Vipassana Diaries: Why I Like to Pee Outside

Kino MacGregor insists that you can’t hurt yourself meditating.

Kino MacGregor can pull her leg all the way behind her shoulder and then her foot hooks under her armpit and it doesn’t seem like this hurts her very much.

 Kino MacGregor and I are different

Kino MacGregor and I are different. Just like Margaret Atwood and I are different. Going into Vipassana, I could sit cross-legged relatively comfortably for half an hour. Still, I was positive that sitting for ten hours a day was going to break my knees, and probably also my hips, and maybe a few other parts while I was at it. When I am not meditating, I masturbate on the internet, inhaling thousands of yoga blogs. I have been devouring Matthew Reski’s series WAWADIA: What Are We Actually Doing In Asana. It’s a qualitative study on injuries in yoga. Of course I have devoured the whole thing. In one of the articles, Matthew interviews a guy who went to Vipassana. Someone this guy knew there had to do six months of physio for her knee afterwards. And I’d heard of a friend of a friend who had herniated her disc, just trying to meditate.

A phrase from the internet haunted my head, “Many meditators injure themselves meditating on non-violence.”

I was determined that this violence would not happen to me.  I spent my first two and a half days at vipassana frantically obsessing over the best and most sustainable position. Three cushions under my butt, two under each knee. Vice versa. Two under my knee with the bad I.T. band. Oh but then I’m imbalanced, what if I get compensatory pain? Yes, definitely there was compensatory pain. My vacillations went on and on. As for the pain, well, it wasn’t quite extreme, but I did feel some irritation above my left knee on the outside. And often when I got up, my hip felt sort of jammed, so I had to click it back into place. Although the sound of my hip was disgusting, I'm pretty sure my issues were mostly due to my tight I.T. band and probably not because of some surgery-requiring problem.  Even so, I fretted relentlessly. After two and a half days, I thought, the hell with this; I’m straightening my legs. I propped myself up on a mountain of cushions, and extended both legs diagonally in a v-shape with loads more cushions underneath. Smugly, I looked around the room as everyone else creaked themselves into folded legs and anatomically questionable versions of virasana. “Erica,” I thought to myself. “You have the best seat in the house.”

Surely, I’d be spared of both agony and surgery. Well, you’ll see how that went. On Day Four of the course, Goenka introduced the Vipassana technique. Up until then, we’d been luxuriating in Anapana, the delightful task of observing the breath below our nostrils. During this time, I alternated between being very bored, being very sleepy, being very hungry, being very obsessed about how I would starve because there was no dinner, and being very pissed off at a number of people, including Sri W Ham Wrap who once said that my yoga practice was violent and harmful. (I just wrote Hamful by mistake. How funny.)  What a blast. Then the Vipassana technique opened up a whole new exciting world. Instead of being stuck on our nostrils, now we got to move our attention from head to feet.  It was like going from no internet to suddenly getting a U.S. Netflix subscription. I remember walking out of our first session with immense relief. Thank God, I thought almost laughing. No more nostrils. But it felt like my sit bones had punctured through my ass. And I wondered if maybe my hamstrings were being overstretched.

On Day Five of Vipassana, Goenka wanted us to start cultivating adhittana, which means “strong determination.” Apparently the best way of doing this is to endure one-hour sits of extreme stillness three times a day. No opening your eyes, no opening your hands, no changing your legs. Having taken refuge in rules from a young age, I was all over this. Though my legs were uncrossed, I sat like the stillest Buddha in the world. The stillest and the stiffest. It usually took 25 or 30 minutes before my sit bones started to pierce my ass flesh to such an extent that I thought my ass might start to bleed. The rest of my ass wasn’t doing well either. I could feel intense stretching on either side. One of Matthew Remski’s case studies was about an unfortunate Ashtanga yoga teacher who tore all her glute muscles off her hipbone. She had been doing a bunch of hip openers to deal with a knee injury. Then one day after meditating, she did a tiny wide legged forward bend and pop, pop, pop, went all the muscles on her ass. At the end of Day Six, I felt certain that my injury would be even more serious. Both sides of my ass seethed in horrendous agony. Lying in bed around 9:30 p.m., I decided that all my butt muscles were pulling at my sacrum.  It was only a matter of time, likely just five minutes, before the muscles dislocated from my sacrum, my spine went to hell and then Erica’s greatest fear of being in a wheelchair would come true. I sobbed, alone, in my cubicle of a room.

