Life Is Very Exciting

My Cool Friend From Belgium is very advanced because she inspires the most interesting and original quotes from Sharath.

“No butterfly!” he called at her years ago while she was learning to stand up from a backbend and waved her arms to either side as she was flying up.

 

“No hugging in the shala!” he said another day when her butterfly arms wrapped around him as she came to her feet.

This trip, when she came into his office she told him that her back was a bit sore on one side and she couldn’t fold forward very easily.

“Oh okay,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Nobody’s perfect.” I thought that was nice.

One morning, Sharath was helping my Cool Friend From Belgium with Supta Vajrasana. She was having a hard time grabbing her big toes. Sharath helped pull her hands forward.

Daylene and Kino in Supta Vajrasana

 

 “You need auto,” said Sharath.

“Pardon me?” asked my Cool Friend From Belgium.

“Auto. Like Rickshaw,” said Sharath.

“I need two!” replied my Cool Friend From Belgium.

The other day, Sharath was trying to get my CFFB to grab her ankles in backbends. My CFFB squeezed her anus and pressed her femur bones as far forward as she could, but the catching was not to be.

“Why?” asked Sharath.

“Oh, bad day,” said my CFFB.

“No puja?” asked Sharath.

No Puja?

If you are a keener reading this, please ask Sharath about the backbending puja at conference this week. See what he recommends. I hope it involves Snickers bars.

Last week my Cool Friend From Belgium went to Sharath’s office again to pay for the month of November. He looked at her card.

“Hmm,” he said. He crossed off 4:30 on the Monday Led time and changed it to 7:30. In case you’re not in Mysore and you have better things to do than keep track of other people’s yoga classes, 7:30 is when Sharath teaches the intermediate series instead of the primary series. There are some frightening Led Intermediate legends kicking around and many people fear that they won’t come out alive. My Cool Friend From Belgium figured she didn’t have to worry about it since she’d only just started sticking one leg behind her head and she hadn’t been very consistent about her pujas.

“I come to Led Intermediate?”

“You’re doing Eka pada?”

“I’ve only done it three times so far.”

“Okay. You come.”

Stunned, flustered and rather terrified, my Cool Friend From Belgium wasn’t sure what to say.

“Well that’s very exciting,” she said, her tone a little unconvinced.

Sharath laughed. “Life is very exciting,” he said. 

 

I was going to bring banners to Led Intermediate to cheer on my Cool Friend From Belgium, but we weren't sure whether or not this would inspire very many excellent quotes. Instead I tried not to make too much noise as I watched from the lobby. This proved to be a big challenge because it was all very exciting.

 

The End.
 

I could only find a picture of Sharath with both legs behind his head. Well, you get the idea.

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Happy
Do Not Kill Your Baby (not happy)
Day Trip (half and half)  

 

The Boatman Invents a New Word

Most of the world is familiar with the verb, "to shart." Sharting occurs when you think you have to fart, and being in a somewhat appropriate location, you let loose. Go "balls out," as Nobel at the Yoga Dragon Den puts it. It isn't long before you realize that the fart comes with a wet, brown stinky surprise.

I had a roommate who once threw his pyjama bottoms in the garbage. I asked him why and he said, "Ya know when you drink too much beer and then you fart and it all runs down your legs?" He was talking about a shart.

It recently occurred to me and the Boatman that sharting had an opposite,  but it didn't have a name. The opposite of sharting is when you think you have to take an enormous shit. Your tummy's brewing and bloated and you know it's going to be huge. Maybe you have to go so badly that you cut in front of the old lady with a walker headed into the stall with her pink-shoed grandchildren. When you finally sit down and it's time for the beautiful explosion, all your poor anus has to offer is gas. The contours of the toilet bowl magnify both sound and odour so that the person who comes to relieve his or herself afterwards will be promptly armed with adamant accusations.

Until just a few days ago, there was no word for this tragedy. The Boatman and I considered the possibilities for at least 3 and a half days. Finally, last Wednesday, just before noon, the Boatman was on the can passing leftover breakfast gas when a breeze of inspiration came upon him and whispered into his ear the perfect word for farting on the toilet.

And the word was: Foop.

Definition: Farting on the toilet, when you think you have to poop prolifically.

Usage: "I was ready to crap out all the Harvey's poutine, but when I sat on the toilet, it was just a foop."



The Boatman, founder of the word, "foop." Once the Boatman wore a Maxi Pad, and it was a big success.
Now he has invented a new word. He's just one big success after another.

If you're a dog, fooping usually occurs on the grass.  For everyone else, it only counts as fooping when you're on the toilet. Just in case you're having a contest and/or keeping track.

The Big Black Dog has had many foops and sharts in his life and we love him very much.



