#a breakdown of communication somewhere in the past 10 years - or lack of it at all
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
something you wanna share with the class
(please don’t tag/comment with your inquisitor, thanks)
#Dragon Age#Dragon Age: The Veilguard#Solarric#Solavellan#Cerill Lavellan#Varric Tethras#Welcome to the world our first DATV post :D#I've made myself sick laughing about this All Day#like tell me why varric looking so lovesick in the prologue preview?#meanwhile Cerill is just '*I* don't want to fix him - What?!'#a breakdown of communication somewhere in the past 10 years - or lack of it at all
346 notes
·
View notes
Text
It's so wild that good health care is such a rarity in the world that when people have it, they feel guilty about using it.
Health care in my country of residence (Czechia) is generally pretty good. Everyone has health care, and although it is an insurance-based system, all the costs for things are regulated by the government. Everyone complains that it's too expensive, of course, but having grown up in the US, I know how good we have it here.
But over the past 5-10 years, the system has started falling apart. There are too many patients for not enough doctors. It is starting to take months to get in to see any kind of doctor, particularly specialists. In 2022, it took me a few months to get in to see the psychiatrist who diagnosed me with ADHD, and I thought that was a ridiculous wait. Now his waiting list for new patients is over a year long. It is rapidly spiraling out of control, and more and more people, including myself, are having to resort to paying for expensive private clinics (on top of their mandatory insurance) just to reduce the wait times to a few weeks rather than a few months. (And in those private clinics, waits used to be a few days, but even they are getting overfull.)
This even goes for fairly urgent things. I badly sprained my ankle in the summer of last year and it took me over 5 months just to get in to see an orthopedist, another month to get an MRI, and then yet another month to get a follow-up with the orthopedist and finally find out that I'd ruptured a ligament. I should have found out much sooner, but the emergency rooms don't do MRIs unless it's a life or death situation, because... they're overflowing too. With people whose issues aren't emergencies, but are urgent enough that they can't wait half a year to get an appointment somewhere.
I'm not sure what exactly the reasons are for this breakdown. I know that it is in part due to covid (lots of doctors died or burnt out and retired or quit, tons of people have damaged immune systems now and are getting sick more often, this country has an infuriatingly strong antivaxx community who make it all that much worse). I know that it is in part due to the fact that medical school here (like in many places, I hear) is so brutal that the vast majority of people who want to become doctors simply can't finish and have to drop out (many of them having total breakdowns from the stress of it), and also the income for doctors here isn't high enough (because the government hasn't been increasing health care funding appropriately along with the massive historically high spikes in cost of living and inflation over the past few years), so it doesn't feel worth suffering through med school anymore, and we have too few younger doctors joining the ranks. And the lack of money also pushes a lot of doctors to go work in other countries, where they can actually earn a decent living.
I'm certain there are other factors as well. But I can tell you with certainty that the problem is NOT what the average Czech person seems to think it is: that too many people go to the doctor "for no reason" or "when they don't need to" and clog up the system for everyone else. (Or that young Czechs getting their medical degrees and then leaving the country to work elsewhere is the fault of medical school being too cheap, rather than doctors' wages being too low.)
Where did this mindset come from? I hear people saying it more and more. If only someone less sick than me would just stay home, take a shot of slivovice and an ibuprofen, and not bother the doctors with their symptoms, then I'd be able to get in faster.
The problem is not people going to the doctor when they don't need to. That is never the problem.
The problem is somewhere in the system itself. Most health care systems in the world have problems in them that need to be addressed. It needs to be easier to become a doctor. It needs to be easier for doctors from other countries to get licensed here. The income doctors get for their long years of education and long hours of work needs to increase.
And people who aren't feeling well need to go to the doctor. They need to be able to go to the doctor, without fear or guilt! If it turns out to be nothing, that's wonderful. But it's not always going to turn out to be nothing, and I'm sick of hearing stories of people dying or becoming permanently ill or disabled because of something that could have been prevented, but they didn't want to "bother" the doctor with it. (Myself included.)
The patients are not the problem.
A lot of Danes I’ve talked to express guilt at “taking advantage” of our universal healthcare and I sometimes wonder if it’s based on the knowledge that it’s not a universal right everywhere? Because these people are never “taking advantage” of it. They feel sick so they go see a doctor who then tell them there’s nothing wrong and they can relax. Stress less.
I have to see the doctor every month due to other illness which I don’t feel the least bit bad about but I fell victim to this feeling too once. At one point I started feeling pain in my chest, arm and neck and got really worried I was experiencing a hart attack or blood clot. At the same time I worried I was overreacting but my housemate convinced me to call Lægevagten, which isn’t the alarm center but more like a group of on-call doctors you can call if you have questions or worries. I told her about my symptoms and suddenly she said “Are you calling from this address?” having clearly looked it up on some sort of location gps system from my phone. I confirmed and she just said “Okay, I’m sending an ambulance” and within minutes two paramedics were at my door. They decided to take me to the nearest hospital where I spent the night going through all sorts of tests, from blood work, having radiation pumped into my lungs for a CT scan and several other X-ray images.
Nothing. They found nothing.
I felt so SO bad but before I even said anything they assured me “This is good. We’d rather people come here and nothing is wrong than people not come here when something is wrong and they end up dying. Now you don’t have to stress about this”
A few days later I realized the pain came from a sliiightly dislocated rib that randomly popped back into place while I was riding my bike.
I felt so silly but my friends reminded me that I didn’t make a huge fuss about it at the time. I just told the doctor my symptoms and she set the whole thing in motion. Like the doctors said, this is what universal healthcare is for. People need to feel like they can call for help even at the slightest sign of illness so it can be caught early. This is how you keep a population healthy.
But yeah, it’s such a silly feeling. We pay taxes to have universal healthcare so there’s no reason to feel guilty about using it. We just can’t help ourselves I suppose. (Let’s not even get into the fact my doctor diagnosed me with early diabetes “just to be on the safe side” that seemed to vanish almost immediately but it still means I get free yearly vaccinations and I have very mixed feelings about it)
1K notes
·
View notes
Note
hi, I was looking again at the reading you did about bts and the 2019 outlook and it's so on point!,like it's amazing!! anyway, I was wondering if you had any clue what's coming with the new year, for them I mean. I think a lot of people are feeling the air of finality, but still the guys have to do smt after the end of the year (as a group or not), do you have anything in mind/do you see anything on that?
