OK. So I feel constipated again. Emotionally. Or whatever. And my blog sucks with that kind of thing because blog articles are just different. They can’t be mind dumps. I mean, maybe they can be. But not the kind of blog I have. Ugh. I almost wish it was web 1.0 again when blogs WERE just mind dumps and no one cared. But now, it has to be something polished and nice. It has to be engaging. You have to think about your audience. Whatever. I wasn’t even going to talk about bloggging. So I should stop now. On to the next topic…
What was I going to write about? I want to write about so much I don’t even know where to start. This is one of those FUCK ME IN THE ASS WITH A SPOON moments. It’s my own phrase I made up. I like it. You can’t steal it. You can’t steal the spoon, either. There is no spoon.
Fuck. See this isn’t what I was going to write about either. Matrix. WTF? Drivel. Just useless drivel. I’m being a dumbass. I’m just prolonging and avoiding what I want to write about. Because that’s what I do. OK. So lets cut through this bullshit. I need a therapist. Lets just get that straight. I miss having a therapist and I fucking need another therapist. That’s the one thing that sucks about third world countries. There are NO therapists! And despite how HAPPY I proclaim to be at this point of my life, and I am. I’m fucking happy. I really am. No joke. Despite all that though, I STILL feel like I need a therapist. Why? Needing a therapist isn’t admitting that you’re fucking messed up. But, maybe I am. Needing a therapist just means you’ve got some shit that you’d like sorted out in your head.
I’ve got some shit that I’d like sorted out in my head. I guess that’s the point of this entry. What shit?
If we go deep deep deep, I’ve always been an introvert. Maybe partly by personality and partly because I’m an only child. It’s been hard. I always wanted a brother or sister for Christmas, not one of those cool, fancy new toys. Yeah, I admit I wanted a playmate in the form of sibling. But it’s not like I didn’t have any friends. There were neighbor boys. Or girls. I became friends with one kid named Brent because he shared my last name, and wasn’t that something? We’d play dominoes together. He’d visit his grandma or maybe it was his babysitter that was my neighbor. I don’t know. He was around a lot.
I don’t really want to drivel on about my childhood. But suffice it to say, I was shy. Painfully shy. The kind of shy where I was basically mute. Even in highschool, despite how hard I tried to “grow out of my shell” and become a “social butterfly”, the thought of speaking to boys made my hands sweat, my heart pump louder, and my mouth dry. And that was EVEN if I found them fucking horrible to look at. Meaning, it could be ANY male species and not just someone I thought was hot or had a crush on at the moment. Anyway, that fucking sucked.
I’ve tried all my life basically to “grow out of my shell”. I’m an adult now. I’m almost 30. All of a sudden, I’m in my “late twenties”. That kind of shit just creeps up on you. It’s not that I’m dreading 30. I’m actually looking forward to the 30s. Two words. SEXUAL PEAK! There will be a lot of “making love” in my 30s. I can guarantee you that. Fuck yeah!
But, the thing about 30 is, I’m an ADULT now. And the farther away I am from my 20s, the more “adult” life just seems to get. You have no excuses anymore. You can’t act like a dumb little shit because you’re 20. That may have been cool when you were 20, and the 20s afford you those little mistakes and “lessons”. And it’s not like you have to be PERFECT in your 30s. I’m not saying that. There are still a lot of dumb people in their 30s, 40s, 50s, and beyond. I don’t know. I guess I’m just saying you have to own yourself a bit more though. And my entire childhood was spent in depression and angst and being a “victim” which is entirely immature pre-fabricated mind shit. A change of perspective would do me good and NOW. Now I don’t even sweat when I talk to guys. I’m not nervous. And I know how to carry on a conversation, for the most part (I won’t lie that I can still seem socially awkward). I LIKE meeting new people. Life is peachy and I’m no longer a victim, but the master of my own destiny. No, I haven’t been reading self-help books. OK, maybe I’ve been reading new-agey books. Which is probably even worst.
Fuck being a victim. Being in the temple, I feel like a new woman. One of the monks pulled me aside one day and said I needed to “talk more”. That I needed to spread my joy and friendliness. That I’m a nice girl, a good girl. But I just needed to share. Quit hiding behind my walls. Because essentially, there’s nothing to hide. It got to me a bit. It reminded me of those mute days. And how far I still need to go, I guess. How much I still need to just LET GO. All that emotional baggage. I need to stop carrying it now. But whatever. I’ll take that not as a downer, but as something positive. I’ve got a lot to give, and YES, I want to share. I’m reborn now. It’s so cliche, but it’s true. I’ve come a long way.