“It’s going to break.” I said out loud, breaking the noble silence to announce my imminent spinal cord injury. My roommates in the other cubicles weren’t allowed to say anything back. I kept sobbing. “Sorry,” I said. I lay down on the floor, stunned by the torture. Finally the day of my Big Catastrophe had come. Ever since I was really small, I’ve been waiting for the day when something horrible and irreversible would happen to my body. Broken spinal cords, esophageal cancer, the flesh-eating disease. I’ve been anticipating my disaster since my parents took me to the Niagara Falls wax museum and I saw the wax statue of Terry Fox who only had one leg. Now my disaster was happening on Day 6 of jolly old Goenka’s vipassana retreat.

Within about twenty minutes the spasms or whatever was going on in my ass finally stopped. Later, I learned that during that night, I’d called out in my sleep. “I knew it!,” I’d yelled. I don’t remember saying this, but I do remember dreaming about Katy Bowman. Katy Bowman is a biomechanist and author who advocates as much natural movement as possible for the benefit of your pelvis and all the cells in your body. And she thinks that almost everyone in the Western World needs a stronger butt.

“Yah, I was at Vipassana,” I told Katy in my dream. “But it was too much.” While I was dreaming, I also remember having the very clear intention of doing a bunch of butt exercises. Sadly, the time and location never worked out. The butt exercises kept getting postponed. (Kind of like Butt Club in Mysore).

The gong rang at 4 a.m. Although I was quite relieved that I wasn’t yet in a wheelchair, I felt absolutely ready to trade in both yoga and meditation for a lifetime of butt exercises and/or anything else.  My ass didn’t hurt as much, but now I felt certain that there was inflammation behind my right knee, the one without the I.T. band problem. Upon careful examination, I realized that the bulge was merely my hamstring tendon.

I dragged myself to the meditation hall late and left when I had to shit. Instead of returning, I went for a walk in the little loop in the forest. It was pitch black. For someone terrified of a spinal cord injury, this wasn’t the most logical behaviour; however, I figured I’d already survived yesterday’s very close call and I wanted to work on my night vision. After a couple of times around the loop, I had to piss and so I pulled up my skirt and peed in the woods. I thought that this was quite scandalous for a vipassana retreat. I did not get any pee on my sandals.

In the afternoon, I went to see the meditation instructor. It was nice of her to view my body hysteria, not as severe, neurotic dysfunction, but rather as my sankaras coming to the surface. Sankaras are deep-rooted mental or behavioral patterns that tend to lead you into the same types situations over and over again. (The yogis often call them “samskaras.”) Some of my sankaras that fall into similar categories include going to the emergency room to see if my ingrown pubic hair is Herpes,  or imagining having to get my esophagus replaced with a piece of my colon, or worrying about getting a foot infection in India that will end with me losing my legs. When I told the instructor about the spinal cord injury scare, she suggested that maybe I was a bit too strict with myself. “Torturing yourself, this is not Vipassana," she said. “Vipassana is not the posture.” She gave the option of a chair, or a back support, if it got too painful. I considered becoming a chair person, but one of my life’s biggest rants is about the dangers of sitting in chairs. It’s up there with potty training, and sun salutations, and maybe also pubic hair waxing. I decided I would try one more day on the floor. If my sacrum seemed at risk and I had to sit in a chair, well then, so be it. The rest of this story is about how I ended up sitting cross-legged and sort of relaxed for about seventeen minutes. You are probably better off reading this excellent zine that the Boatman bought called, “Why I Like to Pee Outside.” It is so great. I even brought it to India with me and read it to some wonderful Canadians I met in the line-up to register with Sharath.

Zine: “Why I Like to Pee Outside,” by Amanda Stevens,
bent from its long trip to India

The Author Amanda Stevens made the zine at a 24-hour Zinemaking Challenge in Halifax in 2008. “Why I Like to Pee Outside” describes the Unnamed Protagonist’s journey of how she grew to love peeing outside. It is full of informative and compelling diagrams, lists and essential techniques. The unnamed protagonist used to be afraid of peeing on her pants or on her shoes. She even considered getting “one of those spouts that make peeing outside easier for people with vulvas.” But she practiced and practiced and now she can do it the way it’s meant to be done.