Anonymous: are you going to do a 2020 forecast for bts? i would be super interesting in reading one. it would be nice if you did like a paragraph specific to each member too
Anonymous: Hey!! Hope you are doing well. I wondered if you would do an outlook reading for bts this year. Thank you, take care!!
Anonymous: Hi! It’s so nice to see that you’re back! I was wondering if you could maybe do a reading for what 2020 will hold for BTS as a group and as individuals?
000
For the sake of not unintentionally adding speedbumps into their projected timelines and personal paths, I’m not setting out to get any solid potentials that are set up for them in 2020 as, literally, anything can change at any moment, especially now. Putting predictions out can sometimes cause interference through the collective perception of the potentials which are then projected and can overlay onto designated paths and timelines as they play out within the 3D collective experience, so I am focusing on overall energy. It’s the most general and least invasive way of looking at what is currently laid out for them as a group and as individuals. The energy I’m focusing on, in a sense, can be looked at as the tile or stone that their current paths are laid with. It can or can not have direct influence over the destination and the experiences along the way, but for the most part, it is the foundation of every step and sets the tone for the year ahead.
All: Allowance
As a group, the energy influencing them in 2020 is Allowance. There’s a lot of release here, not as much restriction or pressure compared to previous years as, along with the global collective, they are being given opportunities to reform their paths and rebuild foundations based on the growth and knowledge they have acquired for themselves over the last few years. With Allowance, it’s more about going with what they feel to be right, what they feel suits them as people rather than as a product, and there isn’t so much urgency (or they will work to lessen the urgency) towards maintaining their current position.
A bit odd, but the image I was getting with this is that of someone drowning and trying to fight their way to the surface. The longer they hold their breath, the more they panic, and the more they struggle to get to the surface. Finally, when everything in their body is in pain and their head feels like it’s going to explode, they inhale. It’s an instant release and relief of the pain and fear as their body goes into shock and they pretty much pass out and get swept away by the currents. The focus here for me was fighting a battle that can’t be won, or that doesn’t need to be fought at all.
Basically, as I was seeing it, it’s like their attempts to maintain their current position as a group is actually causing resistance to what is set up for them now. Moreso, it’s a lack of trust in themselves, their fans, their company, the industry itself, whatever, that causes them to be fearful of losing what they have and essentially falling from grace. They are supposed to drown in the water not because they are meant to die but because they are going to be carried somewhere new, washed onto a new shore, and given a new life. It’s not so literal, obviously, but the more they fight to stay in the same place the more painful the transition from point A to point B will become. Things are being set up now to show them that they can let go and that it’s not all going to crumble away when they do.
Message on the card: “The frequency of Allowance invites us to be open to whatever comes our way — without judgment, without opinion, without fear, and without resistance. When we allow, the Universe becomes our partner in the wondrous dance of existence and expansion.”
Namjoon: The Magician (rev.) + 4 of Pentacles
This made me feel all bubbly inside because that reversed Magician immediately gave me this image of Namjoon removing a crown and setting it down on a table, essentially removing his responsibilities on a soul level within the soul body and moving all of his conscious level focus to the 4 of Pentacles, the physical foundations, the real-life shit. It’s about him focusing on himself and literally, very consciously, looking at his current path, his current position and where that could lead him and whether or not that is where he wants to go. He’s being given a great opportunity to be in complete control and not exclusively be bound to soul work and purpose. This, of course, can lead to a lot of stressful times and anxiety as anyone who has been very closely guided for a long time can feel that sudden rush of responsibility and pressure come up out of nowhere — I had my own breakdown over it myself last year, it’s here if you want to have a good laugh.
Jin: Two of Cups
Two of Cups, straight up, is relationships and for me personally, this is the only card in a tarot deck that I associate with romantic connections. It’s a significant connection for him but it’s very confined, or I suppose hidden away. It’s private and personal so I won’t try to see into any more than that, but overall this is a fulfilling time for him, something that will start a new phase in his life.
Yoongi: King of Swords
To be honest, the King of Swords is a card I don’t really ever feel anything towards, I usually read it as its traditional meaning in most readings, but here it’s doing some crazy flashing sort of nonsense. Visually, I was seeing it as the King of Cups pulling out a sword to become the King of Swords. Like I just keep seeing the same thing repeating over and over again, just a silhouette of the King of Cups pulling out a sword and his body lighting up all crazy and little balls of light coming off of him like fireflies. It’s very dramatic and I don’t know what it means, but I’m sure it will be an absolute riot for Yoongi, especially if this has to do with personal projects and music coming out.
Hoseok: Six of Cups (rev.) + Queen of Wands
This is like a big dollop of liberation but not in a ~escapist~ kind of way. How I was seeing it, it’s as if the reversed 6 of Cups is the current state of Hoseok’s “kingdom.” It’s being taken over by this weird army that is completely made up of old ideas, trauma, and insecurity. His kingdom is not under his rulership as you would assume it is, and instead, he is at the mercy of this army. Not matter what he wants to build or move through, the process is dictated by the army. The liberation comes from the Queen of Wands as she chooses not to fight the army and instead incorporates it into her own army. That pretty much translates into shadow work, accepting detriments within yourself and turning them into assets in one way or another. He will liberate himself by not fighting against himself and working on uniting aspects of his inner world together. I’m pretty sure I had something like that for him before, but I don’t remember which reading it was.
Jimin: The Tower
This has to do with some personal stuff that I think I talked about in his Elemental Alignment reading and maybe his and Kook’s relationship reading. It is, without a doubt, significant energy in 2020 for him and most likely the next few years.
Taehyung: Six of Swords (rev.)
The reversed 6 of Swords tends to show a halt in progress, some sort of upset that either takes away the driver’s ability to move or somehow compromises the vehicle itself. In a weird way, I was seeing the vehicle being affected, but the vehicle was shown as Taehyung’s mind. It was a little confusing to look at but it seemed like “speed bumps” were being placed in his line of sight as he’s just kind of going about his day and these “speed bumps” are there to continuously assess his surroundings and his connection to them on a deeper level. I was seeing this relating back to his sense of identity and how he communicates with people. It was kind of weird, but it looked like he was literally just talking to someone and they kept going, “what? What did you say?” It’s not about him not being understood it’s about getting him to make sure that he is saying what he wants to say and not what he thinks other people want him to say. But it’s also deeper than that which is why it’s confusing, I feel like this is already going on considering those few times where he has spoken out against certain nonsensical bullshit with fans and such, so it could be just more of that, kind of coaxing more honesty, more of his true self to the surface.
