Put Away the Fly Swatter: Take in the Good

Ever notice how when something bad happens, or someone says something hurtful, you hang onto it for hours, days even? Sometimes these difficult experiences get so embedded that you may recall them years later and still remember them in vivid detail.

And when someone says something nice to us- we do such weird things, like "Oh, thanks, these earrings only cost $5," or "Oh, no, I actually put ON five pounds!". Someone complimented my clear skin the other day, and I went into this whole thing about how I'd eaten at Vik's Chaat House a couple of times in a row and gotten zits on my chin. Like, why?

In the past, I'd either do one of the weird things mentioned above, or I'd do this thing where I'd say, "Oh thanks" really hurriedly, almost impatiently, like their compliment was an imposition on my story, then wave my hand like I was swatting at a pesky fly, and continue talking.

I have really been trying to slow down and fully accept compliments these days. To take a moment and let it go inside me.

I am also noticing with all these new learnings in my life, it takes so much time to really internalize them, to make a true habit out of them. And, I'm sure you've noticed this too- we start to do these new healthy behaviors one at a time, feel like we've made progress, but then when something big happens, we revert to our old selves as if we hadn't made any progress at all.

I noticed I did this the other night, when no one showed up to my dance class. I was upset. I wrote about it immediately. But then the very next day, I got an email about my yoga class which had not one, but five positive things stated about me, and I swatted it away and continued to wallow about the dance class.

So at this point, I'm not going to beat myself up about that, any of it. But I did realize that I'd done this thing and I want to rectify it.

Because there's this, one of the greatest lines I've ever read in my yoga trainings: the practice is not about being perfect. The practice is about coming back to the practice (after you slip), over and over.

So I slipped. But I'm back. And I want to equalize things, my own perception of myself by doing some acknowledging of the good.

The good thing that happened this week is that I subbed yoga at a gym by my house. A gig I got by being ballsy-go-getting-hustling my way in. Good for me. Ten people showed up. That's more than I've ever taught yoga to at one time. I brought candles from home, and, of course, my lavender eye pillows.

I remember hearing my voice fill the room and really liking it. My voice that in the past was so soft, so quiet, so self-silencing, now rang through the gym, speaking from a place of confidence, of knowledge. Confidence that came after two long years of struggling with my yoga practice, dropping out of one of my programs, coming into another. Confidence that came from a place of having done the hard work. Of learning and practicing and healing.

I led the class in a thirty minute meditation, which I'd never done before. I took a moment before entering the gym, grounded myself, brought in my good intent and energy, and it was from there that I powered through the nervousness of doing something new.


I don't remember what I said, but I saw someone smile. At one point, I made the whole class laugh.
People have told me I'm funny but I've swatted them away. People have said my writing is funny, but I've said, "Pshhhh, I want my writing to be Serious. I want to make people cry, not laugh. Only then will I be a Real Writer." Where do we get these notions?








It's not like I plan my jokes out, but there is always intentionality when I make jokes in my classes. I want people to get out of their heads, stop worrying about being perfect, relax and have fun.


The yoga class had been at a small, independent gym, and the owner really cares about her clients. She emailed them for feedback about me straightaway. Then forwarded me the whole string of emails. I looked at it with eyes that were still blurry from a night of crying. It took a moment to realize what I was seeing. There were five emails strung together. Offering really honest feedback. Really positive feedback. About ME.

Here is what they said:

The meditation class was good, it was a good balance of guidance and silence, and she kept the meet-you-where-you're-at, no pressure vibe.

I thought she did a very nice job.  Autumn had said that the Yoga would be more restorative than strenuous, so that expectation was already set.  

I liked Phi a lot. She practices a more restorative, less athletic style of yoga than Autumn, and I thought it complemented the meditation class well. I did think the meditation class was a little unstructured. I'm used to Autumn talking us through stuff, and Phi's long silences took getting used to. Not that that's bad; it's just an adjustment.

She was great! Loved the restorative yoga session even though I missed Autumn ;) Phi was kind, funny, and attentive. She fit right in.

