We are stardust, we are golden

One year ago today, I went with Fiona and four other new friends to Pura Tirta Empul in Ubud, Bali, to visit the temple and do a water purification ritual.

And I just realized when I was typing that water purification sounds like filtering through a Brita jug, rather than using the water for self-purification.

According to Hindu tradition, the water at this temple is holy. You say a prayer and put your head under each of the water spouts, washing the water over you.

A couple years ago, my mom and I went to the memorial service of a dear friend. She was surprised when I got up to take communion (not Catholic, so we were all invited), and I said I needed all the help I could get.

This is how I felt about the water purification ritual at the temple. As long as we were invited to take part, I wanted to embrace the blessing.

Fiona and I had arrived late the night before, by the temple trip a full 12 hours later we were besties.

Our lovely driver, who Fiona had organized with via WhatsApp, suggested going to the Tirta Empul temple the next day, because it was a full moon, a particularly auspicious time to go.

He had six seats in his car, so Fiona offered the trip to our new friends at breakfast, four of whom wanted to join us.

It was magical.

It's easy to ascribe meaning to events in hindsight, but so I will just say that thankfully, in the wake of losing my mom, the world lined up for me to go to that particular training in Ubud.

While my mom was alive, there was no way I'd consider Bali, even though all but one training for the company I'd chosen took place there. It would've been unthinkable to be 25 hours of travel away from my mom, in case anything happened.

And then, when the worst possible thing happened, the arms of the world opened up wide, and I threw myself into them without hesitation.

It occurred to me, and I asked Nick, and I texted the company to ask if it was possible, and I bought a ticket. All of this happened I think on the same day. And then I drove the kids to Maine and then I left.

I was scared to go so far away alone, though I did so with no hesitation in my 20s. I was extremely anxious about an intense yoga teacher training. 

All I knew was that I had to go. I couldn't stay in an empty house where everything reminded me of my mama.

In retrospect, I couldn't have chosen anything more healing.

Though Indonesia is predominantly Muslim, Bali is Hindu. The temples and gods and rituals, though not mine, were so familiar. The vegetation was that of my childhood. The smell of incense was everywhere.

Because I didn't grow up with home as a fixed address, it was familiar enough that it felt, in some ways, like home.

Now I can say that I arrived an absolutely crazy person, hollowed out by grief. I didn't, at that point, have things that I was affirmatively seeking.

I was just desperately escaping.

But because I'd lived through losing my dad, I didn't feel guilty when, deep in my sorrow, I laughed.

I knew their energetic vibration is so similar, and that experiencing joy wasn't denying my grief. It didn't diminish how much I loved and missed my mom.

And so I threw myself wholeheartedly in.

The teachers told one of my friends that the group before us had been entirely composed of very young women. And they got very competitive about their outfits.

I don't even know what I'd have done if I'd wound up in that group.

So on the one hand, I don't believe that things happen as they're meant to. I don't believe my mom was meant to miss that final step and fall on our landing and break her hip. And then go to the hospital and never come home.

I just don't.

But sometimes life lines up in a way that makes me feel so lucky, and then I do in fact wonder about stars aligning and the universe and such.

And I do firmly believe that we are all connected. And since we have the laws of thermodynamics proving that energy doesn't go away, who is to say that we're not all together somewhere in the same time and space.

Which is all to say, I have no idea. I'm one of those people who picks the pieces of things that I like out of the whole.

Which is part of why I sucked at math. Because I'd pick and chose the parts of the problems I understood to solve, and then I'd combine them.

This doesn't lead to the correct answer, but it does really confuse your teachers.

But I do feel like it was such a blessing that I wound up in that time and place. And I feel lucky that Fiona had had to change her ticket so we wound up on the same flight, and I feel beyond lucky that we connected immediately and intensely.

This morning I realized it was Maude's birthday, which meant it was the second of July, which also meant it was the one-year anniversary of my life-changing adventure in Bali.

I think back to the people who cared about me almost immediately. The kindness and generosity of almost complete strangers.