Kook: Ace of Wands (rev.) + Ace of Cups + 10 of Cups
Homeboy is running around with a big mood strapped to his soul, I guess. If you’ve been following the blog and the readings for a long ass time, then perhaps you know that Kook had a big connection within my readings to the Page of Wands, and sometimes the combination of The Fool and the Ace of Wands when he was in a more independent state. This is related to that except he has, or he will grow past the independent state of The Fool and Ace of Wands. Quite literally, he is putting the Ace of Wands down and picking up the Ace of Cups in order to pursue the 10 of Cups. He’s initiating a journey through Water, through the suit of cups, fully from 1 to 10. Very interesting. The Ace of Wands, or the Wands suit in general for Kook is about performance and always being on, projecting for the sake of others. With Water, with Cups, he is more internally focused, but this will actually bring him the most external progress. I assume this will show up more with personal projects and more personal self-expression that is not hindered or influenced by outside opinion or concern.
More Mini-Readings | Celebrity/Idol Readings
#Anonymous#minireadings#bts#kim namjoon#namjoon#rm#bts rm#kim seokjin#seokjin#jin#min yoongi#yoongi#suga#jung hoseok#hoseok#jhope#park jimin#jimin#jeon jungkook#jungkook#kim taehyung#taehyung#v#btsv
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
So. Story time.
I never really think of myself has having ptsd cause I’ve never been diagnosed with it, like I have with depression and ADHD (and there was some speculation about bipolar ii, but apparently depression/ADHD combined can also look a lot like hypomania and the depressive episodes of bipolar ii? idk? I do know that I had a minor breakdown when my then-psychiatrist mentioned it cause it was a big change to spring on someone at 23). I don’t get a lot of the symptoms typically associated with ptsd, I can’t understand them because I haven’t experienced them, and I don’t want to claim the diagnosis when I feel like my experiences are so much tamer than what so many people have gone through. Like, yes, I was assaulted, but it wasn’t rape. Yes, I kind of tried to kill myself, but it wasn’t a serious attempt (the end goal wasn’t actually death) and it wasn’t violent or bloody or that physically traumatizing (I mean I don’t think they even pumped my stomach, but to be honest I remember very little from that whole experience cause--- well, cause it was traumatizing. And my memory is crap.). What I’m going to mention here, though, is the First Big Trauma I can think of.
When I was... actually I don’t remember how old I was. I guess it was senior year? Like I said, my memory is crap. Since high school my brain has scrambled up dates like crazy, and forgotten or misremembered a lot of things, and left a lot of things vaguely floating in the ether unsure when they happened or where or if they happened at all. Anyway. My.... we’ll call him a friend. He had been a friend, anyway. Until I made the huge mistake of sleeping with him casually. With him knowing I was sleeping with other people as well. And he called my mother to tell her I was out having sex with people (don’t think he mentioned he was one of them). I don’t remember when I found out about this. It might have been before the incident in question or after. I really don’t remember the timeline. We could’ve still been tentatively close at this point, but I think I may have already been having off feelings about him, I don’t remember. Anyway. I was best friends with a different guy (the other one I was sleeping with -- look, I slept with my friends okay, I’m not saying I was a good person for it, I regret one of them immensely and wish I’d handled the other one better) who was also friends with Guy 1.
One night... and again, I don’t remember the context at all, what we were talking about or if I was talking to him at all, just that it was over iMessage somewhere after 1am, maybe after 2am. I don’t know what we were talking about. (Maybe this is why I keep records or reread through old conversations, I have the worst memory and it really irritates me that I can’t look back on logs of these convos.) Anyway. He says he’s going to kill himself. Me, being a teenager, immediately does the thing they do on tv and asks something akin to ‘do you have a plan’ or ‘how do you plan to do it’ or whatever, and he says he has a kitchen knife and I’m like FUCK no, talk to me, please talk to me, don’t do this. Do you want me to come over? I’ll sneak out and come over, please don’t do this right now. And I don’t remember a lot of the details. I was an idiot and roped Guy 2 into it cause I didn’t know how to handle this. I should’ve been a decent person and left him out of it. But maybe having someone else to talk to at the time (because of course I didn’t wake up my parents - I was breaking the rules being up and on the computer after 10pm or whatever, why would I be so rational as to talk to my loving parents about this horrible situation I’d been thrown into) was helpful in the moment. It probably was. I hope he wasn’t as scarred by the experience as I was. I don’t remember if he tried to contact Guy 1 or not. Anyway. I don’t know how long it went on. I remember mentioning to Guy 2 that maybe I should call an ambulance. I don’t remember if I did. I remember sobbing silently sneaking downstairs into the garage to get into my car cause I was going to drive to his house to talk to him if I had to. I was so shaken. I was sure that if he died it-- well it wouldn’t be my fault, exactly, but that there was more I could’ve done. I’m sure I mentioned the suicide hotline and said he should call them. I offered all the support I could give from afar.
I don’t remember the rest of that night. I know I didn’t ever open my garage door, just waited next to my car, texting constantly on my old flip phone, or maybe I was talking, I don’t know. I think I must’ve been talking. Eventually I assume I went to sleep. I don’t know who I talked to. At some point the next day I know I was involved with basically forcing the guy to talk to the school psychiatrist. I probably felt kind of proud, like I’d done the right thing. I don’t actually know if I did. You may have noticed, and I’ll state this a million times over; my memory is lacking. Maybe I said the Wrongest thing possible. I don’t know. I just know that I felt responsible for saving the guy’s life. And I was also absolutely terrified of him. Maybe it was after that that my mom told me about his ridiculous crossing of that Line between kids and parents. And just... in general. That was a line that shouldn’t have been crossed ever. And props to my mom for never confronting me about it, and generally respecting my sexual autonomy. I also remember - though, again, I don’t know when - calling him out on how ridiculously inappropriate something like that was, and him denying it. Like-- why would my mom make that up? There is literally no reason. And why choose him? Basically, I felt (rightfully) betrayed. And, of course, entirely traumatized by the whole suicide night. Eventually this became the first person I ever blocked on social media, the person who’s name still gives me chills, who I am terrified of to this day. The person who I had dreams of hunting me in my own home (didn’t help that he was on the rifle team, so I knew he knew how to shoot -- absolutely terrifying). He’s probably some boring ass white dude today. Probably living some whitebread life, working for the government. Some part of me still thinks he’s a psychopath.