Yeesh. That's a lot of really positive things. It's hard to record them here, for you all to see. But I am. It's hard not to swat them away and talk about the things I didn't do perfectly, but I will try. 

And I invite you to put away the fly swatter too. The next time someone compliments you, see if you can just say, "Thank you." It may feel like a root canal at first, but just try it. 

Once you get used to that, see if you can really take in the compliment. Hear it. Believe it. 

Down with fly-swatters*

*also known as fly-flaps, which, for some readers, are bringing up a whole nother trauma:)

The Next Day, She...

Yesterday was difficult. No one showed up to my new dance class. So what did I do next?

I don't know if it's because I'm a writer or because I've seen/read more rom-com/chick-lit than I care to admit, but I woke up this morning and I swear, I heard a narrator narrating my every thought, my every move.

The next morning, Phi awoke with a heavy head. Kept her eyes closed and contemplated her day. A bed-and-Netflix day seemed quite called for. Or a meet-a-friend-in-a-park day. 

But as Phi lay there, she knew this was a seminal moment. Her first set back. How she responded mattered. It would set the tone for years to come. 

Phi cracked open one eye. The sun shone onto her Green-Tea painted walls. The walls she'd painted herself over Christmas hols (I'm still stuck in Bridget Jones land, the ultimate chick-flick/narrator movie). She'd done that by herself. She could do anything by herself. Well, almost anything, she thought with a chuckle.

She realized she didn't want to lie in bed all day. She wanted to email Darnell, send him her dance poster for the studio's website. She wanted to make a Meet-Up group for her East Bay dance class. Maybe craigslist wasn't the best way to advertise...after all, she certainly wouldn't look for dance classes on craigslist...

She realized that lying in bed with her eyes still half-closed, she was already working, planning, getting back on the proverbial horse. And it felt good.

At this point, I swear, I heard Upbeat Energetic Music, you know, like a little bass-guitar riff, like when the chick flick star's about to fix her life good. Like when Bridget Jones gets on that stationary bike, or when Kevin Bacon laces up to dance around the barn. In fact...

Phi got out of bed, put on tea water. As she dressed, she turned on her playlist for her dance class. As she danced to her own choreography, she felt rejuvenated. It was good choreo. It was fun choreo. It was her choreo. 

She decided to dress nicely, put on big earrings, a pretty blouse (it's a tank, I don't actually wear blouses, but my narrator is staunchly British).

Though she had told herself she would not check Facebook for the rest of the week- it wasn't healthy to rely on others for validation- she did. 

There lay message after message from close friends and acquaintances. With words like:

honesty

persistence

funny

strength

love you

An old high school friend had taken the time and care to write a message to her, talked of her own experiences. 

"And remember, the number of people is no reflection on you (although it is good for the ego). I've played the same film to hundreds of people (who gave it a standing ovation) and to a single person in a lonely rented classroom (where the screen rolled up half way through because the tech guy forgot to adjust the settings). It's still the same film."

It's still the same film, Phi repeated. She wrote the line on her whiteboard. Traced the quote with her palm. 

How often this phenomenon had been experienced all over the world, throughout time- creating something with love and care and experiencing a rocky start. She certainly wasn't the only one. In fact, she was now part of a club, of risk-taking self-starters. A club she was proud to be part of. She was earning her stripes.

A friend texted- "Hi Philicious, how was class?" Another friend texted, "Sorry to read about the no-shows last night." 

Phi thought back to how alone she'd felt the night before. She wasn't alone. People kept her in mind. She had to remember that. She had written the night before about how she was in transition and still forming community. Here it was: her forming community. 

She did not have a Charlotte/Samantha/Annoying Redhead posse, but she had friends, cheering for her from across the Bay, across North America (that's you, PDot), across the world. And for now, that was enough.

She arrived at her neighborhood coffee shop, ordered a strong coffee and fired up her laptop.

There was an email with feedback from a yoga class she'd subbed two nights earlier. One she'd fretted she'd sucked at. Five people had given feedback. All of them had liked Phi, found her kind, attuned, and even funny. 