It's striking to me that our training group included a very young woman who'd lost her mother the year prior. She knew exactly where I was.

When I was in tears because, when we were supposed to be coming up with our own sequences for the final, and I couldn't remember Sun Salutation A, which is foundational, she said it was because I had grief brain.

Nothing stayed. I couldn't remember anything. Anything. I couldn't remember anything, but I felt everything acutely.

Having someone explain it so simply as grief brain was a blessing.

Making a new friend with whom I resonated so deeply at a time when I felt frail and vulnerable felt like the biggest gift. 

When I need to visualize a place of peace and happiness, I conjure up the image of the rice paddy next to our yoga shala. I envision laughing with Fiona leaving the field, or while walking to meals, or squeezed into the same cash vestibule trying to figure out how many zeros to add to make $100 in Indonesian Rupiah.

I'm a terrible visualizer—which always surprises and frankly kind of offends me, because I have such a good imagination—but all of these images are so accessible.

I think now, a year later, I want to tell some of these stories. They bubble up from time to time. I had every intention of telling them after the training but then all this other stuff happened and I finally feel like maybe I'm coming back to me.

Truly I know that I come from a place of immense privilege to escape across the globe at the worst time in my life. I used money my mom had left me, and the freedom of children at camp, and I spent the cash and the opportunity.

Those three weeks of healing, and the yoga teacher certification were Betty's gift to me.

Last week, in Boston on the way to camp, I took a class taught by one of my yoga teacher training friends. She and I had been paired for a meditation exercise. We were supposed to stare into each others eyes and transmit love and compassion.

And we couldn't stop laughing. But tears were also pouring down my face. We were doing the exercise, and I think discharging an excess of profound emotion through laughter.

It's one of the most extraordinary experiences I've ever had.

Also, her class was fantastic. She invited us to set an intention, and if we didn't have one, she offered the suggestion of gratitude. And I will always feel grateful for the friendships and deep connections that began a year ago.

I have long known that time actually helps. Even deep in the midst of my grief, and then my fear of cancer, and the pain of recovering from surgery, I knew that time was my friend. 

But time is also is the longest distance between two places.

So.

Here I am, one year later, healthy, and in such a different and more positive energetic space.

I'm truly, profoundly grateful.

You had me at hello

I have myriad things to say about my physical, emotional, and spiritual journey to yoga teacher training on the other side of the world and back.

The group was filled with incredible people. I felt lucky to be among them. The teachers were so accomplished and incredibly generous with their time and knowledge.

But I feel like this first post has to be about my Bali bestie, Fiona.

In week two, we bought matching outfits and wore them on the same day. We didn't set out to buy matching outfits, but she tried on the blue and I loved it so much that I asked if she minded if I got the same one.

And then we were all, "Ooh, let's both wear them tomorrow!"

Which of course meant we had to head out to the rice paddies and commemorate the twinsieness.

During the training, we learned a lot about anatomy, which turns out to be fascinating. I'd never thought I'd be interested, but now I want to learn more and more.

We learned about activating the parasympathetic nervous system. The importance of breathing and postures--and the use of specific breathing techniques--to calm the body.

In the morning, there was black tea and hot water but no coffee available in the shala, as coffee was discouraged.

I hadn't heard of the no coffee and yoga rule, but apparently it is known.

Fiona said she'd been at a yoga retreat and had nipped out with a friend to grab a coffee. She was carrying it back, and the head of the retreat saw her and said, "I see you have a nice cup of anxiety."

He had a tone. He gave her a look.

Apparently, there are energizing poses that can invigorate you in the same way as coffee.

I like coffee, but grew up drinking tea, and for me it's the most comforting way to start the day.

We had electric kettles in our rooms, and I could make tea, but was complaining to Nick about the fact that we only had these stupid little hotel coffee cups. I just wanted a big mug.

Nick said, "I believe that dream is within your reach."