Look at me. I’m all holy and shit. Instead of masturbating at night, I rub my Buddhist prayer beads and silently chant “Omituofo” in my head. As if that’s somehow going to rub me more pure. This religion stuff is seriously making me feel a bit crazy. And not even in a bad way. Or a good way. It’s just… way. Like, totally tubular! No way! Way! Crazy. I don’t know.
I was a bad Catholic. I mean, I’m not particularly Catholic and lets face it. I never was… When mom forced me to go to church as a kid, I would sing the hymns loudly. Only instead of singing the words in the book, if I was feeling particularly ornery, I would sing the words on the plaques against the wall instead.
In dedication to… blahblahblah. In memory of…!
When she asked me to pray the rosary (or whatever you call the ritual) with her, I begrudgingly obliged. The rosary is friggen LONG. Each bead represents one Hail Mary or Our Father or I don’t even know. I would rush through my prayers and talk like one of those speedy infomercial guys that would read through all the disclaimers.
I don’t know about you, but that’s way more effort than saying “Omituofo!” for every bead I rub.
I like the word rub. But every time I type it it’s making me feel a little bit hornier. Rub. Rub. Rub-a-dub-dub. I’m a genie in a bottle, baby. Gotta rub me the right way, honey. Actually, rub-a-dub-dub makes me think of Bert and Ernie. Way to go word association and wandering minds mixed with stream of consciousness writing! But I bet Bert and Ernie were gay, weren’t they? That’s some nice rub-a-dub-dub action. Showers are immaculate. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Wink, wink.
I used to live with a gay couple. I’d hear them having sex sometimes and then I’d smile like Amelie and think about how many other people were getting it on and having orgasms at this exact moment. I like it when I hear other people having sex. Like in hotel rooms on the other side of a very thin wall. It makes me smile and laugh and maybe even rub myself. Ha. This entry is pretty much filth and I love it. I could use a little more filth in my life. All this purity shit is making feel unbalanced. Instability in too much stability. Something like that.
Before I came here, I vowed I’d be completely celibate. As in, no masturbation. You know how celibate (as in, no dick in vagina) I’ve been? Long enough for me to go crazy. But not as long as one of my exes (five years!!), who is waiting for that special someone and super picky and trying to woo a super Christian Nepali girl who doesn’t want to have sex until she gets married. I only mention she’s Nepali because I don’t think many Nepalese are Christian. Way to go, proselytizing Christians! That’s +1 for the Christ team!
Anyway, good luck with that, buddy. We still talk online, sometimes, and it’s this weird relationship of whose “breasts looked so hot I wanna suck them” and “you don’t even have a chance with him/her!” and fuck no I’m not giving you a second chance, don’t even think about it. We talk about stupid shit a lot.
I guess I’m super picky too, but I don’t want to wait. As in, I don’t want to wait for Romeo or Knight in Shining Armour dude or whatever ridiculous fairy tale I’m supposed to buy into. I ain’t no damsel here! I’m living my own life. I don’t want to wait to have sex, either. I’m trying to transcend. Except, I’m not even sure of what. Dicks in vaginas? Masturbation? Romance? Relationships? Love? Sex? Desire?
They feed me desire. Desire is the cause of all suffering. Second Noble Truth. I guess that’s true. Sure. But why can’t I have desire? What’s so wrong about suffering? Sometimes I enjoy it. Men are worth a little suffering. I want to shake the boat a little. The waters are too calm. I need some drama in my life. That’s what I think. But there’s a part of me that also thinks I want to transcend all this drama. That I don’t need any one and that relationships are futile and full of suffering and why even bother?
How do I merge my two extremes? Converge them into something healthy. How can I be so sexual and yet so born-again virgin? I don’t even get myself sometimes.
I like the term “vege” because it reminds me of vag, which makes me snicker like a school girl, ’cause I’m immature like that. And vaginas are a pretty great thing, I think.
So yeah. I used to date a vegan. He was tall and skinny. No, lanky. Your typical vegan build. 6’2″ to my 5’1″. He had a long neck and reminded me of a giraffe, but he was hot. Maybe not in the conventional sense, but I’ve never been one for convention. He was an emo kid and I was a little scenester. Two indie poseurs in Portland, Oregon. He was the only person I’ve dated that’s not a musician, but with his collection of vinyls and compact discs (remember those?) ranging over 10,000, it was practically the same thing, and maybe even more annoying. He gave me a Saves the Day LP once, and played Black Heart Procession and Botch on our car rides together, just to prove that he could be sweet and manly. Or something like that. I played Jessie and My Whetstone over and over again. It reminded me of our relationship.
