The Vipassana Diaries: My Last Practice

On my way to Vipassana, I stayed overnight in Montreal. I mustered up the courage to show face at Darby’s Mysore, despite the un-spectacularness of my current practice.

Although at first it was somewhat liberating to just show up, I still felt apologetic as I fumbled through modified lotus postures, and remained mostly upright during forward bends. Darby didn’t say much.

Last year I went to Montreal to practice for two weeks. My knee was much worse then and the whole thing was a struggle.

After practice one day, I blubbered about how I was way happier when my practice was way shorter. The primary series was too long, too painful.

“Well,” said Darby. “Yoga Asana is not so important. I used to think it was important. It is not so important. You work with those kids now. That’s important.”

Despite this, the past year I continued to cling to the time when practice was physically easier. Lusting after the days when I cranked myself through second series every morning no matter what. Dropping back to my ankles, the tears and the sweat. It all seemed so important.

I ran a number of experiments this year in attempts to rid myself of my injuries. Certainly there was some improvement, but often I pushed myself too hard too early in the morning. Then I’d spend the day grinding my joints together as I ran after little kids.  

In May, I was so fed up that I restricted myself to only standing postures for a month. I made up a bunch of routines based around the standing postures.  Practice became a lot more calming and grounding. I had a lot less pain. And yet, I was still totally obsessed.

It occurred to me that maybe after Vipassana, I could take the rest of the month off practice and arrive at Sharath’s a brand new beginner.

Oh hi. What’s the primary series?

Of course, I want some rigid formula, some clear plan. Stop completely for one month. Do two sun salutations a day. Visualize your practice with your legs up against the wall.  Why does everything have to be a thing?

Often you hear people say that they’ve let their practice go, they’ve lost their practice.

But where did your practice go? Where did you lose it? Why is practice only second series? Only lotus postures? Without packaging something half-ass into a beautiful sentence, can’t practice be bigger than whatever we’ve let go? Whatever we’ve lost?

Once I heard an interview with Geneen Roth, author of the book Women, Food and God. I read the book and it is much less hokey than you might think. Geneen believes that people’s food problems will never dissipate until they fully accept themselves just the way they are, with their thighs and their urges to empty pints of ice cream.

The interviewer asked her, “So you mean that if someone is 300 pounds and bingeing all day long, she should work on loving herself just the way she is?”

“Well, yah,” said Geneen. “What choice does she have?”

Being cruel to yourself until your body and your practice finally measure up is a horrible option.

Love the life and the practice that you have. What other choice is there?

The End.

Darby on the seven steps of meditation

Don't forget your sweet smile

 

Women, Food and God

By Geneen Roth

I'd recommend it for sure

 

Oh, speaking of books, I am now unemployed, so maybe I will start promoting my self-help book again. Proceeds go to chais in India.

Plus it has awesome pictures by Sara E. Enquist.

 

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

Our Lives Will Never Be the Same, Part One
Our Lives Will Never Be the Same, Part Two

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.)
Why I Like to Pee Outside

 

 

2013: An Ecstatic Year with the Exuberant Bodhisattva

January: I start a new job as a French Assistant at a Montessori School. I tell tiny children to push in their chairs, go to the bathroom and wash their hands in French. Some of them stare at me with huge eyes and nod their heads in bewilderment. The rest of them cry all day. When I lie down at night, I hear their screams. I wake up at 4:10 a.m. so that I can cram in two hours of Ashtanga yoga before my one-hour commute and 9-hour day with these newfound darlings.

February: To prevent the horrible skin that comes with sleep withdrawal, I begin to rub coconut oil into my face and body before showering at night. All night I scratch myself unknowingly. My boss asks if I have a cat and if that cat is digging holes up my forearms. My face becomes horrid and blotchy and the Boatman suggests that I might be allergic to coconut oil. School closes several times due to snow and I find this to be delightful.

Also, I am permanently infected with tiny people germs. My chronic symptoms range from a sore throat, repeated sneezing, endless snot, nausea, headache, loss of appetite, and a decisive sense of mediocrity which permeates through all the cells of my body.

March:  I develop adamant views regarding potty training. I decide that all the world’s problems stem from the fact that children are allowed to shit their pants up until the traumatic age of two when they are suddenly given the responsibility of eliminating their waste at appropriate times in appropriate places. I am prepared to devote my life to this, but the Boatman points out that this would require that I make my own child which is a terrifying idea.

April: I start sleeping in until 4:30, but the cumulative lack of sleep has already led to my clinical insanity.  I cry constantly. The ecstasy of snow days is over. The people on the bus smell like stale crushed mildewed garlic. During my break one day, I meditate outside in the playground and the police come by, suspicious. In another blog, I post The Little Savage and the Hermit, the epistolary novel I wrote with my ex-boyfriend, with the hope that it will be an enormous success and deliver me from my miserable existence.  (I take this down before it has a chance to go viral. In 2014, or 2015. I can’t remember.)