Peeing Outside, the way it's meant to be done. Watch out for pee splattering off the ground

“It’s a bit of a thrill,” says the Unnamed Protagonist. “It feels slightly transgressive and unladylike, especially when there’s a possibility of being seen doing it. It also makes me feel like I’m getting back to my natural self.” This is how I felt when I peed outside at vipassana. Thrilled, transgressive, and unladylike, and more like my animal self. 


Peeing outside: Thrilling, Transgressive and Unladylike

As fate would have it, peeing outside happens to be excellent for your pelvis, butt muscles included. Katy Bowman recommends peeing outside as often as possible. And I think that she would be happy with Amanda’s squatting diagram.

At the end of “Why I like to pee outside,” the Unnamed Protagonist dresses up as a Girl Guide for Halloween and her friend makes her a badge for peeing outside. Overall, “Why I like to Pee Outside” is a thoroughly satisfying read. I tried to contact Amanda about where people can find more copies. If you’re in Mysore, you can borrow mine.

If you have interesting techniques for peeing outside or a peeing outside story to share, you should email Amanda at redheadwalkingas@yahoo.ca. And/or share them at the end of this blog.

In India, people pee outside all the time. In Mysore, for the most part, you only see dudes.

The End.

I’m not sure how I mentioned so many things in one blog.  Perhaps to some of you, this is not all that surprising.

I don’t have time to edit because my father and his girlfriend are visiting and they are way better tourists than I am.

Oh well, think of all the people I promoted:

Kino MacGregor

Margaret Atwood: Once I wrote a story called, Why I am Different From Margaret Atwood and What I Don't Gain From Humping Duvets. It used to be all over the internet. Now I can only find a version with very strange formatting. Well, if you're dying to read it, I can hook you up, perhaps for the price of three coconuts. Haggling welcome. 

Goenka

Matthew Remski: Check out the prospectus for his WAWADIA book. And/or Contribute to his Indigogo Campaign

Terry Fox: Legs

Katy Bowman Katy's Cool Blog My Raving Review of her new book, Move Your DNA

Sri. W. Ham Wrap

Amanda Stevens, author of “Why I Like to Pee Outside.” I messaged her on Facebook raving about her Zine. Unfortunately, I got the wrong Amanda Stevens. Better luck next time.

And Myself:

The Vipassana Diaries: Bus
The Vipassana Diaries: Day Zero
The Vipassana Diaries: Food Belly
Vipassana Diaries/Ashtanga Memoirs: You Cling To Things Until They Die (Ham Wraps, S.I. Joints Etc.)

Do Not Kill Your Baby

 

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, my $2.99 self-help book
Don't forget to send me your peeing outside stories!!!

 

Ecstatic Adventures of the Exuberant Bodhisattva

The Ecstatic Adventures of the Exuberant Bodhisattva.

by Erica J. Schmidt

Exuberant:

1. Full of unrestrained enthusiasm or joy.
2. Lavish; extravagant.
3. Extreme in degree, size, or extent.
4. Growing, producing, or produced abundantly; plentiful

Bodhisattva: An enlightened being who, out of compassion, forgoes nirvana in order to save others.

Nirvana:  the blowing out or the extinguishing of the delusional flame of passions and cravings.

Sometime between the ages of one year and nine months and two years and three days, Annabelle Gordon forewent nirvana, or a comparable type of extinguishing. On Friday, March 21^st, 1987 at 5:37 P.M, she fell down her mother’s basement stairs, hit her head and lost consciousness for ninety-seven days.   On the ninety-seventh day, her eyes began to flutter open and shut, open and shut.  Open.  That day, ­­­­­­­­­Annabelle Gordon was two years and three days old. “Mommy,” she said to Manuela, her mother, who had spent most of the previous ninety-seven days watching Annabelle consume intravenous nourishment and have her sheets changed. “I’m awake now.  Can I have a sandwich?”  These were the Exuberant Bodhisattva’s first words.