One night, we watched “Dancer in the Dark” in his room sharing a futon. And by watch I mean made out. The whole time. Best movie ever. No, really. We both love Bjork.
We were eachothers NCMOs. That’s what the Mormons call Non-Committal Make-Outs for people who don’t want to fuck around. I’m not Mormon but I’m a little bit Puritan like that. Whatever. Whatever works. I was 19 and still a virgin and not about to give it up to just anyone.
We went to vegan cafes together, and we’d buy vegan Oreos (the generic brand) and then dip them into a glass of soy milk. He’d make me vegan smoothies and share vegan ice cream. Pint sized with one spoon. Then we’d play tennis together and he’d beat me every time but I loved the challenge. He took me to this abandoned barge in the middle of the city during nighttime. It was a little bit mysterious and a little bit creepy and maybe some parts romantic, too. Then he took me to Mt. Tabor. The kind of spot where Jimmy Bob and Sally Sue go to watch the moonlight and the stars and make-out. Every city should have a spot like that. For the romantics.
As all things of impermanence go, I cried when it ended. He was maybe the funnest “relationship” I’ve ever had. He told me the thought of making out with me when I could have meat stuck to my teeth or milk down my throat just grossed him out. I don’t even drink milk, and so that hurt. Silly and laughable now, but I vowed never to date a vegan again.
* * *
Flash forward 7 years. Four months strong and I’m still a vegetarian. The food is perfect, and I’m realizing, I could do this. Really do this. I’ve always been a bit curious of the vegetarian lifestyle. I dated a vegan, after all. When things ended, it didn’t stop my curiosity to read vegan propaganda like John Robbin’s Diet for a New America and other literature about the foods we eat and the choices we make. I read Fast Food Nation and watched Supersize Me. I’ve been interested in the topic of food production for awhile. I even read through Skinny Bitch at Powell’s book store once and felt the oppression of two skinny bitches telling me I needed to shove carrots down my throat (wink) to lose weight.
Heart shaped dumpling! <3
Being vegetarian doesn’t make me skinny, but it doesn’t make me fat either. I’ve experimented with vegetarianism before, but never consistently, and often, with fish so that pretty much cancels out the vegetarian part. When my friends back in the states had a “bring your own meat” barbecue, I brought a boca (soy) burger instead, because that seemed more yummy. Maybe I’m naturally inclined towards vegetarianism. Who knows.
The Philippines is a meat-heavy culture. I’m sugar coated at the temple where they feed delicious (to me) vegetarian meals three times a day. Who knew that I would start my vegetarianism in the Philippines of all places? If I can do it here (the real test will be outside, after the temple stay), I can do it anywhere.
It goes without saying that I’m against the meat industry. It’s a pretty disgusting thing to think about once you read about it. The hormones and chemicals and commodifying living things like they were mere objects. But it’s also a pretty easy thing to ignore when you see packaged meat at your local grocery store, or bight into a big, juicy hamburger. There’s a disconnect there that people don’t think about and I’m just as guilty as anyone else. I still miss that burger, sometimes.
Buddhism taught me how not to ignore. We’ve learned the illusory nature of the table. The table as a sum of all its parts. The wood. The tree to make the wood. The people to cut it down. The machinery. The roots. The ground. The Earth. We learned about “causes and conditions”. To take into consideration all of the elements to make the desk a desk, or the food on your plate available. The people it took to cut the vegetables and cook the meal. The transportation it took to get to the market. The garden it took to yield crop. And the farmers it took to grow them. We learned to be mindful.
Suddenly, that perfectly packaged meat isn’t so perfect anymore. When you look with new eyes–with eyes of awareness and mindfulness–you can’t ignore the process.
Sure, I believe animals are a natural part of the food cycle like the best of us. Animals eat animals. They’ve had to suffer in the wild where its survival of the fittest. What makes the killing for food from a human’s hands any different? This is the thought that propelled me to continue eating meat after all the books I read.
But then, there’s mass production. The mechanization. Human’s being wasteful. The energy it takes for consumption. The amount of grain needed to feed the cows to feed the people when the grain could be used to make bread or to feed the poor. The excess. Always so much excess.
