Yoga Continued

The second tip my friend gave me is that consistency is key. You'll get better results from ten minutes of yoga every day than from a two-hour session once a week.

That's a very freeing piece of information because, although I enjoy practicing yoga and don't mind doing an hour-long workout, somedays I just don't have a whole hour to spare.

So, since talking to her I've practiced at least six days a week--some days twenty minutes, some days forty-five, some days an hour. It just depends on how I feel and how much time I have. But even the short workouts relax me and make me feel better--mentally and physically. Plus, no matter how long my daily yoga workout is, I have the mental benefit of the daily discipline.

Yoga Resumed

During the year that I lived in Oxford, I began taking yoga classes. I'd read/study/write all day, and then take a yoga class two or three times a week, before my evening classes at Ole Miss began. I loved it. First of all, it got out all the stiffness and kinks I'd acquired from a day of study, which was nice. But it also really got rid of stress. For an hour, I didn't think about anything that I needed to do, had to do, should do, ought to do . . you know the drill. And I was getting stronger (which surprised me, because I already ran/power walked and lifted weights, but yoga was really making a difference in my body--both the way it felt and the way it looked), and I was much more limber.

Well, the classes ended and I moved back home and spent a year studying for comps and writing my dissertation. In other words, I spent a year sitting on my butt. I kept up my morning exercise routine but not the late afternoon yoga. And I missed it.

Last semester, I tried taking some classes here in town, but the times were inconvenient and the classes just didn't measure up to those I'd taken before. I always left disappointed. So, I finally contacted a friend at Ole Miss who teaches yoga and asked for suggestions.

Her first suggestion was to create a personal space for practice. It didn't have to be huge or fancy, just private, spacious, comfortable, and readily available. This seems like such a simple suggestion, but I can't say enough how helpful it was. I often thought about doing yoga at home, but I rarely did because I didn't really have a convenient spot and didn't feel like bothering to clear away one.

We have an extra bedroom that had become a sort of leaving-grounds for things the kids brought into the house on their temporary stays but didn't bother to take with them to their new homes. So, I devoted an hour or so one morning to cleaning out that bedroom. I threw away things, hauled away things, and stored things until the room was bare of everything but basic furniture. This left a wide bare spot in the middle of the carpeted room for my sticky mat. I placed a small table against the wall to hold a candle, and underneath it I placed my yoga videos and straps. I also arranged a convenient spot to place my laptop to play soft music or a video.

I've been amazed at what a difference this makes. I've practiced almost every day since I've set up my yoga space. Now, all I have to do is walk upstairs and I'm ready to practice.

More about yoga tomorrow.

Finding Time

I know that people who are not readers would think that I read a lot. And I do. But unfortunately, most of my reading time is dedicated either to things I'm teaching or things I'm thinking about teaching, which is all good and well I suppose, but does not fulfill my need for recreational reading or for keeping current.

So, I'm trying something new. I've blogged in the past about how I listened to audiobooks on my commute back and forth to Ole Miss, and I loved it. It made the drive go by more quickly, of course, but it also let me read for pleasure when almost every non-driving minute of my day was dedicated to reading, studying, or writing for classes. The eight-or-so miles in to HU in the mornings doesn't quite qualify as a commute, though, so I hadn't rented an audiobook in more than a year. But lately I've been feeling desperate. There's so much I want to read, long to read, need to read, but I just didn't see it happening.

My solution? I joined audible.com. For $7.49 per month for the first three months I get one audiobook download per month--my choice--and they have lots of books to choose from: bestsellers, fiction, nonfiction. After three months, the price goes up to $14.95 a month, but I can cancel at any time, so I figure I'll know before three months are up if this is worth it or not. My plan is to use my daily exercise time to listen to a book. I walk or run listening to music on my ipod anyway--why not use that time to read?

Maybe I'll even be tempted to exercise longer.

Yes, but How?

It's very easy to get caught up in the idea of being more spiritual, but if I am not intentional (there's that word again!), that's all it will be: an idea, not a reality. And that is not what I want. I know that I am an "idea person." I can easily live in the world of books and ideas and feel like I'm doing something or changing my life, but all I'm actually doing is reading about doing it, thinking about changing it.

I guess I should define my terms here. We've all heard the old saying "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." But I'm not talking about having good intentions. I'm talking about living with Intentionality. The dictionary defines "Intentionality" as "the quality or state of being intentional; having, or being formed, by an intention; doing by intention or by design, on purpose." So you see that Living Intentionally carries me past the state of forming good intentions into the realm of actually living them.