Anyway. I guess what I’m trying to say is: please god, do not try to talk me down. Don’t do that to yourself. The likelihood that I will ever follow through on suicidal ideation is very very low (like I’d peg it at under 10%), and I never want anyone to go through the overwhelming fear and panic I felt that night. Leave an encouraging message. Encourage reaching out to more qualified professionals. Shoot a link to a crisis textline or something, but do not feel obligated to step in yourself. I will never try to lay the blame of my suicidality on anyone besides myself. I moved past the 13 Reasons Why mentality a long time ago. I am far more likely to argue that suicide should be a legal path for people who are adding nothing to the community as a whole than I am to argue that it’s someone else’s fault that I want to die. I think of death more logistically than emotionally at this point. It’s not a revenge fantasy. But that doesn’t mean I’m immune to really fucking depressing lines of thinking - inescapable spirals that are just impossible to talk me out of - when I’m in a bad place. No one should have to feel hopelessly frustrated at my own horrible self-talk at those times. Reaching out to people is great, but think of yourself first.
Anyway. Thanks, anon, for the support. Writing that last bit calmed me down, and I’d already considered the hotline and dismissed it cause I knew I wasn’t actually going to kill myself and just needed to vent off some panic. ❤
#personal#very personal#tw suicide#tw trauma#suicide#trauma#depression#tw depression#just stick all those warnings on here#story time from high school#mental health#feel free to ignore#this is completely unrelated to anything on this blog#just a big ol dash of tmi#tw stalking#maybe?
6 notes
·
View notes
Photo
New Post has been published on https://fitnesshealthyoga.com/yoga-and-religion-a-journey-of-faith-christianity/
Yoga and Religion: A Journey of Faith + Christianity
People often think that yoga and religion are two separate things. And while that may be true for some, yoga and religion are intertwined for others. Here’s one yogi’s story of how her Catholic faith impacted her practice.
I walked into the high-ceilinged, sunny-yellow Philadelphia yoga studio with ebonyashes clouding my skin. The mark, smeared across my forehead earlier that day by an old man’s thumb, was less a cross and more of a faded, L-shaped blotch.
It was 4:30 p.m. on Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, and I noticed that no one else in the class had a similar mark. I hadn’t had ashes on my forehead since I was in Catholic high school more than 10 years ago. When I was young, I learned that we wore ashes as a public admission of guilt—an expression of a deep and incomprehensible sorrow. Back then, I knew I was supposed to spend Lent correcting my faults, purifying my heart, and controlling my desires, the way Jesus had when he was allegedly tempted by Satan as he spent 40 days in the desert.
Thanks for watching!Visit Website
I, on the other hand, had carried my lavender yoga mat past a red-and-gold Om symbol painted on a wall next to copper statues of Buddha and Ganesh, inhaled smokey sandalwood incense, laid out my mat, and dropped down into Balasana (Child’s Pose). My knees splayed out wide past my bare feet, my arms stretched forward to the top of the mat, my ash-anointed forehead touched, in humility, rubber over hardwood floor.
Thanks for watching!Visit Website
Thanks for watching!Visit Website
See also��Do You Really Know the True Meaning of Yoga? Thoughts from a British Indian Yogi
The sounds of flutes and sitars and Indian devotional music played in the background, and a slender, soft-voiced yoga teacher advised us to clear our minds, focus on being present, and to set an intention for our practice.
Earlier, at church, a kind and graying priest had advised worshipers not to “give something up” for Lent, but to instead be fully present to God—the divine—in ourlives. In the modern, minimalistic church, with its familiar central crucifix and ornate portraits of saints and the Virgin Mary lining the sunlit walls, I had felt as much at home as I did now in the yoga studio. The pews had been packed to capacity for Ash Wednesday, with people crowding in the back vestibule, coats still on, like my family always had when we’d arrived late to Christmas mass.
In the humid, heated yoga room, class was filled to its highest capacity as well—not because of a day-of, religious obligation, but because it was a community yoga class costing only $7, rather than the usual $15. A crowded class (or church, for that matter) never bothered me, really. But today I was dimly aware of the mark on my forehead, my struggles with faith readily visible to all. I rose from Child’s Pose to stand with the other spandex-clad men and women on a sea of neon mats, our legs locked in Vrksasana (Tree Pose) and our hands in Namaskarasana.
Searching through my Catholic faith in my late 20s sometimes feels empty and regressive. There are so many reasons to not believe in it: abusive pedophiliac priests, lack of equal respect for women, blatant disregard for LGBTQ people I hold so dearly. Unsurprisingly, for years since college, I’ve been more comfortable with yoga mats and meditations rather than confession and unrelenting guiltI learned to bear from rigid nuns in brown habits when I was young and still clapped blackboard erasers.
See also Q&A: What’s So Sacred About the Number 108?
Tomaine and her mother praying at the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul.
I remember being a child in a wooden pew wearing flowery dresses on Easter and contemplating, in an abstract and sanitized way, what it would have felt like to have iron nails put through my hands. I pictured the blood running out in neat rivulets, always imagining it as a manageable pain, something confined, before drifting off to other daydreams and bemusements. In my world, my concept of pain was not enough to understand the gory and impossible torture of an actual crucifixion. Everything is neatly packaged when you are 11, delivered in a picture book both palatable and disturbing—a story accepted and then dismissed.
But at 28 years old, I haven’t just been searching for faith, but also for a sense of self I seem to have lost somewhere between growing up and post-college malaise—learning that I wasn’t going to marry that guy or the one after that. I also wasn’t going to have the perfect career and easily sketched life I’d imagined for myself all those years. Somewhere along the line, I realized, with a staggering jolt, that I didn’t have all the answers, nor would I. This realization of how little I knew led me on a bumpy path back to a yoga mat, a church pew, and finally, after years of shying away from the one thing that had always made me, me: writing again.
I started writing in tiny notebooks, in notes on my iPhone, on airplanes, waiting in line outside free concerts. If I’ve learned anything of value so far, it’s that spirituality is intrinsic to the writing process, because creativity itself is justa form of spirituality. What is a writer if not someone, as William Faulkner put it, attempting to understand and convey “the human heart in conflict with itself?” And is spirituality not just trying to understand that same heart? A search for peace and meaning and inner strength? A way to slow down in a world where it is all too easy to speed up until one day you wake up old and wrinkled, and you cry, looking back, thinking, “That was my life.” Fiction, poetry, nonfiction—these are all really just attempts at divinity.