There’s all kinds of things I no longer want to be a part of. And when I see meat in the market or on the plate, it’s not just meat anymore. It’s all these things. When you take into account the process the “natural” food cycle or food chain just isn’t natural anymore. Humans have warped the process and take more than they give. Consumption drives production and while one more vegetarian may not be much, it’s something. That’s a something I want to be a part of.
“Be the change.” – Gandhi
What Gandhi said is so simple, but it’s one of the things I try to keep mindful of everyday when trying to make conscious decisions. What kind of world do I want to live in? What kind of person do I have to be to make that world possible? Being vegetarian is a choice of compassion. My conscious decision to go vege (snicker) is a direct result of the compassion that I have begun to cultivate, not just during this monastery retreat, but before that too. It’s the baby steps, the causes and conditions that have lead me here. The conscious decision to stop living my life on automaton and really start living my life. It’s the little things–the day-to-day things–that help change the world. It really is that simple.
Sample of our vegetarian meals
I hate PETA and the shock value advertising tactics they use to get people interested in their cause. You’ll never see me picketing for animal rights or berating you for your food choices. I’m not against meat-eaters, but I’m against the ways we make our food and the systems that we’ve created and grown to become so dependent upon. It’s bigger than just meat and animals rights. It’s human rights too. It’s environmental rights. It’s oil. It’s our economy. It’s the homogenization of food crop and the genetically modified plants like Monsanto. It’s globalization. It’s everything. Taking the steps towards vegetarianism might not be much, and it won’t tackle this everything but it’s something. It’s a passive activism that I can get behind. And it’s learning how to live more consciously. Growing your own food. Buying local. Participating in a community garden share. Those are all something.
And so, I vowed never to date a vegan again but now I’m vowing never to eat meat… The changes in my lifetime are hard to believe sometimes, even to me. Especially to me. It’s a trip. Trippy. But, it’s also a journey. Maybe I’ll date a vegan again. Or at least know one person (my vegan NCMO) I can screw in New York. Maybe I’m not so puritanical, after all, but who knows. It’s been way too long to tell and that’s another story…
1. The winner of my CSN Giveaway via random.org is Jenn from Wanderlu5t: A Travel Blog! Congratulations on winning a $50 gift certificate on any CSN store item.
2. So I’m participating on this thing called Bloggerstock today, which means I am guest posting on Jenn’s Wanderlu5t blog (I swear her winning is purely coincidence) which is pretty cool because she’s a travel blogger too. Or sort of.
Meanwhile, my blog today is written by the lovely Risha, from You Can Read Me Anything. Risha is also a nomad; much more than I have ever been which makes her guest appearance here more than welcome. I’m very excited to have her here. She currently lives in Manila, Philippines where I’m currently residing (as of yesterday!). This means we will probably meet up soon. When I realized that Risha got assigned to guest post for me I was pretty stoked since I actually knew, and read her blog, rather than having some random blogger I didn’t know about write for me. So you should hop on over and start reading her blog. It’s full of awesomeness and great writing. And even though I say I’m tired of the personal blogging scene, her blog is one of those exceptions for me that just contradicts what I even say.
Call me a desk, if you like. Sometimes, you call me a table. Whatever you like- I am but a receptacle. A dumping ground for your: bag, phone charger, diaries, secret-boxes, wine bottles, lighters, passports, stacked books, thesis copies, chocolate wrappers, bags full of new clothes, an unzipped purse, your open wallet, foreign currency, condoms, a broken ring, sellotape, letters you haven’t posted yet, books you’re referencing, gym schedules, phone numbers, postal addresses, an earring you found on the floor, a hairpin still holding onto a strand of brown…
Sometimes you slump over your propped elbow, sometimes you lean against me with your arms crossed. Sometimes you heft yourself up and sit, your back straight. At times, you prop your feet up. At others, you leave behind your hairbrush and a tube of clear mascara. In the mornings, a cascade of receipts you find in your bag.
Headphones blaring, I can hear you. I can read you as you scribble in your notebooks. I can feel it as you drop a champagne cork into a box of knick knacks. Celebrate.
Postcards and letters that you write, some you receive. Pinned ‘I love Paris’ condoms, a phone buzzing. A framed photo of your best friend that you often touch. A finger to caress. A wine-bottle candle holder. A Chiang glass water bottle from Thailand. A boarding pass from Tokyo-Narita Airport.