This, of course, is not a new idea. I'm always amazed at my own slowness to grasp concepts, to fully comprehend things I already know and sometimes even practice in certain areas of my life. When my youngest child started school, I decided that that was the perfect time to begin a regular exercise program. Knowing my own body clock and personal propensities, I realized that I must work out first thing in the morning or it wouldn't get done. I intended to exercise; I chose a time; and I carried through with my plan. I didn't allow myself to decide every morning if I wanted to do it because the decision had already been made. I didn't just intend to exercise--I wanted to be the kind of person who exercises regularly. Years later, I still am. And I know it's because I have a plan, a schedule, and I follow it. It's not because I have some vague idea of needing to exercise. It's a part of my life now, a component of who I am.

This, then, will be the model for my intentional spirituality. There are some really interesting parallels. First of all, I realize that my main time for Scripture reading, devotional/theological reading, prayer, and meditation must be in the morning. For one reason, this symbolically puts God first in my life. It sets the tone of my day. Additionally, just like exercise, if done early in the morning it can't as easily become crowded out by the normal busyness of the day. But there are other similarities. I haven't done exactly the same workout for all these years. I've changed and adapted my workouts as I've encountered new information and as my needs have changed. I fully expect to do this in my spiritual pursuits. I'll read different scriptures, and from different versions. I'll pursue different ideas in the devotional and theological texts I read. I'll investigate contemplative prayer and different forms of meditating on God and scripture. And, just as I've incorporated functional fitness (taking the stairs instead of the elevator, parking farther away and walking, etc.) into my life, I plan to incorporate "functional" spirituality, for lack of a better term, into my life. I don't want to put my pursuit of God in a box, relegating it only to corporate worship or morning devotional times.

But we'll talk about that tomorrow . . .

Booking It--Niches

There are certain types of books that I more or less assume all readers read. (Novels, for example.)But then there are books that only YOU read.

Instructional manuals for fly-fishing. How-to books for spinning yarn. How to cook the perfect souffle. Rebuilding car engines in three easysteps. Dog training for dummies. Rewiring yourhouse without electrocuting yourself. Tips on how to build a NASCAR course in your backyard. Stuff like that.

What niche books do YOU read?

They're right. Novels have always made up the bulk of my reading. But I've always read up on subjects I'm interested in, too. Right now, my "niche" reading falls into these main categories: Health/Exercise, Women's Spirituality, and Feminist Literary Theory.

And you?

Peak Experience

For a couple of years, my husband and I have been talking about climbing Pinnacle Mountain. Often one of us would mention going, but the other would think that it was too hot (me), or too cold (him), or we’d have something else to do that interfered.

Last Friday, when the weatherman informed us that Saturday would be beautiful—sunny, with a high near 70 degrees—my husband said, “Okay. Tomorrow’s the day. If we keep on putting it off, one of us will have to push the other’s wheelchair up the mountain.”

Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration; we’re not quite that old. But he was right. What were we waiting for? “I’m game,” I said.

We climbed the West Summit Trail to the top (1011 ft. elevation), a 1 ½ mile round trip. And after seeing the view from the top, we’ve decided we’re going back. After all, we haven’t climbed the East Summit Trail yet . . .

And the best thing? I didn’t think about my dissertation all afternoon. Not even once.

Cajoling Myself

No, I’m not writing this post just because I want to use the word “cajoling,” although it is a great word, isn’t it? Say it out loud. See? It even sounds like you’re giving yourself a pep talk, kind of like poking yourself in the ribs. And it has a happy sound. You’re encouraging yourself, not beating yourself up (that would be “manhandling” or “coercing.”)

Okay, enough about words and down to business. I’m actually writing this post because this morning, I realized something about myself. I’m not organized or disciplined or driven to achieve. I simply cajole myself through life.

Today was weightlifting day, something that comes around about three times a week for me. Some days, I really enjoy it. I’m eager to begin, and each lift feels great. My body feels fit and strong. I am joyously alive. I even feel a little righteous. Today was not such a day.

I told myself, “Just do your run, and if you don’t feel like lifting, you don’t have to.” Of course, this is a sneaky move. First of all, it gets me in my exercise clothes and out the door, which is half the battle. Then after my run I’m already sweaty, so I can’t use the excuse that I don’t want to get that way. I told myself, “Well, you might as well go ahead and lift a few weights. If you want to quit after the first set, you can.” Then, of course, it was “Well, just one more set.” Then, “You don’t want to be a quitter, do you?” And finally, “Come on. Just one more set! Think of all those hump-backed little old ladies you see in Walmart who struggle to lift their groceries from the cart to the checkout. You don’t want to end up like that do you?” And before I knew it, I was done.