This, too, was transition. Learning yoga, teaching yoga. Finding her voice, finding her path. 

She was doing it. One bit at a time. Some things were successful. Some things were set-backs. Some things she had no way of knowing how people received. 

Her job was to just carry on.

She took a sip of coffee, and typed a new email.

"Dear Darnell..."

Worst Case Scenario

In the name of honoring the downs as well as the ups-
my 'trying not to cry face'. 

In my blog entry of six hours ago, I thought the worst case scenario of my new dance class would be one new student showing up. I was wrong. Worst case scenario is actually zero students. And right out the gate, my worst case scenario unfolded.

I spent the afternoon eating a good meal and trying to relax, get some positive energy flowing. My sister, Sharlene, called and gave me a rousing pep talk. Motivated, I decided to own this shit. Cut up a shirt and made it cool dance teacher-y. Did my hair and make up. Put on big earrings and bangles that alluded to Bollywood but were understated, Oaklandish.

Darnell, who was supposed to let me in, showed up three minutes before class was to start, but it hardly mattered as there was not a student in sight.

The studio faces Grand Avenue, a happening part of Oakland, full of restaurants and bars. I turned up the music. Put out my sign up list. Business cards. Class flyers. Tried to look busy. Approachable. Like I wasn't crying inside.

I waited 15 minutes then packed up. When you've envisioned a thing a hundred times, it's easier to face when it actually happens.

Darnell came back to lock up. I tried to glean information. Turns out he co-runs the studio with the man I'd been in contact with.

"You should have talked to Dan, he'll help you get going," Darnell said. I had tried. Dan had not been helpful.

"You should have made a flyer," Darnell said. I had, but it hadn't been put up at the studio. "Oh, wait, I think that's my job," Darnell said. "When it doesn't say the studio's name, I throw it out." I pointed to where it did say the studio's name. "Oh. My bad."

Darnell promised to get word out to his students. I told myself this is what it's like to work with creative types. But I'm a creative type, and I don't do things this way.

I sat in my car and cried, the full moon lighting up Lake Merritt across the way. Called my sister, Fiona, who said all the right things. I tried not to be hurt that none of my friends came to support me. Tried not to go down the rabbit hole of no one loves me and I'll die alone.

Because the truth is, my life is still in transition. New neighborhood. New business. New friends. I don't have my Bridget Jones/Carrie Bradshaw posse who comes to all my shit and is always a phone call away. I am still forming friendships, forming community. A new start is amazing and difficult.

I came home, fried up some turkey bacon and made a smoothie. I sat in my beautiful apartment which overlooks San Francisco (okay, fine, if you look over the phone wires and rooftops, you see a three inch view of San Francisco, but still).

"One day, people will have to pre-register to get into your class," Fiona had said.

Maybe that was true. Maybe not. What is true is that this whole year is an experiment. To see what works and what doesn't. And sometimes, you do everything in your power but some things are out of your hands.

Now that I have some turkey bacon in me, I can see the silver lining: at least I have my awesome "the day that no one came to my new class" story under my belt. It can only get better from here, technically speaking.

But as I said in my earlier blog entry, the only thing I can't do is not do.

The Things I Carry

Tonight is my first Beginners' Bollywood dance class. I am 1% excited, 99% scared.

For the past three months, I've been underground, planning and scheming and preparing my three-pronged plan: teaching dance, yoga, and writing. I've designed classes, designed posters, designed a website. I imagined a big party to officially launch this new phase of my life, but life happens so out of order, that suddenly the day of my first class is here, a random Tuesday in the middle of August and there has been no party, just hard work.

For tonight, I have prepared a dance to teach. It is basic, 'for beginners' as advertised. It incorporates elements of classical Indian moves, bhangra moves, and silly Bollywood moves. It is thought out and thoughtful because that is how I teach. I have planned a warm up routine, and a cool down routine. As back up, I've planned a dance that is just designed to play with some fun Bollywood moves. In case my dance routine goes by super fast. It is a fine line between preparation and anxiety. I carry this with me.