Eliot,the Big Black Dog, pre or post foop or shart

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

Snow Day (contains more invented words from the Boatman,
but do not read if anything about miscarriages is triggering for you)
All the Lonely People, Rainbows, the Big Black Dog, and Sex
Poopy Mango Baby Wipes and the First Day of Christmas 

 

The Sperm Cleanse

On Monday, my uterus or ovaries or some part of my reproductive system near my vagina was about to produce a new follicle.  Loads of creativity was about to erupt into my existence.  You can tell that this happened from the prolific, eloquent and delightful posts that have erupted onto my blog.  My last post was two weeks ago. The yogis say that men should save their seeds and avoid ejaculating regularly so that their bodies are not depleted from the arduous task of making new sperm.  My teacher Darby's son Shankara used to go on and on about this in teacher training.  There were only three men in our class and Shankara blamed this on the fact that all the other dudes were busy jerking off, blowing their loads.  After their strenuous masturbation sessions, they'd have no choice but to pass out on the couch in a half-assed attempt to regenerate their sperm.  The yogis say that instead of ejaculating out their dicks, men should apply various techniques such as squeezing their anuses and or moula bandhas.  Then the sperms will stay within them and the life force usually released in ejaculation can be redirected to heal organs or travel up the spine or something else that is similarly interesting.  Fluid Free Ejaculation.  I'm just wondering if perhaps the process of making new sperm could be healthy and therapeutic and inspirational.  Just as in exercise you break down muscles so that you can build newer, stronger and more, limber ones, it might be good to expel old stagnant sperm and then come up with something better.

Pattabhi Jois, Johanne Darby and Shankara Darby, inside his mother the day before he was born.



Today, Shankara likes to save his seed. And we know that he came from a good seed.

If a sperm is ever going to enter my uterus, I want it to be brand new and excited to be alive.  All this is very scientific. Probably sperms die anyways and the balls or whatever organ is involved makes new ones.  But is this as useful as a Sperm Cleanse?

In her awesome Ted Talk, "Loving Your Lady Parts as a Path to Success," Alisa Vitti talks about  the different phases of your menstrual cycle and how you can adjust and maximize your life according to the flow.  I wonder if there is a similar option for men.The vegan life coach used to say that he had to cum two times a day.  Less than that, I can't remember what happened.  More than that he felt drained and drowsy.  Just before we stopped dating he was figuring out the dry ejaculation thing.  He was very proud of himself.  Moula bandha and whatnot up his spine, and he felt SO GOOD.

At the time, most of the orgasms of my life were internalized and/or non-existent.  The vegan life coach never inspired either kinds of orgasm.  Not even that time I got drunk on the Easter weekend and went to his house and got more wine.  I lay face down blindfolded on his bed, and I felt something cold and plastic enter inside of me.  Whatever it was made a faint flute sound.  The tune was unrecognizable.  Then I recognized what the object inside of me was.  A recorder.  I wondered if the recorder had been inside anyone else.  In any case, it didn't do it for me.

Recorder teachers have terrible karma in this life time.  For their next life time, I imagine that things will be better.

Boy plays blue recorder

That was the End.  Approximately.

When I was a little girl, I played the recorder, and also the trombone.  I practiced very diligently.

This post was supposed to be about sperm, but the vagina got the last word.  The vagina, and then the recorders.

Happy Father's Day.

This Day has lots to do with Sperm, if you really think about it, or even if you think about it even just a little bit.

Sperms, Barbecues, and Mowing the Lawn.

The End, Precisely

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

Menstrual Blood, Peanut Butter
The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
The Benefits of a Vegan Life Coach

 

Poopy Mango Babywipes and the First Day of Christmas

Winter this year seems so long that I no longer remember whether or not Christmas happened.  And yet, how could I have forgotten?  Christmas this year was an epic event.  The Boatman and I and the Big Black Dog drove all the way to Ontario, and back. 
 
But first we had to have a fake Christmas Eve and Christmas with the Boatman’s family.  Fake Christmas Eve dinner was on the 21^st of December at the restaurant the Bicycle Thief.  Our handsome waiter sat me and the Boatman and his siblings down at a booth.  The waiter  looked familiar.  Apparently, so did I.
 
“I think I remember you from Montreal,” he said.
 
“Oh really,” I said.
 
“Yes, we went to a couple of the same parties.”

“Oh really,” I said again.  Being a pretty cheap drunk back in the day, all those parties were a blur of vodka-based drinks, inviting people to free private classes, some mouth-to-mouth contact, and extensive oversharing.  I had another look at our waiter and began to remember.  Dark, almost black hair.  Piecing light blue eyes.  Yes, I could remember.  His name was Pavel and I’d had a huge crush on him.  I think I’d tried to find him on Facebook and pined after his silhouetted profile for two and a half days before deciding that I had absolutely no chance. 

The Boatman and I ordered elaborately titled martinis.  We had over 3000 km of driving and 4 Christmas dinners ahead of us.  This was no time for restraint.  Pavel returned with our drinks.