See, it wasn’t will power. I just cajoled myself through it, a strategy I knew would work because I’d done it before. And not just with workouts.

I got through my undergraduate years this way. I was driving two hours one-way, with three children at home, and when I’d get overwhelmed, I’d tell myself: “You can quit tomorrow, but you’re not going to quit today. All you have to do is what’s required today.” And I didn’t quit. Certainly I’ve gotten through my doctoral program by cajoling myself. “Wow, that’s a really long checklist of really hard requirements. Maybe I can’t do this. Well, I’ll just get through the coursework and worry about the rest later.” When it got time for my comps reading, it was: “Just start the first book. Okay, check. Now the next one . . .” And writing papers? “Okay, just do the research. Now an outline. Just write an introduction . . .” I plan on completing the dissertation using the same method.

Writing teachers always say to stay away from clichés, and I understand why. They are “tired language,” and writers want to be original and striking. But clichés become clichés because they are true to life. “The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.” “Inch by inch, it’s a cinch. Yard by yard, it’s too hard.”

Works for me.

Just Passin' Thru

One of the greatest simple pleasures of Fall for me is moving through leaves. I know it sounds childish and maybe even silly, but being in the middle of autumn leaves really makes me happy.

Several stretches of the road to our house are tree-lined, and I love it when the wind blows the leaves from the trees as I’m driving through—it’s like speeding through a blizzard of color. Then, the next day, the road is covered with the leaves, and as I drive through them, I look back through the rearview mirror and watch them swirl. I’m kicking up jewel-toned dust.

I also love jogging through blowing leaves. They are above me, below me, around me. I feel like I’m in my own personal kaleidoscope. The other day, I was out for my run and one beautiful, perfect leaf was caught in a breeze, dancing like the feather in Forrest Gump, and I just stopped and watched it until it settled at my feet.

You know it must be really special when a Type A personality stops and admires nature in the middle of her run.

Life on Hold

Everywhere you look nowadays are books and articles encouraging readers to live life to the fullest. We’re instructed to make a “bucket list” and get started crossing the items off. We’re told to live in the moment, to dream big, to celebrate ourselves, to enjoy simple pleasures. There are slogans like “Today is the first day of the rest of your life,” and “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans” to shake us out of our stupor.

In one article I read, a woman was packing up her mother’s things, getting ready to move her into a nursing home. Inside a bureau, she found the gifts she’d given her mother over the last few years—a beautiful nightgown, a scented candle, luxurious bath towels—still wrapped in tissue paper. “Mom,” she asked in bewilderment, “why didn’t you use the gifts I gave you?”

“I was saving them,” her mother answered.

I thought about that a lot. Saving them for what? For when life’s perfect? For a magical future day that never arrives?

At first, I felt pretty good about myself regarding this issue. I don’t have any items stashed away for later. I burn the candles I buy. We don’t have any towels I’d call “luxurious,” but we do use the ones we have. I do have wedding china on display in the china cabinet, but I get it out for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and other important family events.

But then I realized that there is one item that I buy and then invariably put off using—new running shoes. I wait until my current pair’s about worn out, order a new pair, and when they come in, I let them sit in the closet. Sometimes for months. I mean, they’re so clean when they’re new, so shiny and white. So there they sit, and day after day I look at them, until finally I admit that my old shoes are causing my feet or my knees to hurt and realize how stupid it is to have good shoes that I refuse to wear.

Reluctantly, I get them out of the closet and put them on, lace them up, and head out the door. And after a day or two, even sooner if it’s rainy, they don’t look so new anymore. And I survive.

Maybe there’s some deep Freudian thing going on here.

Straight Lines and Circles

Some days, exercise is a pleasure. I feel as though I could go on forever. The temperature is perfect, there’s a light breeze, I’m able to ignore all thoughts of what I need to do when I get back home. But other days, I have to admit, it takes an act of the will to keep going for the time or distance I’ve set out to cover.

Here’s where straight lines and circles come in. Geometry matters. Long lines are better than short ones, and big circles are better than small ones.

I have always pretty much lived in the country. (I know I lived in Aubrey, but as you could sneeze while driving through and miss the whole town, it does not negate the preceding statement.) Living in rural areas is not a bad thing, but if you run or walk for exercise, a lot of the time you end up running in straight lines instead of circles. You choose a point, put one foot in front of the other until you get there, and then turn around and go back to the starting point. This works well for relatively short distances. If you can force yourself to the mid-point, you have no choice but to complete the distance if you want to get back home.