I have advertised on Craigslist, at coffee shops and online event calendars. I have harassed friends on Facebook to come to my new class. I've done all I can. 

Yet the voices in my head say I should have done more: I only distributed 250 flyers, I had bought 500. I should have made a meet up group. I should have posted flyers in Berkeley, not just Oakland. 

I tell myself it's not a big deal, it's only a four week class,-if it tanks, it'll be over soon.

But it is a big deal. It's more than this one dance class. It's the start of a journey. A journey which began with me saying, "Fuck it, I'm doing my own thing." 

Here are the stats on what people think of the "Fuck it" model of business: 

80% this think it's a bad idea. That it'll fail. This is not how you live life.

10 % are admiring/envious

7 % are whole-heartedly supportive

3% are on the same boat as me

I carry that too.

I carry remains of the last dance class I taught, over a year ago, through the Berkeley YWCA. At best 6 people came, at a low, 1. 

Sometimes it helps to think out the absolute worst case scenario, so I do: worst case scenario, tonight, no one shows up except Annie, my adorable friend who has agreed to take some photos for my website. We go get coffee next door. After I cry in the bathroom a while. Less horrible: 2 or 3 people show. I've taught 2 or 3 people before, I can do it again.

I think of my first novel. The one I worked on for 7 years, or is it 10. That I sent out to 40 agents, heard no thanks from 10, and then 'gave up'. Do I give up too easily? Will I fail at this because of that? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is not entirely true. There is no real failure, we learn from every opportunity, etc.

The only tiny sliver of hope is the thought that came to mind during this morning's (very fraught) meditation session: I can't not.

I have to do this. I can't not do this because the risk of failure exists. That would feel even grosser than all this anxiety swirling around my stomach does.

So I'll befriend the anxiety, carry it with me, along with everything else. It, too, is part of me, part of this journey. 

For the remainder of the day, I will carry this poem by Rumi, cling to the sliver of hope in the last stanza: 

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.

meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

      

                                                     ~ Rumi

Hustlin'

I have a hustle.

I'm a hustler.

I'm hustling.

"That's not how you use that word," says my little sister with that chuckle the young reserve for the old.

Maybe not, but still, I say:

My hustle: teach writing to older adults, teach Bollywood dance, and teach yoga.

It's a lot. But it's my hustle.

In the last 6 weeks, I've planned and schemed, feeling a bit schizophrenic to have three hustles and not one. But I've decided not to judge the hustle.

Now, the hustle is becoming real: Beginners' Bollywood starts in August (spread the word!). Seniors' yoga has begun, I've got several choreo stints under my belt. Writing is in the works.

I find myself 78% anxious and 12% excited. Math is not my hustle, so don't think too hard on that.

Being a hustler is many things at once:

I don't fall asleep till well past midnight. Either because I'm still working or I'm in bed, mind whirring.

I wake up convinced that no one is going to come to my dance class. Or that they will and hate it. Or hate me. Well, okay, not hate me, because I am adorable, according to (most) people I meet. But they will definitely hate my choreography or see through it and know I didn't grow up learning Bharat Natyam (Oh my God, that's not even how it's spelled!) or kathakali.

But at the same time as I imagine all the ways I will fail, I have moments of excitement, moments of I'm on the right track. Like the choreo clients who say they loved my work. Or talking about the writing idea with friends and hearing their excitement, hearing my own.

Or designing my website. ME. A humble schoolteacher from North Vancouver, BC, designing her own website? But again, I catch myself- because why not me? If I don't believe in me, how can anyone else? And you know what? The website is kind of awesome. I secretly love it. Much screaming and hair-tearing later, I have made my own website.

There is a part of me that thinks I'm dreaming too big. Or to be more accurate: who am I to dream at all?

There is part of me that doesn't think I deserve having things work out. So when things do work out, I don't really trust them. When people hire me for the job I told them I can do, I'm like, "Why are you hiring me?".

But here's the thing: I think part of hustlin' is having your initial idea, which comes from a deep and pure and real place, and then hanging the fuck onto it as you make it happen. Coz on that road from idea to product, these negative thoughts (your inner fear) are constantly trying to derail you.