A treasure chest full of foreign currency. Little Guatemalan Dolls to tell your secrets to. You write those out and hide them in large boxes full of tears and secret smiles. Segregated books: thesis, work, fun. You spent nights typing out of reference books that lay strewn, pages marked and ink stains on your fingers. Notebooks propped up and not a bit of space to rest your weary head on.
You’d bang your fist against the table sometimes. Or your head in your hands. You hardly ever paint anymore.
This entry will be a bit candid and disjointed but it’s what I need to get out, right now…
I grew up with AOL, Angelfire and Geocities. I learned HTML the old fashioned way. With tables and frames and cheesy marquees. I’ve been blogging since 1998, through personal webpages. Back when everything was manual and you had to create your own directories, html files, and links.
My first blogspot blog was a health and fitness blog. I hesitate to call it a “health and weight loss” blog because I never really had a lot to lose. But I did focus a lot of wasted energy on losing. I quit that blog because I hated how obsessed I was getting with “the last 5 lbs.” when I was already 100 lbs. Screw that. I quit. And I gained weight again. And I didn’t care.
I couldn’t stop blogging though. I made another blogspot blog which would be the predecessor of this domain. At first, I didn’t allow “the public” to see it simply by not promoting my space. I created my own identity under “Floreta” to reclaim the middle name I had loss. I focused writing on the topic of marriage. Why should you marry? Why should I marry? What does marriage mean in society? What should it mean to me? As a staunch Feminist, it’s hard to accept marriage at face value. I needed to redefine it to make peace with the idea. Then a break-up happened and I needed my blog for therapy. I began reaching out to communities. 20sb. My writing took on a creative edge as I began to pour my heart out in poetry; never knowing I was even a poet. It was gutsy. It had a lot of life and passion and a candid sense of not having an audience.
But now? Now I write for people, except that I don’t even know who it’s for. Through it all, my blog has always been personal. Just a personal blog seems so confining to me now. I’m tired of the scene. I want a blog with a sense of purpose, a direction, a mission. Something greater than myself that I can feel proud to be a part of. But I’m loss and I’m struggling to find a niche. Even just typing the word niche makes me shudder. It’s like in highschool when I was trying to find a clique to belong to and didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere. A floater, a drifter, never being rooted in one place. Sounds familiar? I grew up to be just the same. Traveling in familiar, yet equally strange lands. My “second home” of the Philippines, where I was born, but where I did not grow up, is like being a stranger in my own strange culture. For once, I’m the same color as the majority that I encounter, but I still don’t quite belong…
So I’m not sure what I’m doing here. My blog is evolving and becoming as much as I am growing and becoming. Lately, I’ve been writing spiritual words. I’m in a monastery after all. Yesterday, we had a two and a half hour chanting session in Chinese. Two and a half hours. It was amazing. Hearing the different Chinese voices mesh together in one cohesive consciousness. It was a ball of energy. I couldn’t quite understand it, but I felt its power. I took a look around and wondered what the hell I’m doing here. Is this religion? Is this a part of me? Am I Buddhist? It was overwhelming and humbling.
I’ve never been religious in my life. Certainly, not now. The thought of writing softer edges because of my experiences is completely mind boggling me. Is this really ME, in this moment, at my core? The vast amount of change that I’m experiencing from moment to moment makes it hard to catch up, even as its happening.
I don’t want to write about religion, or spirituality. Not in that cheesy, hokey kind of way that I’ve been doing. It feels too canned. Safe. I’m writing for an “audience” that’s not even there. I’ve lost my edge and I want it back. I want to write like I used to. When I had heart break, when I wrote raw, emotional. When I wrote at my core. I want to have that, but I want to get away from personal blogging. I get fired up about ideas. Where they can take me. Where they can take the world. So I’m left not being sure where or how to go. I’ll figure it out, I always do. But I’m left stumbling around for now, in the vicinity of “safe” and useless and uninspired.
You know what the advantages of headboards are on your bed? Handcuffs. You know the advantages of handcuffs? Foreplay. And you know who’s not getting any Foreplay at a Zen monastery? Yours. Truly.
I’m not bitter though, really. In fact, I’m in a giving mood.
The Giveaway
I’m giving away a $50 gift certificate to any purchase from CSN Stores. That’s $50 off to some massive selections!
To enter, just leave a comment and let me know how you’d spend your gift certificate. No ulterior motives, I’m just genuinely curious.
Tweet this post for an extra entry, and make sure you show me your status link or @solitarypanda so I can keep track.
That’s it. I’ll open this contest for one full week and announce a winner via random.org by June 29th. The contest is only open to US and Canada.