Now, if you want to do some long distance running, you can stick with the same route and just repeat it a few times, but believe me, unless you have lots of will power, it doesn’t work. Every time you return to the starting point, which is usually your own driveway, a little devil on your left shoulder reminds you that you could quit RIGHT NOW. I think it would be the same for me to try to do long distance running on a track—with every loop I’d be fighting the urge to quit. Short lines and small circles just don’t work for me.

Back when I was doing some long distance running, I’d often have my husband drive me a certain distance from the house and let me out. Then I had no choice but to run all the way home, one long straight line. It was planning versus will power.

Last year, for the first time in my life, I lived in a city—Oxford, Mississippi, a beautiful place for walkers and joggers. While there, I ran circles. I’d step out the front door, choose a direction, and make a huge somewhat-circle, a different one almost every day. Up and down hills, around the courthouse square, past City Grocery, by Bottletree Bakery. Down Lamar, past the huge gothic-looking house that was the inspiration for Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily,” and on by his home, Rowan Oak. Through tree-lined streets, admiring the leaves in the fall, the azaleas in the spring, the beautiful old houses on every side. Up the steps at the Ford Center, through the Grove, past the library, by the big fountain.

Many days, because it was just across the street from where I lived, I’d begin with a jog through the hills of St. Peter’s Cemetery, where Faulkner is buried. Early one morning, after making it to the top of the hill, I saw three really big guys standing ahead of me on the paved cemetery path, blocking the exit, looking like they were waiting for me. I was a little wary, but I slowed down when they said, “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you know where William Faulkner is?” I smiled, directed them to the bottom of the hill and a few yards to their right, and continued along my circular way.

Maybe It's Baa-aack

The other morning I was putting on my running shoes, getting ready to go out and pound the pavement (or, more appropriately for our road, gallivant through the gravel). After securely tying both shoes in double knots and walking to the door, I realized that they were full of little pieces of sand and gravel. So, I took them off, shook them out over the garbage can, and put them on again.

I made it only a few feet from my back door before I had to stop. I felt something sort of pinching the top of my foot. I reached down and tugged at my sock, thinking that would fix it. I took a few more steps. I tried to ignore it. I did NOT want to take off my shoes again. A few more steps. Now something was definitely stabbing into the top of my foot.

Exasperated, I propped my foot on the fence rail, untied my shoe AGAIN, and reached in a finger to assess the situation. I kid you not, inside my sock, on top of my foot, was a wooden toothpick.

(Note to readers: Imagine Twilight Zone theme song playing here.)

I can come up with plausible scenarios for a toothpick stuck to the bottom of my foot, although how I could actually walk around, put on socks, then put on shoes without feeling it, I don’t know. But the top? Any ideas on this one?

P.S. There are no children in the house. (Theme song plays louder here.)

Problem Solved

I do not consider myself a fast writer. When I’m going to write about a topic, I do my best work if I allow myself an extended period of time before the project is due. The first step of my writing process, always, is just to know that I’m going to write on a particular subject. That’s it. I just let it stew.

Then something really exciting begins to happen. I get ideas. They come at odd times. I cannot plan it. I cannot force it. I’ve been driving down the road and have pulled over to write down an idea on a scrap of paper scrounged from the glove box. I’ve written on napkins in restaurants. I’ve had epiphanies during Sunday sermons and quickly scrawled them on the margin of the church bulletin. I’ve outlined major points on the back of bank deposit tickets while pushing a buggy down the aisle at Walmart. I’ve woken in the middle of the night and gotten up to record my thoughts in my notebook. I’ve even occasionally written in the dark and had a pretty hard time deciphering the next morning.

The key, you see, is giving myself time to think, and then writing down the thoughts when I have them. If I don’t write them down right then, they’re gone. I’ll remember that I had a great idea; I just won’t remember what that idea actually was. Believe me, I’ve learned this the hard way. (Sniff, sniff. Violins in the background.)

Writing down my ideas should be easy enough to do, but I’ve had a small problem. My very best ones seem to come in the middle of my morning run, usually at the point of farthest distance from my house. Terrified I’ll forget before I can grab pencil and paper, I repeat the idea over and over and over in my mind, desperately picking up the pace until I burst through the back door, frantically scrambling for writing material.

But I think I’ve solved my problem. The other night, my husband was watching Monday Night Football, and I happened to notice that the quarterback had a flipchart-like playbook strapped to his arm! Light bulb moment! I just need to design some type of stretchy band equipped with a small memo pad and pencil that I can slip on my arm while running.

Next thing you know, I’ll be taping my glasses back together and wearing a pocket protector in my front blouse pocket.