Her request was granted, immediately and many times over.   Throughout the Exuberant Bodhisattva’s childhood, Manuela’s sandwich platters provided a reliable interval for sticker trading, hide and seek, violin lessons, dog walking and playdough.  At the age of eight, in an effort to reduce the suffering of edible sentient beings, the Exuberant Bodhisattva became a strict vegetarian.  Manuela promptly transformed the piles of salmon, tuna and cold cut creations into wraps, rolls and whole wheat combinations of grated carrot, tofu, hummus, eggplant, nut butters, vegetables and legumes.  It was all she could do to thank her daughter for coming back to life.  Then, at the age of eighteen, the Exuberant Bodhisattva announced that the gluten in her sandwich bread was responsible for the red blemishes around her mouth.  Manuela prepared herself to seek out alternative bakeries but the Exuberant Bodhisattva told her not to bother.  She was moving to Montreal, where she would obtain her own nourishment, become a busker and strive to get in touch with her Inner Luminosity.  Manuela prepared her a package of organic granola, extra violin strings and warm socks.  She kissed her goodbye, made her promise to call every Sunday and let her go on her way. 

One year and two months later, the Exuberant Bodhisattva walked down Saint Catherine street singing.  She left her bike and a trail of unwashed grapes and organic baby carrots behind her.  How tantalizing life seemed today.  She was headed to her beloved yoga studio where for ninety minutes she would breathe and stretch and dance and sweat upon her purple mat.  Afterwards, in her tattered clothes, she would bike to Parc Lafontaine, where her once estranged gentleman friend had proposed to la voir. On her way, half naked billboard girls would stare at her with blackened eyes.  She would ride right past them. 

That evening, the Exuberant Bodhisattva wholeheartedly apologized to the short, handsome, curly-haired, dark-skinned man on the park bench.  “I’m sorry that I made you feel like a blow up toy.”  She hadn’t meant to.  After all, he was a person.  His name was Alphonso.  Quite cute. 

                  ***

Oh Fabulous Life! The Exuberant Bodhisattva thought the following morning as she sped down the Atwater hill towards the Super C.  Gliding, whooshing, whizzing, she began to rewrite her favourite Irving Layton poem.  “Whatever Else Youth Without Pregnancy Is Freedom.”  All over the city, all sorts of questionable sexual combinations were taking place.  Surely, then, she could sleep with Alphonso, despite their incongruous proportions.  Last night the two fell out of bed after he said, “Quelle belle grande paire de fesses.”  What a beautiful large pair of ass cheeks.  The Exuberant Bodhisattva manoeuvred herself indescribably.  The lovers landed on the floor; the large beautiful pair of ass cheeks landed on Alphonso.  Had the bed been larger, the act might have seemed less assertive.  Tiny Alphonso, who had little flesh to support the fall, would not have procured so many bruises.

The Exuberant Bodhisattva always felt like a mammoth when she slept with Alphonso.  But perhaps she was more fortunate to have been the mammoth than to have slept with one.

                                                         ***

Once again at the beloved yoga studio, Shankara, the son of some great guru, stood on his lime green mat, his hands in front of his heart.  The Exuberant Bodhisattva and her fellow practitioners listened intently.

“Once the body becomes fit and supple, the sense spectrum becomes increasingly sensitive to external stimulation.  Odour, taste, sound, touch, each have a profound effect on all of the body’s systems.  By properly nourishing the Sense Spectrum, the seeker creates internal balance.”

The next day the Exuberant Bodhisattva woke up in Alphonso`s bedroom and peed in a plastic green garbage can with a used condom in it.  Alphonso had left her the can in case she had envie to pisser while he was upstairs having breakfast with his mother.  Seeking relief that she hoped would help her to fall back asleep, she peed.  The odour entered her sense spectrum.  She remembered Shankara’s discourse of wisdom.  She felt internally imbalanced.  Making remedial efforts, she ran her hands across her back, creating sensations in her hand, and on her back.  And in her arms, she supposed, from the movement. Such a soft smooth back, she thought.  And all without moisturizer.  She glanced at her Alphonso`s leopard print polar fleece blanket.  What sort of balance or imbalance did this create?  Taking a shit would almost certainly balance the level of toxins and wastes inside of her and thereby create internal balance.

But it would happen that in Alphonso’s room, there was no easy path to freedom anywhere.