This morning, I woke up thinking, I can easily cancel the new Bollywood class, it hasn't even been advertised yet. I just mailed the cheque yesterday, I can cancel it, and no one will ever know.

If I let myself cancel this first class, if I give into my fear at this first step, I may form a pattern of it. And then the hustle is over. Before it's even begun. That feels even worse than this pre-hustle anxiety.

So instead, I'm just going to lose a bit of sleep, live for a while with an elevated heart rate, up the self-care by 1000% and keep on hustlin'.

Ex Parade

July Eleventh. Cue the Jaws theme song.

July Eleventh, my ex-wedding anniversary.

Last year was my first ex-wedding anniversary. For months in advance, I fretted. How would I get through it? I ended up spending the morning dancing to Bollywood with one of my all-time favorite people, Shelly.  She does this beautiful thing in her cool down where she asks us to scoop our arms upwards and into our hearts, and at the same time, scoop into ourselves positive energy. In the past, I'd have thought, how cheesy. That morning, I scooped with gusto, biting back tears. After class, she and I shared lunch and laughs.

Then I went to a close friend's wedding that night. Oh, didn't I tell you? My friend announced her wedding date as I announced my separation, July Eleventh. Life thinks it's so funny. So last July Eleventh, I went to her wedding, danced, social-butterflied, drank, drank some more. Only goal: get through the blasted day.

This year, when the Jaws music began sometime in June, I considered what to do for July Eleventh. Beach getaway? Writing retreat perhaps. Then a wise friend asked, "What would feel good?" I realized July Eleventh was a Monday, the day I usually teach Seniors Bollywood Fitness. That always feels good. I decided to stay in town.

Then the ex parade began. A painful conversation with a someone who had once been my best friend- another ex, at least for now. A very painful decision to stop teaching Bombay Jam because my foot is still in recovery and can't handle the high impact nature of that class. I had to give up something that brought so much joy for so many years- another ex, at least for now. A week full of exes. The twin shootings on Wednesday, the fear and grief for this country, its people. Simultaneous pain within and without.

Emergency Kit

I cried from Wednesday through Friday. You know the kind- where you wonder how one body can produce so many tears. When it becomes so routine, you can brush your teeth and cry at the same time and still remember to mouthwash. I spent Saturday on the sofa, blinds drawn- stupid California sunshine- alternating between a silly sitcom (which felt like literary gold at that moment) and the epic, Six Feet Under (because, of course, a show about death really lifts the spirit).

Hooray for Bollywood

Sunday I awoke to the sun streaming into my room. I was afraid of what the day would bring, how many more tears. But even before opening my eyes, I felt inside me that the storm had passed. I was still raw, still moved slowly through the day, but something had shifted. Life continued its hilarity by having me go teach Bollywood choreo to a bride-to-be. But it's hard to be morose when dancing to Lungi Dance, so once again, amen for Bollywood.

My therapist pointed this out: last year, July Eleventh was about survival. This year, it was about feeling it. Feeling the painhurtangersadnessguiltfear. Feeling, apparently, means moving through, which leads to moving past.

Feeling your feelings is hard. So hard, I can only use a pathetic understatement like "feeling is hard". Feeling is crying. Multiple time, multiple days, multiple years. Each feeling storm I find myself in it's the same pattern: crying, thinking it will never end, everything hurting. Then, inevitably, finding myself on the other side. Mind, body and spirit lighter, whether a fraction or a good chunk.

Today, July Eleventh was one step closer to being July eleventh. Today, without too much planning, my day filled up with nourishing and pleasurable events: time with my dear seniors, extra therapy session (obvs), and a conference call with my yoga training group.

It is important to note (to actively seek it out, in fact) that even during an emotional hurricane, there are things in life that are rooted, grounded. Things I can reach out through the tizzy of emotion and catch a hold of, anchor myself, slow down, rest.

Do you love this?

As I trace this trail of exes, I can't help but note that despite all this loss, there is new life. All around. Or maybe it's because of all this loss. Sometimes things need to be let go of. Despite how much we want to hang on.