So the next time I went to Bintang supermarket, I bought myself a big glass mug and a box of shelf-stable milk for my fridge, and it changed my whole morning, every day.

There were delightful coffee shops close by, and it was easy to head out for a nice cup of anxiety mid-morning.

(Also learned: if you yourself love coffee and struggle with anxiety, apparently waiting until 10:00 am to have a cup is extremely helpful.)

Ooh, I'm so full of tips and tricks today!

For an arts- and humanities-brained person, not only do I blithely pass on scientific tid-bits I've heard as absolute facts, I seem to have many scientific theories of my own.

I have zero percent interest in testing them, nor do I particularly care if I'm right. 

Because I can remember in school having to come up with a hypothesis and then you had to test it and then you had to draw conclusions and it was all so tedious and I was like, if we're testing stuff that people already know comes out one way or the other can't we just skip the testing?

No. Because the boring old process was the point.

I've long known that as a "more is better" person, rather than a precise one, I would, in fact, make a terrible scientist. 

This is OK with me.

Anyway.

This theory is about friendship. 

And I think the only way you could test this theory was if you had a Roald Dahl sort of device that measured sounds made by trees that would measure people's frequencies.

The teacher training had a WhatsApp group, and people wrote ahead of time to share rides. Fiona and I knew we knew that we were arriving in Denpasar late on the same flight, and had agreed to share a car.

I thought we might connect at the gate in Dubai, but I spent my one-hour layover frantically sprinting, taking elevators, trains, and finally jumping on a transport to my gate at the far other end of the terminal, arriving late in the boarding process.

Holy cow is Dubai airport stressful!

We messaged each other upon arrival in Bali, and I told her which visa line I was in and that I was wearing stripes. And suddenly I was being hugged, out of nowhere.

"I spotted your yoga mat! You look just like your photo!"

I was so grateful to be together. It was brutally and inexplicably difficult to leave the airport. It took a full two hours.

Fi had been organized enough to do her visa online ahead of time, but then the official told her it was wrong and she had to fill out a new one.

I was already on the other side, and couldn't go back, so I hung out while she found an ATM, returned to the visa guy, handed him the cash. Which he may have pocketed.

Then there was customs (I think? Or another immigration line?.) The check-in agent at Dulles had made me complete an online form, so I was set, but once again, I was on the other side and Fiona was detained. 

Then my checked bag took an hour. She and I covered a lot of ground in that hour. I cried on her about my mom. She hugged me.

By the time we arrived in Ubud after the hour ride on winding roads in the pitch black rain, we basically knew each other's life stories.

Sometimes it is like this. 

And on a side bar, I was initially envious of Fiona's room, which had so much more light than mine, even though her bathroom was open to the sky and she was worried the people next door could see in when she was using the toilet. 

But then she had a huge humidity problem, and an ant infestation. The near final straw was when these frogs were mating really loudly night after night in her wall.

The people at reception told her to come get them, no matter what time, and they'd throw rocks at the frogs.

Ultimately, the persistent sogginess of her clothing made her ask for a room change.

So.

I often use "resonate" to describe how I feel about people or ideas, but it wasn't until some of our teachers used singing bowls or percussive instruments, and I actually felt energy flow from my heart out to my hands (seriously--my hands felt like they were full of balls of spinning energy) that I decided that it's about frequencies.

I mean, we're mostly made of water, right? And sound waves alter water molecules.

I'm still not sure how this explains personal frequencies, but I really think it's all connected.

Fi and I went to a sound healing session at Pyramids of Chi.

I'd never done anything like this. You lie on a mat, with a blanket and an eye pillow, and you're immersed in a variety of sounds.

We literally staggered out of the experience. I felt both completely relaxed and a little sick, like I was drunk.

It was extraordinary. 

They have amazing food, so we ate, which helped. Pretty much everywhere in Bali you can buy a whole coconut. They hack off the top and hand it to you with a straw.

Coconuts, incidentally, are simultaneously the most convenient and inconvenient portable beverages on the planet. 