See also 9 Top Yoga Teachers Share How They ‘Talk’ to the Universe
For years, I had stopped writing, practicing yoga regularly, and praying, allowing myself to sink into a daily fray—worrying about the unruly edges of my life, how things were not settling how I wanted them to. I lost my true sense of awe and wonder, of spirituality. I was overwhelmed, instead, by personal tragedies and plans gone awry, at heartache and mistakes that built up into disillusionment and depression. But, I also think, like almost any great religious story—whether it be Jesus wandering off into a desert in Israel or Luke Skywalker flying off on a spiritual quest to Dagobah—there comes a universal knowledge that to find yourself, and your true voice, you must first lose everything and build up from the dirt.
Over time, I shifted direction. I began walking out of my personal desert—a place where I had felt lonely and entitled, angry at my life for not unfolding asI imagined. AndI started being more humble: accepting that even if some people involved in the church were terrible, that didn’t make faith terrible. I started going to yoga, not to improve my form, but to calm my mind.
I began to, slowly, feel happy again. I started laughing more, and talking more, and drinking more red wine. I started meditating. I went to yoga classes regularly again. I started praying again, in odd, awkward moments, as I’d done as a girl. I focused seriously on meditation in a way that felt not at all incongruous with blessing myself with the sign of the cross as I lay in the dark, reading Psalms from my iPhone Bible before bed.
See also 5 Ways to Turn a Mental Breakdown into a Spiritual Breakthrough
“Spirituality, both in yoga classes and in prayer, simply became my non-acceptance of my predicament.” – Gina Tomaine
I prayed when I needed a parking spot. I prayed when there was airplane turbulence. I prayed when I felt anxious about a conversation or a relationship. I prayed thanks when I had a piece of writing published. I prayed thanks when I was laying in Half Pigeon Pose. I prayed for my family.
When I prayed, I said that I wasn’t sure if what I was praying for was the right thing, but if God could just do whatever was right, I would be OK with it. It didn’t even matter if anyone was listening—capital G God or anyone at all—it just mattered that I had finally learned, once and for all, that everything was not up to me.
I started to shake myself out of whatever had been holding me. I did legs up the wall every night. Psalms told me, “You are fearfully and wonderfully made.” I started acting fearfully and wonderfully made.
Spirituality, both in yoga classes and in prayer, simply became my non-acceptance of my predicament. I didn’t consciously decide I wanted to be Christian again, but it was a survivalist instinct. If I wanted to live and not just exist, I hadto let myself believe again. It was as simple, and perhaps as childish, as that. Spirituality became my decision to transcend depression, emotional malaise, and discontent, and instead worship the creative process, the divine in everyday life, and the things I loved about the world. After all, how we are all cosmically connected and divine is real—and I would rather believe it and be called foolish than die faithless, cynical, and smart.
See also 3 Things I Learned After Taking a Break from My Yoga Practice
At the end of yoga class on Ash Wednesday, I sat up straight, cross-legged, breathing heavy with eyes gently shut. My ashes were sweaty on my forehead, my yoga tights sticking to my thighs. I felt emptied and grateful,reminded thatI am dust.
Our teacher offered an option for our final pose: “Rest your hands on your knees facing down if you are searching for answers within yourselves,” she said.
Without a thought, I placed my hands down on my knees.
“Or,” she continued, “rest your hands on your knees facing up if you are searching for answers from the universe.”
I flipped my hands facing up.
“Namaste,” we said, in unison.
The week after that, I read another Bible verse; I wrote another poem, another essay, another short story; I took another yoga class; I rose up into Warrior Pose II before transitioning into a twist, my hands folded softly together in Prayer Pose, my breath moving steadily, my heart open.
About the Author
Gina Tomaine is a Philadelphia-based writer and editor. She is currently Deputy Lifestyle Editor of Philadelphia magazine, and previously served as Associate Deputy Editor of Rodale’s Organic Life. She’s been published in Prevention, Women’s Health, Runner’s World and more. Learn more at ginatomaine.com.
!function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s)if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function() n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments) ;if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n; n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0';n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0];s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)(window, document,'script','https://connect.facebook.net/en_US/fbevents.js'); (function() fbq('init', '1397247997268188'); fbq('track', 'PageView'); var contentId = 'ci023afb67300027e7'; if (contentId !== '') fbq('track', 'ViewContent', content_ids: [contentId], content_type: 'product'); )();
Source link
0 notes
Text
The Fam™
So, this is our first original post on this blog. It’s an introduction to relationships between the Voltron squad and our OC’s Celeste and Willow Sobek. This ties directly into our Crossover Fanfiction we’ll hopefully be writing out soon when we get our shit together.
And without further ado, my kids.
Celeste:
Allura
Original Space Mom and Space Mom v.2
Spaceship baddies
Are pretty af but will kill you
Celeste is fond of her, as she is with everyone on the ship, but isn’t for the Princess shit
Years of Jaeger piloting has taught her that maybe a warrior is more her style
But, if she’s in the mood to be pampered (or if Willow wishes for a ‘girls night’) she will go to Allura first to get that girly love
After that is Lance but that’s more of a party than gossip and hair braiding, sh don’t tell Allura
Coran
???
Celeste thinks he’s hilarious
Designated Space Uncle
She enjoys all his stories because they remind her fondly of how her father used to tell boot camp and Jaeger glory days tales
That and he so exuberant it’s hard to ignore him
She finds him interesting in the ‘hey you’re an alien, but you’re so human it hits home??’ sort of way
Lowkey reminds her of Willow because of his high intelligence, loyalty, and seriousness when necessary that collides with his overall fantastic attitude and the way he can blurt out the weirdest shit ever in a matter of seconds
Hunk
BESTIES
Food besties
Bond over their love of food and fierce loyalty
ALSO LET’S NOT FORGET ENGINEERING BUBBIES AAAA
Both of them may seem a bit on the dimmer side due to their physical appearances, but these two can pull apart and reassemble a ship (or a Jaeger) in a matter of seconds while telling you exactly what was wrong, what part and tool they need/are using, and what they’re doing to fix it
Literally friend goals
They will spend hours figuring out how to cook from the alien stuff Coran provides them with and will experiment to the point everyone kind of steers clear of the kitchen when they’re going past because they have no idea what the hell they are doing in there
Snack breaks are essential
Cuddles are 11/10 always 100% expected and needed during snack breaks or hanging out
Can sit in silence for hours and not be bored of each other
Personal pillows for each other or portable furnaces, usually both
Often found asleep on each other
If you can’t find one, they’re probably with the other somewhere
They share nearly everything, every insecurity, every problem, every nightmare, everything
Hunk is one of the few people to ever see Celeste cry
Keith
Oh god where to begin
First, Keith is the only person she has ever let dominate her.