And so, as July Eleventh moves to July eleventh, I find myself winding down the day alone in my (stunning) apartment. Spending time writing this blog to honor this moment. Honor it, and let it go. At least for now.

Different Life, Different Writing

This blog entry is dedicated to my Uncle Cyrus. He was my most diligent reader. Within minutes of posting a new entry, I would receive an email from him, always about how much he loved whatever I'd written. Once, upon reading an excerpt from my novel, he was thrilled to see I'd named a character after him. I hadn't, in fact. I'd just been poking fun at how common the name is, but didn't have the heart to tell him so. This is the first entry I am publishing without him here to read it.

I miss you, Cyrus. 

         

I see it has been nearly two years since I last wrote a blog post. 

I thought maybe it had been a few months.

Shit went down, y'all. Things that stopped me from writing*. Stopped me from blogging.

Things that felt shameful to say here. To say at all.

Even now, as resolutely as I promised myself to just spit it out and move the F on, I hesitate.

Here goes.

I got a divorce.

How harsh that word is. How crass I sound just blurting it out like that. But to say anything further right now is just too difficult.

All I will do is paraphrase a quote from Amy Poehler's memoir:

"Getting divorced is like taking a picnic blanket, all set with food, etc, and flinging it with all your might into the air, then watching things land where they may."

~~~~~

The last eighteen months have consisted of every last aspect of my life being flung high into the air. Some things landed over there, some are still spinning in the air, some never made it back.

Some days I feel broken. Some days my healing is palpable. How can you be broken and healing at the same time, I often wonder.

At a dinner party on the weekend, someone asked, "Are you still writing?"

My answer was a series of mumbled half-sentences. I'm not working on novel two, not sending out novel one. I am not writing in the way I once was- all day, every day. But I am not not writing either.

Writing is, in fact, one of the very few things that is still the same in my life. I am writing all the time. I never stopped. The reason the question stumped me is that the writing has changed.

For the last thirteen months, I had a full-time job. No more all-day writing. But when shit went down, I had to write about it.

I would wake up many a Saturday morning and, like a diarrhetic person, just barely made it to the page before everything spilled out.**

I hated most of it. I used to write about Pakistan, a country I haven't lived in for 26 years. With a buffer of a quarter century and 8000 miles, it was easy to invent stories, invent situations, have fun. I'm not putting myself or that writing down (or trying not to at least). It was just different.

Now, I write from inside the eye of the storm.

Half the time, the experience I'm trying to convey is not even 24 hours old. Plus, with my new therapist's insights, even my most basic interactions are fraught with part self-awareness, part new questions, part self-confidence, part self-doubt.

When I write about a new interaction, a half-successful standing up for myself or speaking my mind or doing things a fraction differently than before, my heart is still heavy with confusion (transformation is exhausting, y'all).

I don't fully understand what happened the night before. I write about it haphazardly, through a thick fog of half-understanding, half-pain and confusion. Worse, I don't have that pithy closing with which I usually end, that little verbal badoom-choom which used to inflate my ego (and mask my true feelings).

This new writing is frenzied. My hand hurts from writing so fast, unable to keep up with my brain. Most days, I stop halfway and just leave the piece unfinished. Where is this going? What am I even trying to say? It's such a mess. I don't even know what I'm doing with my life, what exactly do I think I'm writing about?

In fact, the fact that I'm writing about me, my life, is the scariest thing of all. Fiction was great. Non-fiction- actual personal stuff- is a scary mother-fucker.

And I don't care. About any of it. That it's hard, scary, shitty.

Some part of me recognizes that this writing, this period in my life, these half-complete pieces, are essential. To what, I don't yet know. I just know they are.

This writing is raw. Unprocessed. Unfiltered. Unpolished. It is- deep breath- imperfect. And it is real. And that's all writing needs to be.

I have never had less to show after a day's writing. I have never felt better.

~~~~~

*writing in the way I used to
**apologies for the number of un-genteel bodily functions referred to all over this blog. Unfortunately, writing comes from the body as much as anywhere else.