On the one hand, a coconut is a self-contained drink and snack. You have this delicious, hydrating beverage in a biodegradable container. On the other, if you're walking around and it's hot and sunny and the sidewalk is crowded, your drink weighs like 20 pounds. 

I don't even think this is an exaggeration. I read that more people are killed annually by falling coconuts than sharks.

Anyway, we had snacks and drinks and then I was all, "If you're feeling any better...I saw some really good shopping on the way up."

So we went to the market.

The sound may have penetrated our very souls, but let's be honest: we had very little time in which to purchase gifts for loved ones and possibly ourselves.

What I think now is that we all operate at slightly different frequencies, and this is why, immediately, some people are so easy. 

You resonate with each other. The same things make you laugh.

Some people you can settle into if you need to. Like a colleague who doesn't feel exactly right but you can get along with well enough to chat with in the kitchen or work on a project. But when you make a weird joke that cracks you up, they don't laugh. And they aren't the ones you seek out when you're having a hard time.

Some people you never resonate with, which doesn't mean you dislike them. They just feel like effort.

I personally think the laughter trigger may be the deepest and most powerful. The one that forms more connections. More so even than crying.

Maybe laughter and a feeling of safety. Feeling safe is tremendously important to me.

Laughter and trust.

Washed down with a nice cup of anxiety and a biscuit.

Now today is tomorrow and tomorrow today and yesterday is weaving in and out

There is a 12-hour time difference between Bali and DC.

This is an established fact. It's how our linear time system works. Maybe not in the multiverse, because then isn't it everywhere all the time simultaneously? 

But in our current verse, we all move forward at the same rate, minute by minute.

This 12-hour difference continues to be the case whether you are upright or standing on your head. Whether you're facing east or west.

The earth revolves around the sun, and our planet spins, and day shifts to night incrementally across our world. Yes. I did learn this at some point.

Though time and numbers are not my strength, I understand this concept.

And I have been here almost three weeks at this point. 

But still I cannot figure out what day it is where, when I'm talking in two time zones. 

It's like a new surprise every day.

We start our yoga classes at 7:00 AM, so I'm usually heading out the door by 6:30.

This means I typically talk to Nick around 6:00 AM my time before class, or 7:30--8:00 PM after dinner here.

Not to suggest that my class, dining, and chat schedule is riveting. But here's the thing.

I'm always like, "Good morning! Wait! You're still yesterday, right?"

And Nick says, "It's 12 hours, love."

I talk to him at night and I'm like, "How was your day?" And then I say, "No, wait! You're my today? It's today there? We're the same day! Oh! Good morning!"

Sometimes I'm even like, "Is it tomorrow there yet? No, I'm tomorrow."

And he's all, "It's 12 hours, love."

"Right now I'm your tomorrow?"

"You're my tomorrow."

Bother literally and lit-rully, we have this conversation at least once a day. Initially, Nick patiently tried to explain that we are on the same space-time continuum, and I will continue to be 12 hours ahead for as long as I'm here.

In the beginning, he just said it neutrally. After a few days, I could hear him sigh.

"It's 12 hours, love."

I will always be his tonight or tomorrow (his sun, moon, stars...). That's just how time differences work.

But now when I'm like, "Good morning! No, good tomorrow! Or yesterday," he just responds, "Good morning!" Or, "I hope you had a good day! I'm just waking up."

"In today?"

"In today."

And then the other day when I was like, "Hello yesterday! Or maybe today? I think I'm tomorrow," he said:

"Could you please look up the winning lottery numbers so I can buy a ticket?"

Yes. Yes, I'm pretty sure I can.

Like a handprint on my heart

Sometimes you luck into situations, people, places with no particular intention. 

And they change you in some way, small or even fundamentally.

Later you have to think long and hard to remember how your life was before.

Back when I was internet dating like a second job, married friends would occasionally suggest that I was trying too hard.

"It's because you're looking. You need to stop looking."

"You'll meet someone when you least expect it. That's how I met my husband." 