Good luck and may your life be full of foreplay!
PS: I have a guest post at the Daily Dinosaur blog here today!
Janet Cui Brent (God, that’s so American). Nice to meet you! I’ve used Floreta as my pseudonym ever since I was on blogspot. I liked the idea of using my former middle name. Long story short: Floreta is my grandma’s maiden name and when my single mom married an American, for conventional reasons, she changed my name to adopt our new family, dropped Floreta and made Cui my new middle name. Because that’s how Filipinos change their names.
Floreta suited me. It holds a special place in my heart because it reminds me of lola (grandma). I liked the idea of creating a new persona for my online world. Reclaiming my lost name. Because I felt lost. I didn’t want to mix work and online together. I’ve always been deeply fearful of anyone from “real life” finding my blogs. Reading my thoughts. Once, someone from high school found my blog (an older reincarnation that no longer exists) and I freaked out. I’ve been shy. I’ve been socially awkward. And the amount of introspection and emotion I pour into my writings horrified me at the thought of people finding out. I needed Floreta to be brave. When I wrote about my personal heartaches, erotica, or poetry, I needed Floreta to stand strong.
If You Want to Be Internet Famous, You Might As Well Use Your Real Name
There came a point when I no longer needed to hide behind Floreta. Maybe the shift happened when I slowly let more and more of my “real life” friends read my blog after I left for my journey. Maybe the shift happened when some of my fellow monasteryretreaters found my blog. When you have an online representation of your life, people you know will find it eventually. So if you’re planning to be internet famous, you might as well use your real name*. I don’t know if I really want to be “internet famous”, but I’m just saying.
I’ve got big plans for myself. I’m putting that out there so the Universe will know and so I feel more accountable. That’s what I do when I’m scared of something. I tell people my ideas so I’m more likely to follow through with them. Like how I told everyone that I was going to the Philippines nearly two years ago. To live with my family. Maybe go back to school. Explore my options. Travel.
People wholeheartedly encouraged me. Said it was possible. Made me feel I wasn’t crazy. Like this quarter-life crisis was normal.
These are the Little Baby Steps that make a huge difference. You feel it out. Test the waters. See how people react. You make lists of steps to take to achieve your goal(s) and then go about completing them, not necessarily in order. You think. A lot. You freak out. You think some more. You think you can’t do it, and you’re crazy, on bad days. You start to think maybe you can do it, after all, on good days. The amount of thinking that fills your brain propels you to action. You think so much you have no choice but to act. Because the amount of thinking takes up a huge chunk of your time. You don’t want it all to go to waste. And you realize it’s not a waste.
I fucking DID IT. I traveled to Asia. I was scared out of my mind before boarding that plane. But I did. I crossed international date lines and found myself in a whirling mess and confusion of India (which, by the way, is NOT the easiest country to travel to for your first solo trip). Found myself in the Philippines back home with my family. Found myself in a Buddhist temple. You adapt. You realize what scares you isn’t as scary as you thought it would be.
You realize what scares you isn’t as scary as you thought it would be.
I’m scared out of my mind. Once again. But I’m telling you, and I’m telling the Universe, so I can be accountable. A simple nudge in the right direction. Baby steps.
I don’t necessarily want to be internet famous, but I want to use my online presence to build a business. And that’s it. I’ve put this off long enough, because I had this vague notion of “moving to Asia and becoming location independent” when I got here, without actually doing anything to get there. The calling is getting louder and I can’t ignore it anymore. If I want to build a career out of my web presence, it only makes sense to use my real name.
Janet Brent
Loud and proud. Future internet stalkers and boyfriends can find me now. Reclaiming my real name is empowering. Because it shows I’m ready. I’m serious. I can’t hide behind monikers and pseudonyms anymore. And when/if I get married, I’m reclaiming my middle name.
Internet: my name is Janet, and lets rock it!
*Unless you’re Perez Hilton, which works for a “personal brand” more than whatever boring name he actually has.
Yoga and me have had an on and off again relationship for years. The same way I’ve had and on and off again relationship for any sort of exercise regimen I try, really. I love it every time, but commitment is hard, especially when you don’t always have the funds to take consistent classes. The key is to go into a yoga studio to catch their new student specials. Bonus points for new yoga studios who usually have extra special specials. The kind of special that celebrates We Just Opened! Two weeks unlimited for $15! $5 classes for the month of May! First class free! And on and on.