One time, she made him extremely jealous and he literally fucked her into the mattress. After that, she was much more open to the idea of being sub.
Keith is the only person who’s ever asked her why she has such sad eyes.
He had thought that Celeste was truthfully unbothered by her situation. Like Allura, Celeste never let her emotions show through. She chose to internalize it and act like it wasn’t there. She laughed and cracked jokes, but sometimes when Keith would look at her, he could see the pain in her eyes, and he realized that Celeste may have been a goddess, but she was also painfully human. He never let her get away with “I’m fine’s” or “I’m just tired’s” because he knew better. Though she never cried in front of him, she did open up about her family and her nightmares.
She even eventually told him about the man she loved, despite their sexual/romantic relationship. He had been hurt, but tried really hard to get past it because he simply had too strong of feelings for her.
If it got her in his bed, he did it. After all, she was still extremely dominant, so she exercised this “control” everywhere but in the bedroom.
Keith is extremely possessive, but know’s how not to be a shithead. He’s long since accepted that Celeste will do as she pleases and nobody (but Willow) can tell her otherwise.
When Keith first laid eyes on Celeste, his only thought was “Goddamn” and nothing else. It must have been the sight of her crawling out of a smoking Jaeger in a skintight suit of armor (that he later learned was called a Drivesuit.)
Get’s frustrated by her lack of shyness (he loves seeing girls blush), but discovers that the one way to get her to blush is have her ride his face. Though she loves being on top, she feels that she’s too heavy and that she’ll crush him.
He convinced her that she was not too heavy, but she still hesitates when he asks.
Both are extremely witty and sarcastic. When they to are together, nobody is spared. Lance usually takes the brunt of the roasts, but occasionally they go after Shiro because annoyed Shiro is best Shiro.
Celeste weighs more than Keith and has more muscle, but he’s faster. Both are brutal fighters, and both are equally terrifying. Once, when fighting Galra soldiers, one actually ran from them in fear after watching them absolutely eviscerate one of his comrades.
Both love they swords and literally will gut you in one swipe if fucked with.
Both are sinners but when they sleep, they cling to each other as if they were going to be torn apart. Morning showers are routine because they wake up drenched in each others sweat. It’s gross af but they can’t help it. They’re both hot-blooded.
IMPULSIVE FUCKING DICKHEADS CAN I GET AN AMEN
Celeste calls him Billy Ray Cyrus because of the mullet. He hates it and in return calls her fishface.
Lance
Both flirt to annoy one another but are basically siblings.
Lance broke down once, relating to her on missing their family. He feels as though he’s not important to the team. So, her being other space mom, she sings to him and plays with his hair and realizes that he’s still just a baby and gains a newfound respect for how strong he and all of the Paladin’s are.
P.s. she sang You are My Sunshine because honestly, Lance is a little baby sunshine and a blessing.
Celeste dubbed him the “annoying gremlin” of the team and nearly died having to explain what a gremlin was to the two very confused Alteans.
Can be found playfighting, but Celeste denies it because she’s “too old for that shit”. Lance is always offended when she says this, but alas, the fighting still goes on.
They are the hispanic children of the team.
When Celeste and Willow first arrived, Lance had come down to find them at the table casually eating breakfast. When he asked who they were and where they came from, Willow explained their situation, but Celeste, attempting to be a little shit, said “Somos el puto pez que cayó del cielo, estúpido muchacho de culo”, which translates to “We are the the fucking fish who fell from the sky, stupid ass boy.” Lance, being Cuban, understood what she had said and called her out on it, much to her surprise. Since then, the two would communicate in mostly spanish.
During their play fights, Spanish curses could be heard from throughout the castle, frequently “Idiota” from Lance and “pinche pendejo” from Celeste.
At first, Celeste couldn’t stand the kid because he wouldn’t stop hitting on her, but after he got used to her, (and she played him for Keith’s attention), he opened up and started to act like regular!lLance around her. She gave in, finally laughing at his stupid jokes and antics, hence the sibling attitude and play fighting.
Pidge
Celeste will only call Pidge “Pudge” because it annoys her.
Celeste pulled Lance aside one day and carefully instructed him that if and when her and Willow made it back home, Lance would have to continue to call her Pudge. There wasn’t a specific reasoning, but she never wanted the small child to forget her.
In retaliation, Pidge calls Celeste “Cilantro”. Lance had jumped on the bandwagon and tried to call her Carnitas, but Celeste threatened him with death if he ever called her that again. When Pidge had asked why she got so mad, Celeste had to explain that Carnitas translates to “little meats” and was basically pork cooked in lard or oil.
Pidge lowkey hated Celeste because she thought that she was just a dumb brute (harsh), but when the girls had brought them to see the inside of ‘Cuda and Celeste began to explain the mechanics behind her, and the AI etc, she realized that Celeste was much smarter than she looked.
Celeste walked in on Pidge mid breakdown about her father and brother, and despite her lashing out and begging for her to leave, Celeste simply wouldn’t. When Pidge (reluctantly) let her sit beside her, Celeste coaxed her to tell what was wrong. She shared her story, telling Pidge how she had lost her mother and father. She didn’t know if it was her story or the soft way that she spoke to the young girl, but she found herself cradling the her as she cried. They both vowed to not tell anyone, but since then, Pidge has looked up to Celeste as a big sister.
When the girls returned home, Pidge was crushed because Willow and Celeste had filled the void in her heart that had formed when she lost Matt. It was almost like she had had him back.
Shiro
Actual Space Parents ™
Celeste is more of a mother figure than Allura could ever be, no shade just truth. She’s better with people and much less condescending. Even if she’s hurt, she will always listen to the other side of the story. When Keith was found to have Galra blood, she still loved and treated him the same because he had protected her and everyone else on the team with such fervor and fierce loyalty. There was no question that he was on their side, at least not to Celeste.
Both consult each other before Allura (usually) when making decisions. Celeste may not be a total nerd but her leadership skills are A1 and Shiro always goes to her for a second opinion.
These two are extremely close, not in a sibling way or a best friend way, or a romantic way (she ain’t willow tho he daddy ™ ), they just are. It’s difficult to explain, but they both are headstrong, natural born leaders. They’re prepared to do what it takes to protect their team. Self sacrifice isn’t even a question if it would save the lives of one another or the team.