May: The clinical insanity continues. I leave the house in a tearful frenzy and fall asleep crying about the birthday parties I didn’t get invited to when I was twelve. My body resurrects its previously latent weird neurological twitches.  At unpredictable intervals, my shoulders shrug involuntarily and my esophagus contracts as through I am going to puke. Sometimes I gasp out of nowhere, like I was sitting in the passenger seat of a car and a tractor trailer was driving straight towards me.

I put my menstrual blood online in a blogpost that despite its extensive preparation, does not go viral.

On May 29, exactly three years since I broke my arm in 2010, my knee swells up on the way to work. I figure I should probably ease up on my 4:30 a.m. ritual of aggressive cranking.



The Blood



 June: I get a good physiotherapist for my knee and start all the way over with Ashtanga. This allows me to get significantly more sleep. I become less obnoxious almost immediately. I read Choose Yourself by James Altucher and my oxtocin levels increase almost immediately.



Me reading Choose Yourself and radiating Oxytocin

Me reading Choose Yourself and radiating Oxytocin

July:  I go to two appointments with an expensive psychologist and then fire him. My bosses only make me work for one week at summer camp. After that I go on E.I. and head east for three and a half weeks. While on E.I., I apply for a bunch of jobs at car dealerships, referring them to this excellent blogpost about 3 ways to make the world a better place. Nobody gets back to me

August: In Ontario and Montreal, I ruminate over what the fuck I should do with my life. There is a Part One and Part Two. I figure that if I want to try and make money writing, I’m going to have to branch out and write about something other than myself. Regardless, I continue to write excessively about myself. I submit a couple of posts to Elephant Journal, who has a new program to pay writers, and am rejected three times.

After almost a month away, I miss the Boatman and the Big Black Dog immensely. I am reminded of how much I love them, and that I kind of like being home in Halifax.



Me and the Boatman. Nothing like true love.



Our Darling Big Black Dog Friend

September: I start a new contract at the Montessori School, giving myself the option of fucking off to India if necessary. But when I get there, I realize that I’m happy to see everyone again. And then my bosses offer me something magical. A seven-hour day. Every afternoon at 3:30, as I head for the bus, the children run to the fence and call out, “Good-bye, Erica.” They’re cuter this year, even the ones who cry all the time.

In much sadder news, Eliot, the Big Black Dog suddenly got old over the summer. One by one, his legs go out on him. We make the heartbreaking decision to put him down on September 27, 2013. His last few weeks and his last moments are some of the saddest memories I have. I miss him every day and still kind of expect him to greet me when I get home and come eat the corn chips I drop on the floor.



Eliot gazes at the sea at dusk. His Obituary

October: I become obsessed with death, and enter somewhat of a creative drought. Over Thanksgiving, I lose my voice in Cape Breton. Perhaps this is symbolic. I turn twenty-eight. I miss Eliot.

November: I go to Halifax BookCamp and meet some obscure and compelling literary people. Also, I learn about Dinosaur Porn. I do not write a novel in 30 days.  I consider writing some catchy, bestselling erotica, but don’t get very far on it.



Dino-porn, an interesting discovery



December: One Friday, I take the school’s compost home from work on the bus. I envision a beautiful chakra Christmas card production, and it is a moderate success.  For three weeks, the children practice four songs for the Christmas concert. The teachers end up singing by themselves. At a fancy dinner at the Bicycle Thief, I ask the Boatman’s father if I can attend his hip surgery. The answer turns out to be no.

The End.

Happy New Year, Love the Exuberant Bodhisattva

@mypelvicfloor

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I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

I read "Choose Yourself," by James Altucher and my oxytocin levels increased immediately.

I have owned James Altucher’s book “Choose Yourself,” for one week, and already it is covered in avocado stains.

Choose Yourself, by James Altucher

Choose Yourself, by James Altucher

James Altucher and I have tons in common.  We both recognize the immense value of taking a shit.  The benefits are physical, emotional, spiritual, physical, creative and financial.
If your bowels don’t function well enough to take a smooth and thorough dump, life is going to be more difficult than it has to be.

Also, James and I both have very curly hair that is usually messy.

Here is a picture of me reading “Choose Yourself.” You can’t see the avocado stains.  They are on the inside.  I am reading the chapter, “How to release the God Hormone.” It is based on James’ blogpost 10 unusual ways to release oxytocin into your life. At first I thought that oxytocin was the same as oxycontin, but I guess it is a little different.  Oxycontin is a narcotic while oxytocin  is this natural thing that your body releases when you hump your lover’s leg, or like someone’s post on Facebook, or eat a bunch of eggs and bananas and peppers mixed together.  The words are similar.  Just like the words vague, vagina, and vagus are similar.  James Altucher points this out in his oxytocin chapter and it made me laugh and release oxytocin. James says that when your vagus nerve is inflamed, you’ll feel pissed off and stressed out.  When it feels good, the whole world will seem orgasmic. Knock yourself out, everyone.