                                                          ***

When the Exuberant Bodhisattva was in a coma, her mother used to read her a story about a family of gorillas.  Patty Cake, the baby gorilla, was born at the New York zoo.  Her parents’ names were Tandy and Lulu.  They ate vast quantities of bananas and peanut butter and ice cream.  One day there was an accident.  Lulu, the mom, was on one side of the cage and Patty cake was on the other.  Lulu pulled Patty Cake’s arm and it broke.  Patty cake had to go to the hospital and get a cast all the way from her shoulder to her wrist.  Then they took the cast off and she went back to the zoo where there was a big party for her first birthday.

Last night was Alphonso’s twenty-sixth birthday.  They had spent the evening disregarding the Exuberant Bodhisattva’s gluten allergy and consuming white pasta, tomato sauce and Coronas.  Now it was up to the Exuberant Bodhisattva to bring her darling Alphonso to nirvana on his creaky sheetless bed with the leopard polar fleece blanket.  Opening her mouth widely, she embraced his Great Vehicle. 

The Exuberant Bodhisattva found herself thinking about the Gorilla story.  She could remember the ice cream and the peanut butter and the bananas, but she couldn’t remember the gorillas’ names.  She wished that she was eating ice cream and bananas right then.  Patty Cake.  That was the baby’s name.  Patty Cake.

Patty Cake, Patty Cake, baker’s man.  Maybe it would help if she did it to a rhythm.  Bake me a cake as fast as you can.

“Plus vite, plus vite.”  Faster, Alphonso was pleading.  The Exuberant Bodhisattva remembered the first book she ever learned to read.  “Bears,” it was called.  Bears, bears, everywhere.  Bears on chairs.  Bears climb stairs.  What else did they do?  Draw squares?  She remembered the crackers and honey that her grade one teacher had given her for writing bears twenty times in her printing book.  B-e-a-r-s.

“FUCK!”  screamed Alphonso.  She hadn’t brought him to ecstasy. She had accidentally bitten his Great Vehicle. 

Red blemishes emerged around the Exuberant Bodhisattva’s small, fat lips, as a direct result of her gluten consumption.  “Je ne veux plus te voir,” said Alphonso. Because of the red blemishes, or for some other reason. He did not say. Only, I want no more to see you.  All the Exuberant Bodhisattva knew was that she’d wounded him on his twenty-sixth birthday, barely a week after treating him like a blow-up toy.  She felt deflated.  Like a deflated mammoth. 

Alone, the Exuberant Bodhisatta dreamt that she was waiting for the metro with Alphonso who had somehow exceeded the Exuberant Bodhisattva’s mammoth proportions. They exchanged unenthusiastic kisses until the metro arrived.  Frazzled and disorganized, the Exuberant Bodhisattva got on the second car instead of the third. As she entered, the door closed at her shoulder.  The Exuberant Bodhisattva waited for the doors to reopen but the train ignored her suffering rotator cuff and zoomed into the tunnel.  Somewhere between Lionel Groulx and Atwater station, the train came to a halt and the third car, containing Alphonso, was sucked into the tracks.  Rotator cuff liberated, the Exuberant Bodhisattva ran to find her friend whose legs and arms now ended at his elbows and knees. Barely two feet tall, he was happy and excited about the triple flips and trampoline routines he could now learn at the circus.  The Exuberant Bodhisattva wondered why he wasn’t bleeding to death. 

She woke up extremely hungry with the urge to urinate.  After relieving herself, she stirred her non-hydrogenated peanut butter with a pencil.  Once she had eliminated the natural oil separation, she raised the jar to her lips and drank.

                                                    * * *

“I felt like a mammoth when I slept with Alphonso,” the Exuberant Bodhisattva confessed to her nearly sexually liberated friend Maria over lunch.

“Well there’s lots more fun to be had, with or without Alphonso,” Maria replied as she bit off a head of baby corn from her tofu stirfry.  “You should get a vibrator.  Find out what booming rockets are really like.”

The Exuberant Bodhisattva took a sip of water.  “Maybe I’m just not the kind of girl who appreciates a booming rocket.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Maria scoffed, this time combining bok choy and broccoli.  “Everyone appreciates a booming rocket. You need to release your second chakra.  My new boyfriend, Cavan, is only seventeen and he knows the kama sutra.   He promises to release all seven of my chakras before my twenty-first birthday.”

“My mother used to be into chakras.  Then her boyfriend got dementia and she sort of lost interest.”    