They'd say some version of this.

One suggested I lower my standards.

And I'd silently be all fuck you very much and discuss with my similarly-single girlfriends how really, if we weren't looking, how were we actually going to encounter a man we might like to kiss, much less marry?

Anyway, my dating life is not actually the point of this.

The point is yoga. 

Sort of.

The fall before the pandemic, after I'd left my office job and had weekday flexibility, my friend Tracy told me that I should start going to Asrat's classes. He was, in a word, incredible.

So I walked into his class, with students of a range of ages, where everyone already seemed to know each other.

Asrat is like nobody else I've ever known. He has a huge heart and an intense personality. He was a mixed martial arts champion who, after years of competing, and ultimately injury, discovered yoga.

His yoga teaching mixes in martial arts, for those who are familiar with both yoga and martial arts, which I am not. It's power yoga, I think?, with his own personal twist on everything. Every time you master a pose or part of a sequence, he notches it up and makes it harder.

His favorite thing to say is, "Nothing is impossible." Said while asking us to do seemingly impossible things.

But I digress. This yoga, it was challenging. Because Asrat pushes you to challenge yourself.

It was hard in a way that resonated with me. I'm not flexible, but I'm strong, and I'm so very stubborn. Week by week, I saw myself improve. 

Incrementally, but still. It felt good.

And then the world shut down. 

I missed everything, as we all did. I missed yoga, and I missed my new friends. I didn't know anyone well, but I liked them. I felt connected.

Then Asrat started teaching online. So I did Zoom classes multiple days a week. We did this for months and months.

And at some point friend Kathleen was Zooming in from a gorgeous living room in a beautiful house in a spectacular location. Where, we all wanted to know, was this magical land?

MONTANA.

So we started joking: When the pandemic ends, we're going to do a yoga retreat in Montana. Kathleen, can't wait to come to Montana for our yoga retreat!

We talked about it regularly, in a low-key fantasy sort of way.

Then we started doing Saturday yoga in-person outside on an office roof downtown. I looked forward to in-person Saturdays so much. We did yoga in freezing temperatures in hats and jackets and in sweltering ones with copious sunscreen and sunglasses. 

Those who couldn't be there in person still Zoomed in. This is one of my favorite photos from the roof.

Eventually we started doing masked in-person yoga inside. At that point we were all vaccinated and there were only 2-3 of us at a time. Eventually we moved to unmasked.

Which, in Covid, took a tremendous level of trust.

And as we spent more time together, cheering each other on in both yoga and personal victories, and struggling together in increasingly difficult classes, we forged an intense group friendship.

I mean, being corrected in yoga is pretty personal, and being vulnerable and working so hard takes an immense amount of trust.

So when Kathleen said she was absolutely serious about hosting us in Montana, our little group started talking schedules and working to make it real.

For months it would come up every time we saw each other. We were giddy with anticipation.

And last month, five of us flew out to join Kathleen in the magical land of Montana. (One of us is included in my heart, but omitted, by request, online.)

It was glorious.

Tracy and I flew a day before the others, and we stayed a cabin just outside Glacier. 

Kathleen gave us bear spray for our hike. Bear spray! 

Here Kathleen and Tracy demonstrate, although apparently you want to use it before the bear gets that close.

(India later asked if you use it like bug spray and I was all, uh, no.)

We awoke super early, and Tracy, who is even less of a morning person than me, and less nature-y, and more food motivated, said, "OK. We go do The Thing in Glacier and then we meet our friends for lunch."

The Thing: hiking to Avalanche Lake.

And then we joined new arrivals for lunch and all headed to Kathleen's house. On a lovely, deep, clean lake

This view was ours for a week. I took versions of this photo every single day.

Only our morning schedule was strict: up at 6:00 am, yoga 7:30--10:30 or 11:00, and then we prepared and ate a large meal. We had down time, then a hike or nap or swim in the lake or really whatever. And then yoga again in the evening, then prepared and ate dinner. 