PROCRASTINATION

I just took a break from writing this post to hump the Boatman’s leg.  He was lying on the couch reading a book about philosophy.  I interrupted him and we had sex and now my vagina and vagus nerve feel spectacular. The feelings are not vague.

In his chapter, “The Seven Habits of Highly Mediocre People”originating from this post, James recommends Procrastination.  I am grateful for this and I find it convenient.

 “Choose Yourself,” has the tagline, “Be Happy, Make Millions, Live the Dream.”  I’m pretty sure that for James, what is most important is being happy.  On a couple of occasions in his life, James has had millions of dollars.  But he wasn’t happy and he wasn’t living the dream.  He was barely sleeping, his body was a wreck, and he didn’t have any friends.  In 2002, he lost fifteen million dollars in fifteen weeks.  He had a similar crash in 2008.

 

Each time, what got James back on his feet is something he calls the Daily Practice.   Essentially, it means taking care of yourself physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.

What’s the use of millions of dollars if  you hate yourself and you have no friends and you can’t take a comfortable shit every morning?

The Daily Practice can be overwhelming if you haven’t pooped or had sex in a long time, and you’re tired and you hate your job and your brain feels stale and dead inside.  The good news is  James says that you don’t need to fix everything all at once.  Remember, we are only becoming highly effective, mediocre people.  No sweat.  We can all do this.

I was listening to an interview with James on  mygreenlight.com, and James says that if you are looking to begin somewhere, start by getting enough sleep and then recognizing the abundance that is already in your life.  For instance, James says, if you’re stuck in traffic, instead of being pissed off about wasting time, focus on the abundance of cars.  So many cars, so much human development.  So much prosperity.  Or at least a lot of car payments. 

From about January to the end of May, I’ve been pretty irritated about my life.  I’d been waking up at 4 or 4:30 a.m., cranking myself through a vigorous and somewhat neurotic yoga practice and then hoofing it to work where I nag at small children to push in their chairs and wash their dirty hands in French.  Every week, I was missing more than a full night of sleep, about two hours every night.  I became volatile, hysterical. I thought I would kill the children I worked with. My body developed these weird neurological twitches.  Throughout the day, my shoulders would shrug involuntarily. My esophagus would contract as though I were going to puke. Most mornings before leaving for work I would throw a hysterical fit about some tragic issue like how I didn’t have time to take a shit, my pants were dirty, the new kid was a total brat, and my boss would probably make me stay late. 

The miracle of yoga had never been less abundant.

Fortunately, about a month ago, my left knee swelled up on my way to work. 

Here’s my knee, after the physiotherapist taped it up and it looked like a scrotum.



My Scrotum Knee. My pants pulled down

Now I sleep in until about 5:30.  I do half as many yoga poses.  I am two hundred times less bitchy.

My knee is healing really well.  It doesn’t look like a scrotum anymore.

And my shoulder and esophagus twitch significantly less.

I have energy to do more of the Daily Practice.  I read. I write down ideas, even the stupid ones, not every day, but when I think of it, and don’t feel too self-conscious.  I try not to be so pissed off about everything.  That was hard when I was really tired.  Now I am not as tired and so it is easier.

It is also easier to see the abundance.  Before I would look at my work day and see eight and a half hours to kill and waste, plus the commute. 

Being grateful for what I had seemed impossible.  I could barely say thank you to the busdriver.  He was driving me somewhere I didn’t want to go.  When I thought of saying thank you, I’d get a lump in my throat and feel nauseous and ashamed. 

I’ve been forcing myself to say thank you to the bus driver, every day.  As I get less tired, I feel more sincere. 

Although I’m not making millions of dollars, or living the dream exactly, I am trying to be as happy I can be, right now.  Sometimes I feel bitter and disappointed that I don’t have as much time to write and do yoga as I want.  But at least I have some time.  More than most people. 

Also, there is some abundance in my job.  I get to walk all the time.  This helps me to not be constipated or fat.  The school has really big windows and I can always see the sky.  Plus the children are full of abundance. They are full of youth and snot and sometimes diarrhea.  And if you listen, they say many interesting things.

Last week, a five-year-old asked me if I had boobies.  An hour later, a two-year-old looked at me from across the sandbox and said, “Erica, you don’t have any nipples.”

James Altucher says that most people should quit their jobs.  Probably he is right.  Someday I will quit my job.  Or maybe I will get fired for my radical views on potty training. That is my dream. To get fired because of the potty training. But while I am waiting, I'm going to think about my nipples and laugh.

The End.

Thank you, James. You’ve done wonders for my outlook.  And you don’t need to pay me back for the book, because my life is already full of abundance.

Watch James Altucher explain Choosing Yourself, in 13 minutes:

 

Follow James Altucher on Twitter: @jaltucher

Check out James's Blog www.jamesaltucher.com

Me and my vagus nerve: @mypelvicfloor

Ecstasy, Exuberance, Oxytocin and Abundance on Facebook

I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt 

What the fuck should I do with my life, Part One
Not Separate From All That Is
Prozac Made Me a Better Person