No, No! Bad Dog!

One of the great pleasures in my life is a good long walk. It’s my natural stress reliever. For a half-hour or more, I leave everything behind—reading, writing, housework, bills. For however long I choose to simply put one foot in front of the other, no outside commitments intrude. Sometimes I simply enjoy the weather, the beauty of the day. Sometimes I pound the pavement to the beat of the songs on my ipod, getting lost in the music. Some days, I just let my mind drift; other days I set myself to pondering something that I’m writing about, and, like solving a math problem in my sleep, I often come up with the perfect thesis, or a better plan of organization, or a clearer way to present an obscure point.

But nothing can ruin a good walk like an aggressive dog. And I speak from experience. Quite a few years ago, I was attacked by a pit bull, so anyone who tries to convince me that they’re not dangerous will find themselves talking to a brick wall. I mean, imagine yourself being chased by this and tell me again how gentle and loving they can be:

Although it happened many years ago, the images remain forever fresh in my mind. The dog attacked me at the end of my own driveway. I’d gone out to get the mail, and luckily, I had not let my daughter, a toddler at the time, accompany me all the way to the roadside mailbox. The dog attacked me repeatedly, slamming into me and biting me. Pit bulls have power unimaginable to those who haven’t seen it or felt it. When the dog would hit me, I’d fly up into the air as if hit by an NFL tackle, and land on my back. I kept getting up because I was afraid it would go after my daughter if I stayed still and she moved and drew his attention.

I was very lucky, because although pit bulls usually rip and tear, I ended up with only about six or eight bites, all puncture wounds, and extensive bruising. I don’t guess I’ll ever really know what stopped him, but suddenly he quit attacking and just stood there watching me. I’ve always secretly pictured an angel, maybe like the one who prevented Adam and Eve from returning to the Garden of Eden, standing in front of him with a flaming sword barring the way, saying, “Enough!” I backed slowly away, grabbed my daughter, and eased toward the house until I felt close enough to break into a full-fledged run.

Other than a few tiny scars, I suffered no lasting damage, except for a great mistrust of dogs. For a while, my reactions were totally illogical. A miniature poodle could run at me and I would almost lose it. I'm a lot better now, but I still can’t see a pit bull without a shiver running down my spine.

Just the other day I heard on the news that a nine-year-old Pulaski County boy was attacked by pit bulls while he was playing outside in his neighborhood. Tell me again how pit bulls are misunderstood animals?

Running with Cows

I ran into a friend from my old hometown last weekend, and she mentioned how much she missed our walks. We had been faithful walking partners for a long time. After one or the other of us drove our kids to school, we’d walk three or four miles a day, five days a week, hot weather, cold weather, and anything in between. We talked about our kids, our husbands, our diets (usually about how they were not going according to plan), our friends, our families, our farms, how hard it was to get jeans that fit. We even talked sometimes about politics and religion. That’s what kind of friends we were. Oh, and we laughed. A lot.

There were two major things that made us so compatible. We walked fast, and we had plenty to talk about. We’d both had other walking partners, but what they called walking we called strolling, and what we called walking they called running from a fire. Walkers and strollers do not great exercise partners make. And then the conversation . . . One of our neighbors once told us that he knew when we were coming even if he couldn’t see us because we sounded like a gaggle of geese.

Well, now that I’ve moved away, I have new exercise partners. Now, I run with the cows. I live about six-or-so miles from town, and much of our country lane is bordered by pastures. But my new exercise partners are not nearly as motivated or as friendly as my former one. In the early spring, during calving season, many of them are skittish and dart away as soon as they see me. In the summer, when it’s hot, they just stand along the fence and stare at the stupid human running and sweating while they try to be as still as possible. In winter, they’re fickle. Sometimes they won’t even look at me—it all depends on which way the wind is blowing.

I guess the cows and my ipod are okay company. But, I really miss walking with you, too.

Functional Fitness

Health experts recommend what they call functional fitness—parking at the far end of the parking lot so you have to walk farther to the door, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, doing stretches while you talk on the phone, delivering messages to co-workers in person instead of always relying on e-mail. Just ways, they say, of adding extra activity into a lifestyle that has become increasingly sedentary.

I try to do these things, don’t you? After all, I don’t really want to become a little old lady who can’t push her shopping cart in the grocery store or even get up from her easy chair without assistance.

But I have to admit, some days I’d like to ask my husband to just let me out at the door. And, wouldn’t it be fun, just once, to ignore the stairs, plop down in front of the elevator, and enjoy an ice cream cone? Two scoops. And yes, sprinkles too.