Both are secretly silly as hell but hide it well unless they’re with someone who they trust. One time, they had an argument over what he should name his Galra arm.
“Name it Herbert.” “What?” “No, name it…. Pepe.” “What the hell is ‘Pepe’?” “Oh God.”
Lance and Willow lost their shit and never let Shiro live it down, despite his claims that he had “bigger things to worry about than memes.” He also grumpily claimed that it was because he was imprisoned by the Galra for a year and got increasingly irritated when neither of the three would take him seriously.
Willow:
Allura
Honestly?? Willow is intimidated by her
Willow doesn’t understand how someone can be so strong even after losing everything
She really respects it
She’s jealous of the fact that Allura can so effortlessly hide what weakness she may have
She enjoys Allura’s presence, it’s soft, but sometimes Allura’s need for command and attention irks her
It don’t make sense because Willow has no problem with Celeste’s or Shiro’s authority ??
One time she started gabbing in Gaelic (a bad habit she’d had since childhood) Allura - without missing a beat - started rambling back in ancient Altean and Willow thinks that was the closest she’s ever been to Allura
Coran
Again SPACE UNCLE
He reminds her of her Grandma and her father, with all the boot camp stories and such, much like Celeste
Willow likes to remind him that she comes from a family of ‘warriors’ and that her Grandmother could so easily kick his ass just because he always talks about meeting her Grandma
Hugs
Coran is one of the few fellow touchy-feely persons in the Castle, so more often than not, if they achieve something together, they hug and cheer
Coran is incredibly interested in Gaelic and is trying to get Willow to teach him some
He just doesn’t recognize he’s terrible at learning other languages
Hunk
Like with her sister, Willow and Hunk are cuddle buddies
Willow will often share little things from she and Celeste’s childhood (especially dishes that their mother made) and will find out Hunk tried to make it
Her basic reaction is !!!!
She may or may not kiss his cheek and hug him because he’s such a fucking cutie
She’s almost cried twice because of how kind Hunk is
The other hugger on the ship so they’re constantly hugging and being affectionate
The Squishies
Keith
They don’t really talk, both aren’t able to read the other well besides what’s on the surface and know that a whole untreated ocean is underneath.
They leave well enough alone
They respect each other, high five after missions, all that friendly shit
Lowkey awkward cuties
Mostly connected by Celeste, so they know they have at least one thing in common
Willow is still loyal and protective to him, as is he
Training buddies
Keith hates when she beats his ass but it’s making him better so he can’t complain that much
His complaining increases if Lance is present during their training sessions
Just like Lance, he both hates and loves her
Dabbing, for example, since Lance refused to let Willow explain it to him
Which is a thing he loves, if he doesn’t understand something, then Willow is sure to explain it to him with as little judgement as possible
But also conspiracy theories, oh my god it is the way to this boys heart so of course he’s gonna like it when Willow makes a bad bigfoot joke
Lance
M E M E T E A M
Literally their entire relationship is essentially finger guns, sunglasses, and depression memes
Before I get into the funny shit; they share insecurities and often run to each other when they need reassurance because they are terrified of telling anyone else about their internalized problems
Literally have seen each other cry so many times
Love and protect each other almost like siblings
They’ve almost entirely wired themselves to calm down in the presence of the other tbh
Weepy cuddles and depression naps
Okay, back to our regularly scheduled meme program -
First off, Lance is probably partially deaf; the one time Lance wasn’t fully paying attention to what Willow was saying, he misinterpreted ‘Shiro’ as something along the lines of ‘Shirp’
His reaction basically being “Willow, wouldn’t it make sense to say ‘shrimp’ like everyone else? I mean what is wrong with you Irish??”
He didn’t understand why Willow started laughing so hard until she could finally breath again and explained to him what was going on
After the initial embarrassment of his stupidity was gone, Willow made him promise one thing….
Shiro is forever and always going to be named Shrimp now
Don’t tell Shiro
Dabbing
They started doing it ironically but now they can’t stop
It really bothers Keith so Lance just,,, eggs Willow on to the point both of them look ridiculous
Don’t get me started on the Yeet thing …. These two
Lance did it first, Willow swears on her life
Lance showed her it because ‘she wasn’t meme cultured’ properly and it just kind of,,, spiraled
They were being funny one day, exchanging puns and inside jokes, when Willow - being the meme loving shit that she is - proceeded to try and make Lance laugh by throwing her (plastic, it was important it wasn’t metal or glass or Coran and Hunk would be on her ass about it) cup after she had drank all of the liquid inside and yelled “THIS BINCH EMPTY! Y E E T!”
She did manage to get a barking, almost crying laugh from Lance, until they both realized that she had thrown the cup right in Shiro’s face and hit him square in the nose
If it would’ve been later in she and Shiro’s relationship, Willow would laughed and said something along the lines of ‘get wrecked’ but this was still when she was mildly intimidated by him and thought of him as only her commanding officer
It took a three second silence before both she and Lance were out the fucking door in a full r u n
“Shiro, ground her, she was the one to throw it.” “Lance.”
