very first self-help book I Let Go by Erica J. Schmidt.  We are still looking for a publisher for the Little Savage and the Hermit, since so far, Mark Zuckerberg hasn't expressed interest.  For the self-help book, a dear friend from the former Down-and-Out Club is going to illustrate it.  We're planning on self-publishing early in the New Year.  Thank you to James Altucher for suggesting that one can produce a self-help book in such a short period of time.  And for the great advice on self-publishing

hh)  I went to my friend Fern's wedding where I met the Boatman on a boat.  Now I live in Halifax with the Boatman and his Big Black Dog.  Maybe this was impulsive, but I am at the age when Impulsive Things are allowed.  I miss Montréal, especially my friends and the old yoga studio, but overall I feel like I am the happiest I have been in a Long Time.

ii)  I started teaching yoga more than I ever have in my life.  In one of his blog posts, Tim Miller shared a quote about how for the first couple of years of teaching, you should probably pay people to let them teach you.  So far nothing horrendous has taken place in my classes and I certainly accept and appreciate payment, but it's a useful quote to remember.  Thank you to everyone in the Halifax yoga scene for welcoming me and helping me learn.

 jj) I got some articles published on Recovering Yogi and Elephant Journal.  The one that got me the most famous was a response to a bunch of blogosphere criticism against Kino Macgregor, who I admire and adore from afar:

Kinogate

Unfortunately, in the process I made a bad-woman of a fellow Ashtangi blogger who is actually a wonderful and entertaining writer, if somewhat opinionated.  Perhaps this renders me unsattvic and/or hypocritical.  But I thought that Kino needed to be defended.  

kk)  I started this blog.  I have thoroughly enjoyed my introduction to the Ashtanga Blogosphere and I religiously read Nobel's (Nobel in the Dragon's Den) and Claudia's (Earth Yogi) posts.  My own blog lacks a bit of direction and drishti, but it was always meant to be a low pressure activity.  I don't usually force myself to write everyday, just when I am inspired to share something.  I find that whenever I turn something into a Project with a Clear Purpose and Intention and Anticipated Results, I become remarkably distressed.  See here for the day I almost died writing a self-help book:  Yesterday I Almost Died Writing a Self-Help Book.  Immensely and Devastated are two frequently used words when it comes to discussing writing projects.  Thus, it is with caution that I embark on Projects with Clear Purposes and Intentions and Anticipated Results.  But despite all of my creative angst, if I am objective,  this year has been one of the most creatively productive years of my life. Thus, as I advise all my readers in my self-help book, I should just let go...  My only Official and Specific Writing Goal for 2012 is to learn how to use the word magnanimous properly.

Poetic Pause.
 
And it's over.

This, my friends, sums up all of the year's Immense and Mammoth Victories and Immense and Devastating Catastrophes.  My Magnanimous Post is over.  I am finished Tooting My Own Horn.

I invite you to toot yours! 

Much love, EJB.  XOM.
 
The End.

Me and the Boatman, gazing at the Magnanimous Sky Friends

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook

Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt
 
2013: An Ecstatic Year for the Exuberant Bodhisattva
2014: Year of the Spiritual Pants
2015: You No Look Back
 

Yesterday I Almost Died Writing A Self-Help Book

It was supposed to be about my nine compartments of gurus (COGS).  I wanted to tell everyone about my gurus.  The sky friends and the vegan life coach and Darby and James Altucher.  

About.com says that Guru is a math equation with a plus sign.  

Gu + Roo=Guru.  

“Gu” means "dark gooey attachment."  Attachments are terrible things that make you steal hair elastics from Loblaws and not recycle your peanut butter jar.   Fortunately, there is also a roo, which means “a (liberating) ray of light.”  About.com puts brackets around liberating.  That’s probably because you have to choose for your gurus to liberate you.  Or not.  Take the brackets off.  Or leave them on.  Find the eternal and internal spaciousness of your pelvis.  Or forget about it.  Steal the hair elastics.  Or pay for them.  The peanut butter jar has a similar story, but it involves a sink and a clear blue recycling bag. 

Yesterday, I must have left the brackets around the liberating because all I could see was the goo around my pelvis and I couldn't write a thing.  The goo was so hideous and abundant that me and the dog and the Boatman almost drowned. 

I didn't want to resort to stealing hair elastics or throwing away the peanut butter jar, so I emailed James Altucher.   He was supposed to be in the guru self-help book that I was supposed to write in 3 to 7 days.  I got the whole idea from James's book "I was blind, but now I see." (P.S.  I have noticed that very successful people are very prompt in responding to emails. I put brackets around this observation, but I could quite easily take them off.) I told James about the goo, and James was very empathetic and told me to focus on what I had to do for the rest of the day.  "That's all there is." 

Some days are really terrible for writing about gurus.  You'd do much better to make hummus.  So the Boatman and I went to Canadian tire,  and we picked out a blender and that's what we did.  Tomorrow's another day for liberating rays of light, but for now we have veggies and dip.  

The End.

The book got written! Hurray!
I Let Go by Erica J. Schmidt, illustrated by Sara E. Enquist

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

You Cling To Things Until They Die
I read Choose Yourself by James Altucher and My Oxytocin Levels Increased Immediately
List

 
 

Bakasana...

83 years old!

25.9 years old!

I look forward to the pink pant suit.

The End.

30.33 years old. Hampi, India.
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

Now I am in Delhi
The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
You Cling To Things Until They Die