I remember the first time I stepped into a yoga studio. With unlimited classes, that meant me double stacking two 90 minute yoga sessions one after the other, several days a week, because I’m crazy like that. The instructors were impressed with my dedication for a newbie. Everyone was clearly hardcore yogis–with the majority of the class as flexible as a pretzel–that I was definitely intimidated. I couldn’t even touch my toes, but within one week, I was able to touch my palms to the ground. Yoga taught me that it isn’t about what the other people around you are doing. You’re on your own mat, and your own separate practice. It doesn’t matter how advanced other people may seem, just concentrate on what you’re doing, and focus on your breathe. I think life is like that, too. What I learn on the mat I take with me.
My first yoga classes got lost in the shuffle of a move. I didn’t pick up again until a year later when I had the opportunity to do free yoga sessions with someone my then-boyfriend knew. We did those sessions together, with his coworkers, out in the rural desert horizons of his friend’s living room space. I always thought it was romantic because, well, I always think life is romantic. She was a middle-aged woman with those signature yogi arms. Toned and sleek. Her abs taut and tiny. God, I was jealous of her abs. I always looked forward to her sessions because she played ambient music in the background.
Life got busy and after a couple months, she stopped offering free sessions. I’d try other things here and there. Spin classes at the local gym. Cardio weight training. Kenpo karate. Sometimes, yoga on my DVDs. But it wasn’t until years later that I would try yoga classes again. They were too expensive for me, or, my priorities just didn’t want to make that monthly chunk of money commitment, so I only practiced during those $5 specials, or one week free. One local studio offered free “yoga trance dance”, and mostly, that’s what I’d do. Dancing freely to interpretative rhythms of live djembe music, guitar and trumpet. Once, the studio offered a free 108 sun salutation session so I went to that too.
Inhale palms to the sky, exhale forward fold, touching your toes. Inhale look up, palms to your knees. Exhale back down to forward fold. Inhale plank down to cobra. Exhale downward dog. And on and on. 108 times.
Then, I tried Bikram. The infamous hot yoga that’s practiced in a 105 degree room. This was two week’s unlimited. Every day, I’d sweat it out on the mat, giving each 26 positions my full concentration and effort. I was amazed by how much my body sweated. My clothes were drenched in liquid, but it felt so good. Yoga always makes me want to be kinder to my body. The effects usually last a full day. I’ll drink a smoothie, eat a banana and drink lots of water. Nourishment. If only I could feel that way everyday. I guess I just need to do more yoga.
Doing more yoga is fairly simple when you live in a monastery and have lots of breaks throughout your schedule. I realized that I don’t need a class, or even DVDs to have a yoga workout. I know enough poses to do it on my own now. It just never occurred to me when you’re so used to having other people hold your hand. But here, I hold my own hand. Here, I realize that I am empowered to hold my own hand. During the first month, I taught a yoga class to my fellow classmates. Each week, we’re expected to take turns sharing our knowledge and skills. For me, happily, it was yoga.
Snippets of my childhood come to me throughout the day as I am meditating. Long forgotten memories I didn’t even know I had. I wonder where they’re coming from. My earliest memories are age 4. I am at daycare during nap time. I don’t know why there is designated nap time. At four years old, I never took naps. Blankly staring at the ceiling in a dark room wondering when it would be over. We’d lay on plastic cots on the floor. My mind would race. I suppose this is a four year old version of meditation. When you can’t sleep during nap time…
Another daycare memory. I am on the playground high up on a platform, next to the slide and monkey bars. I stare down at the ground covered in sawdust. I jump, fearless of falling. It’s really high up for someone under three feet, but I land safely.
I don’t know why these seemingly mundane memories stand out to me now. Maybe it’s a return to innocence. Purging all of these unhappy adult experiences, by way of bad dreams, and remembering more innocent times. When nothing really mattered and life was simpler. Maybe that’s why I want simplicity and minimalism in my life. It’s a return to innocence. Getting back to my inner child.
Today is my birthday and I am 27. It seems like yesterday I was just turning 25 and just like that, I’m in my “late twenties”. A year ago, I was living in Oregon, still trying to get over the demise of a long term relationship that I let define me; and that still defined me during my recovery process, which took a good full year, more or less.