“Now I remember the party we met at.  Mae West’s birthday.  You know Mae, from the BC crowd.  You did all these contact improv moves.”  (Mae West's name has been generously changed for her privacy)

“What’s contact improv?” asked the Boatman.  Until that moment, I’d forgotten, but now I recalled.  Since taking a first-year dance elective called “Body and the Imagination,” I’d been obsessed with contact improv and insisted that people join me in my passion at every drunken experience during my undergrad.  My move of choice involved getting some guy (or several) to hold me by the waist and lift me up as I jumped and reached for the ceiling, spreading my arms and legs like a kid making a snow angel.  When it came to selecting contact improv partners, I was relentless, uninhibited, and perhaps not all that discriminative either. 

“That sounds like fun,” said the Boatman. “People must have really liked you.”

“I guess,” I said.
 
With a little more digging, remnants of Mae West’s birth came to me.   I had just completed 108 sun salutations for a fundraiser at Darby’s yoga studio.  Before arriving at the party I’d consumed beer and a burrito with some friends.  After so many sun salutations, the beer had gone straight to my head.  Mae’s party had a Valley Girl theme, whatever that means.  I had no costume, but tried to compensate with my exuberance and contact improv moves. 

At the Bicycle Thief, Pavel came back and asked how our martinis were. The Boatman and I agreed that the martinis were excellent.  Pavel was a very attentive waiter.  Attentive and talkative.

“So what brought you to Halifax?” he asked.
 
“This guy right here,” I said, pointing to the Boatman.

“Oh really? Me too. I’m here for a girl.  And how long have you been together?” he asked, as though he was expecting me to answer not very long.

Just over a year and a half,” I said, relieved my answer was not more pathetic. 

“Oh wow.”  He seemed impressed. 

The Boatman’s parents arrived and the Boatman’s mother ordered a bottle of white wine for she and I to share.  Everyone ordered delicious and sophisticated dishes.  Pavel had something to say about each and every one of them.  I realized that besides moving to Halifax for a love interest, we didn’t have very much in common.   My ability to comment elaborately on any sort of menu item is extremely limited. I told the Boatman that now I remembered making out with three people at that party.  The first was a nineteen-year-old girl.  At the time, I'd been twenty-four.  We were taking a pee break from the contact improv.  Girls like to pee together.  The girl was pretty and French, and her name was Valérie.  My mother’s name is Valerie too, but Valerie in English. 

While she was washing her hands, Valérie told me that she was bisexual.  I must have already peed and washed my hands. 

“Well, that’s very interesting,” I said. I can’t remember if we were speaking French or English.  Probably English.  When I’m drunk, I like to talk really fast and this is much easier in English.  “Would you like to kiss me?” I asked.  We embraced and made out for a good ten seconds.  It was fun.  “Wow,” I said.  “I’ve never done that before.”
 
“I don’t believe you,” she said.  But it was the truth.
 
We left the bathroom and I followed her around for a little while to see if she wanted to cuddle, but she seemed busy with her nineteen-year old friends.  Oh well. You have to try these things out when you’re young.  I left Valérie and wandered around the party looking for some other excitement.
 
Some guy was leaving and so I kissed him good-bye.
 
Then I saw that Pavel and his friend were leaving. 

“Oh you’re leaving,” I exclaimed. 

“Yah, we’ve gotta go,” said Pavel.
 
“Can we make out first?” I asked.  Only Pavel’s friend said yes.  So I made out with Pavel’s friend in front of Pavel and then they both left.
 
That night I slept over at the party on the couch alone. I think the best way for me to conclude this story is with the pictures of me and the Big Black Dog naked in the shower.  It was the night after our fake Christmas Day with the Boatman’s family, and before we would leave to drive to Ontario in the morning. All day all I could think was, “There’s not going to be time.”  On Fake Christmas morning, I unwrapped more presents than I’d seen since I believed in Santa Claus, and worried about the hundreds of things we had to do before leaving at the asscrack of dawn the next morning.   One of them was washing the Big Black Dog and his poopy anus. The week before, he’d alternated diarrhea with constipation and now he smelled terrible.  The 18-hour drive would have been torture.  At ten o’clock that night I tried spraying him with some no-rinse pet shampoo concoction.  I wiped his anus with baby wipes. 

The Boatman walked into the bedroom and said, “it smells like poopy mango baby wipes.”  My efforts hadn’t worked.  There wasn’t any time, but I dragged him into the shower anyways and now you can see us both naked. 

The End.

Eliot takes bath before his long journey.

Eliot wants out.

Life is frustrating and unfair.

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

Sacred Fire
The Life of Eliot the Big Black Dog
Hip Replacements and No-Knead Bread versus Chapped Nipples and Low Sex Drive