“Yah, I don’t know how that works,” Maria mused.  “I’ll have to ask Cavan.  But you should definitely get a vibrator.  And a haircut.  I have a fantastic hairdresser.  His name is Paul.  He touches my hair as though he loves each strand.” 

The Exuberant bodhisattva poured soy sauce over her remaining broccoli and rice.  She touched her own hair, pulling it out of her unmeticulously placed pony tail.  It felt coarse, dry, limp and unloved.   After the stirfry, the two women French bisouxed each other goodbye.  “Cheer up,” said Maria, who was off to see Cavan.  “You’ll feel better soon.  Just remember.  Vibrator, haircut and you can’t expect to get over anyone until you get under someone else.”

Walking home, the Exuberant Bodhisattva wondered if her life was destined to become a perpetual saga of getting over and under a series of people?  Before coming to Montreal, the Exuberant Bodhisattva had hardly ever thought of sex.  And masturbation, like squatting over public toilets, had simply never occurred to her.  Yet it certainly occurred to Maria and most other people in this city. 

Before Alphonso’s booming rocket, the last penis the Exuberant Bodhisattva had seen had belonged to Charlie, the tall, skinny albino kid who she fell in love with in junior kindergarten. The other kids forced them to kiss in the playground.  She and Charlie traded stickers at each other’s houses.  Once, at Charlie’s house they took off all their clothes, ran around in the garden and hosed their naked bodies with freezing cold water.  Charlie’s father Dave had scolded him, because he wasn’t supposed to expose his white skin to direct sunlight and because some of the water had gotten through the screen door and soaked the living room furniture.  In senior kindergarten, Charlie and his family had moved to Australia.  This began the Exuberant Bodhisattva’s decade and a half long boyfriend drought which didn’t subside until early into the twenty-first century, when Alphonso dropped a quarter into her violin case at Metro Lionel Groulx.

But now the drought had resumed.  Her second chakra, though not released, had been inconveniently awakened.  She felt horny, or, to be more eloquent, lustful.  She didn’t have a vibrator.  But she had a violin and an empty apartment that she had decorated in order to balance her sense spectrum.  And avocadoes and corn chips and pineapples.  Yes.  She would get over Alphonso without getting under anyone else.  This very evening would be entirely reserved for releasing her Inner Luminosity.

                                                          ***

Her coarse, limp, dull, unloved hair fell beside her violin’s chinrest.  On an up bow, she rose beneath the ceiling she had painted yellow.  Five coats for the ceiling.  Six for the eggplant purple walls.  As she pressed the mounds of her cracked toes into the bare mahogany floors, she thought about how ninety-eight percent of her long and lustful body was water.  She transcribed Bach’s Partita 2.1 onto the violin’s neck.  Inside of her, the efforts of her fingers and bow coalesced.  She imagined the melody enter her ears and flow down into her stomach, through to her small intestine, where the vibrations swirled around her navel.  From the navel, the vibrations traveled outwards, saturating the blood of her extremities.  Up the torso, branching off into her two shoulders, elbows, wrists and fingers.  Down the pelvic floor, rushing by the hips, the thighs, knees, ankles, toes, feet.  Her sound was rich and smooth, like the four ripe avocadoes she had used for her guacamole.  Yesterday’s avocadoes resonated in their transformed cellular states.  Today’s awaited their transformation as she permeated their smooth, rich fragments.  She danced with her processing and processed avocado fragments.  The corn chips and the pineapples joined in.  Radiantly, she circled round and round the eggplant purple room, carrying the dance in her body.  Her sense spectrum stimulated her internal systems into balance.  The acne around her mouth dissipated.  She danced to the room’s perimeter.  At the corner she paused.  The last note.  Silence.  The Exuberant Bodhisattva was infused with her own luminosity.  It was almost enough.  Then the doorbell rang.  It was her neighbour, Cameron, who was in charge of the building’s recycling program.  Full of unrestrained enthusiasm, the Exuberant Bodhisattva lavishly and extravagantly invited him in for smoothies and leftover guacamole.  The door frame flattened Cameron’s abundant spiraled cherry hair as he entered the apartment.  The Exuberant Bodhisattva thought about how ninety-eight percent of his lean but extensive body was water.

It was time for another ecstatic adventure.

The End. 

Oh Fabulous Life.
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I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

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