When you get out of a five year long relationship, it’s hard not to let your life be known as “before the relationship”, “during the relationship” and “after the relationship”. You still define your life by your relationship even after you are free of the shackles. This kind of timeline is why I have stopped talking about “the relationship” and why I hesitate to go into it here. At this point, my life is so immeasurably different that I can’t even relate to the person I was in my relationship; I have changed. That part of my life seems so surreal as to be unreal. I can’t believe I used to own a house and was on a set track of mediocrity. I knew I wasn’t reaching my full potential and I’m glad I am single. I’m happy. For the first time in my life, I am not pining for anyone, much less a relationship. And that’s why I know I’m finally ready to try again. Whenever that happens, I’m ready. I’m ready for the inevitable and eventual pain and suffering.
But mostly, I’m ready to return to Innocence.
Now, I am at a monastery retreat studying Zen and practicing meditation. Each week, we have “talent” exhibition classes and we take turns sharing skills. The above was an improv dance that me and another classmate performed last week.
4:45am. Wake up. Rub eyes groggily. Sluggishly go to the bathroom. Splash water on my face. Wake up.
Another day, another running meditation.
Near daily, I go running around the temple grounds to get my exercise. I wake up at 4:45am, before our morning chants start at 6:30am, to give me more of that Discipline and routine I’m lacking in my normal day-to-day life. Running has always been a love/hate relationship, but its the best form of meditation that I have. When I’m running, I am present. My senses are in tune to the air I breathe; the wind against my face. My mind wanders, but I observe it. Ideas are sprung when I run. Blog entries. Poems. Stories. The what is the meaning of my life-ness (if you figure that one out, tell me).
5:00am. Church bells. Light and soothing in the crisp, morning air. Dancing upon the morning hustle of waking in the heart of Bacolod city. The temple isn’t outcast in mountains, outside of civilization; it is a part of it, and our four month “seclusion” isn’t so strict after all. Once a week, having opportunities to outreach or volunteer in the community, or an outdoor excursion for a session of meditation. But I digress. Back to running…
I am barefoot now. I’ve taken up barefoot running. Easing into it in steps. Short sessions and then back to flip-flops. Proper tennis shoes are overrated. I don’t know how Zen this is, but it’s one more kinesthetic experience. My sense of touch heightened as I feel the cool concrete beneath my feet. It’s not that bad. The concrete is fairly smooth but there are little rocks I can’t see in my blurred, near-sighted vision, giving me sensational surprises beneath my sensitive feet. As I run the stretch of the the temple grounds nearing the back of the monastery, an animal scutters away to hide, surprised by the sound of someone coming. I think it’s a lizard, or maybe it’s a rat. It scutters every morning and scares me as much as I scare it.
Barefoot Running?
Barefoot running has been growing a subculture following by some running enthusiasts. Some naturalists think that due to our evolutionary hunter/gatherer past, humans were meant to run barefoot. The mechanics of running are completely changed without the aide of footwear. Barefoot runners tend to strike their foot to the ground at the balls of their feet, or the middle of the foot, causing less collision force and impact compared to the heel-to-toe strike with cushioned shoes. Because of this, some experts say barefoot running can help prevent injuries because it actually causes less strain on your feet.
Barefoot Running and Zen?
From a Buddhist perspective, barefoot running could be considered to heighten your sense awareness and thus bring you more forcefully into the present moment. There’s a simplicity to going barefoot; walking or running. Each step on the ground is like your brain calling you to attention. “Now! now! now!” You feel each sensation more forcefully and you have to work on overdrive just to keep up with each new sensory perception. The benefit of this is you probably won’t have any time to worry about the future or any current day-to-day stress. Just feel, move and react.
The simplicity and minimalism that comes with barefoot running is another concept in conjunction with Zen. Running is already a cheap sport, because you don’t need much equipment other than footwear, which could cost anywhere from $20 to over $100+. But what if you got rid of running shoes altogether? One less thing to worry about buying while simplifying your life. The childlike innocence of barefoot running might bring memories of running around barefoot in the fields. Bringing you back to childlike awareness is like the concept of beginner’s mind. You don’t have to run for sport, because you’re an athlete. Run because its fun, because you like what it feels like to run barefoot in the grass or on a sandy beach.
Being childlike is considered a good thing in Eastern philosophy. People should learn the value of play; knowing life shouldn’t be taken so seriously. The non-conformity of barefoot running might be a huge deterrent for most people. I won’t lie. It’s a lot easier to be non-conformist when you’re inside temple grounds in a third world country than it is in your average American suburban neighborhood. Every once in awhile though, it’s good to shake things up. I’ve learned to embrace my non-conformity because I know that I wouldn’t have it any other way.
These are the thoughts running through my mind as I meditate on a barefoot running session…