Half an hour per day of phone use. We gave our people Asrat's number for emergencies.

I feared this would be terribly hard. In truth, it was such a relief. When do we get to divest ourselves of the obligation to respond to everything?

I thought we might split up in our down time, but in fact we all wanted to do things together. We all went on hikes. We all wanted to see the waterfall.

One person headed down to the lake, and eventually, we'd all trickle down.

The only activity we didn't all do was the insanely hard bike ride up a mountain. We left that to Kathleen and Asrat.

I also thought we'd be in bed by 9:00 pm, ten at the latest.

But the Montana skies are delightfully light so late, and we all had so much to do, so much to say. We knew each other mainly in the studio or online. But we knew very little of each other's backstories.

And you know how much I love a life story.

Even the strongest among us has vulnerabilities. Otherwise we wouldn't be human. Or truly able to connect. And I love those moments of deep connection.

I never envisioned myself getting really into yoga.

When I told Wendy that I'd gotten so invested in my yoga classes she said, "That's really funny. I remember years ago asking you if you did yoga and you said it mostly seemed like a bunch of people farting in a hot room."

I don't remember saying that, but it does sound like me, so I'm willing to own it.

Truly, I don't know what I thought yoga was, but I wasn't looking for what I got.

I wandered into Asrat's classes looking for a workout. With my early foray into yoga with other teachers, that's more or less what I got.

But looking back to those classes, my form wasn't correct. My poses had no life. I really didn't get it.

I don't know that I totally "get" it, but I'm way closer. I still struggle with breathing correctly. I have not yet managed to visualize myself.

But in the wretchedness of the pandemic I found physical and emotional challenge while building a profound connection to a small group of people.

Asrat and this yoga community pulled me through some of the darkest moments of pandemic isolation and exhaustion and depression.

In a Covid world gone scary and weird and empty and often devoid of joy, I ceased to regularly change my clothes or bathe, but I always showed up for Zoom yoga.

So with the opportunity to spend a week—an entire, uninterrupted, glorious week—together, we reveled.

We stayed up late, so late, talking and laughing. We laughed and laughed.

I mean, not every minute. One day I actually cried. Yoga pulled the anxiety out of my depths, up to the surface. Tracy said she looked over at me in class and was sure I was going to cry.

It was like a Dementor had flown by. I felt empty and joyless and utterly devastated.

I assumed it was because it was hour three and I was starving. But as it turns out, intense yoga will extract emotional pain.

After class I sobbed, while one of my friends, who is a therapist, hugged me. She said to just let it go. I cried until I was exhausted. And then I was lighter.

But overwhelmingly in this week, what I experienced was tremendous joy.

The laughter and joy stood out to those who saw us together. Several people we met remarked on it.

We just had all this great energy swirling around us like stardust.

One morning after yoga we took a field trip to a store called Booze 'N Bait. 

We entered as tourists, not even pretending not to be astounded by the volume of weaponry and taxidermy. We posed. We took photos of everything. We bought liquor and logo hats and glasses. 

We giggled.

I was checking out last, and the rest of our group had gone ahead outside. 

A man in the store said to the woman at the register, "That sure was a jolly bunch."

I will be honest; I wasn't looking for friends when I walked into yoga. I mean, I'm friendly. I wasn't looking for adversaries or anything.

I was mainly just looking for a workout.

Which sounds so trite, considering.

Now, on our retreat we did some very hard things. We each worked up to poses we hadn't thought possible. We supported--both emotionally and physically--each other into headstands, handstands, etc. Some of these are scary, at least for me.

Honestly, I felt quite proud.

But what stands out in my mind from our trip is not the physical accomplishment. It is the connection and friendship.

There have been times in my life when I've had to search deep to find something to be grateful for. And then there are times like this, where my gratitude spills over.

Sometimes we luck into what we need the most.

(And sometimes, let's be frank, we fart alone in a hot room. Or anyway, I do. But better than on a plane, I can tell you that for sure.)