Pidge
SCIENCE TWINS
Lit just bond over their love of technology and general fuckery
Willow bonds with her because, honestly, Pidge is the closest she will ever get to a little sister, she has always been the little sister, but with Pidge, she has someone to pass her womanly knowledge of the world onto
Pidge is the same way, she loves that Celeste and Willow have taken her under their collective and metaphorical wings
Pidge enjoys the fact that Willow loves the quiet of the working mind as much as she does
Most of the time (if Willow isn’t working on Cuda as well) Willow will sit with Pidge in the lab and knitt as Pidge does her smarty thing
Willow loves carrying her around
Pidge would be salty about it with anyone else but Willow is so soft and smells close to home and asks first, so she lets Willow give her piggyback rides and carry her around on her shoulders so Pidge can reach all those high places without dangerous climbs
Willow is highkey president of the ‘protect the smol green bean’ club
Don’t matter if Pidge is a little badass, Willow will still smoother her
Pidge secretly loves it
Shiro
I don’t even know where to start
Literally that awkward, positively pure couple that everyone knows will happen eventually
It’s vv hard to hide the fact that there’s something there from the squad
Especially Lance and Celeste with these two
Keith is oblivious, but as soon as Celeste figured it out, he happened to know to
The info spreads like wildfire tbh
Pidge pokes fun at Willow about it aLL the damn time and Hunk makes it his mission to get them alone as much as possible
Celeste is really good at talking to and reading her sister, so it’s not hard to get Willow to finally admit it under great duress
Lance finds it wonderful to drop little comments and ideas on Shiro he thinks it’s fun to watch Shiro’s ears go red
But every pure couple has to have angst
Cough cough Chuck Hansen
Of course a girl like that would have someone at home waiting for her
But… It was really easy for Shiro to figure out that she could be so much happier, in a much healthier situation that isn’t sending her into fits of guilt and panic because of what Chuck says to her
And it’s not easy to convince Willow she deserves better
When Chuck told Willow she couldn’t be close to the Paladins, she listened, avoiding everyone unless necessary
Lasted like a day before she was back to talking to Shiro and cuddling up to Lance once again for comfort
She just stopped telling Chuck excitedly about her new friends, which everyone would see was hurting her more than ever
Shiro and Celeste were really the ones to set Willow into the motions of letting go
To make a long story really short, Shiro has a firm resentment of Chuck even though he’s never met him face to face and that Willow likes tea when she’s upset like him and was more than happy to share a cup of her favorite tea with him, no matter if she only had a limited supply or not
Surprisingly, vulnerability is their bread and butter
Vulnerability allows for the falling of walls, and with every vulnerable moment shared, the more walls are crashed down on both sides
For a quick and easy example besides from the one above; Sendak
Willow is a natural nurturer (both an advantage and a fault) so she was at Shiro’s side and understood every boundary, every panicked look, every need for silence
Shiro’s panic with Sendak was their door opener, the first sledgehammer against walls of emotional hurt that they decided to wade through together
These two, like, never sleep (literally my nightmare kids) so they’re often spending those sleepless nights in each other company
Lots of tea and books and blankets are shared between them if they end up in the longue
Willow found a room made entirely out of glass (Allura scolds them if she finds them in the control room late at night looking at the stars instead of sleeping guys wtf) and sometimes she’s already there when Shiro wakes up from nightmares
They just kind of lay down next to each other, sometimes they don’t talk at all, other times they don’t shut up
It’s their bonding time
Totally haven’t been found asleep in the lounge in blanket forts cuddled up to each other
And definitely haven’t held hands when they’re in their ‘star room’
And of course they haven’t kissed at all at four in the morning when both of them are half dead but struggling to keep awake for the other
Just omg
#cass and phe post#posted by phe though#cass wrote Celeste's bits#i wrote willow's#hope you like it#???#princess allura#coran#hunk garrett#keith kogane#lance mcclain#pidge gunderson#takashi shirogane#voltron#voltron legendary defender#sobek sisters#celeste sobek#willow sobek#pacific rim#my babies
7 notes
·
View notes
Link
How one writer combined her yoga practice with her Christian faith to find true spiritual awakening.
People often think that yoga and religion are two separate things. And while that may be true for some, yoga and religion are intertwined for others. Here’s one yogi’s story of how her Catholic faith impacted her practice.
I walked into the high-ceilinged, sunny-yellow Philadelphia yoga studio with ebonyashes clouding my skin. The mark, smeared across my forehead earlier that day by an old man’s thumb, was less a cross and more of a faded, L-shaped blotch.
It was 4:30 p.m. on Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, and I noticed that no one else in the class had a similar mark. I hadn’t had ashes on my forehead since I was in Catholic high school more than 10 years ago. When I was young, I learned that we wore ashes as a public admission of guilt—an expression of a deep and incomprehensible sorrow. Back then, I knew I was supposed to spend Lent correcting my faults, purifying my heart, and controlling my desires, the way Jesus had when he was allegedly tempted by Satan as he spent 40 days in the desert.
I, on the other hand, had carried my lavender yoga mat past a red-and-gold Om symbol painted on a wall next to copper statues of Buddha and Ganesh, inhaled smokey sandalwood incense, laid out my mat, and dropped down into Balasana (Child’s Pose). My knees splayed out wide past my bare feet, my arms stretched forward to the top of the mat, my ash-anointed forehead touched, in humility, rubber over hardwood floor.
See also Do You Really Know the True Meaning of Yoga? Thoughts from a British Indian Yogi
The sounds of flutes and sitars and Indian devotional music played in the background, and a slender, soft-voiced yoga teacher advised us to clear our minds, focus on being present, and to set an intention for our practice.
Earlier, at church, a kind and graying priest had advised worshipers not to “give something up” for Lent, but to instead be fully present to God—the divine—in ourlives. In the modern, minimalistic church, with its familiar central crucifix and ornate portraits of saints and the Virgin Mary lining the sunlit walls, I had felt as much at home as I did now in the yoga studio. The pews had been packed to capacity for Ash Wednesday, with people crowding in the back vestibule, coats still on, like my family always had when we’d arrived late to Christmas mass.
In the humid, heated yoga room, class was filled to its highest capacity as well—not because of a day-of, religious obligation, but because it was a community yoga class costing only $7, rather than the usual $15. A crowded class (or church, for that matter) never bothered me, really. But today I was dimly aware of the mark on my forehead, my struggles with faith readily visible to all. I rose from Child’s Pose to stand with the other spandex-clad men and women on a sea of neon mats, our legs locked in Vrksasana (Tree Pose) and our hands in Namaskarasana.
Searching through my Catholic faith in my late 20s sometimes feels empty and regressive. There are so many reasons to not believe in it: abusive pedophiliac priests, lack of equal respect for women, blatant disregard for LGBTQ people I hold so dearly. Unsurprisingly, for years since college, I’ve been more comfortable with yoga mats and meditations rather than confession and unrelenting guiltI learned to bear from rigid nuns in brown habits when I was young and still clapped blackboard erasers.
See also Q&A: What's So Sacred About the Number 108?
Tomaine and her mother praying at the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul.
I remember being a child in a wooden pew wearing flowery dresses on Easter and contemplating, in an abstract and sanitized way, what it would have felt like to have iron nails put through my hands. I pictured the blood running out in neat rivulets, always imagining it as a manageable pain, something confined, before drifting off to other daydreams and bemusements. In my world, my concept of pain was not enough to understand the gory and impossible torture of an actual crucifixion. Everything is neatly packaged when you are 11, delivered in a picture book both palatable and disturbing—a story accepted and then dismissed.
But at 28 years old, I haven’t just been searching for faith, but also for a sense of self I seem to have lost somewhere between growing up and post-college malaise—learning that I wasn’t going to marry that guy or the one after that. I also wasn’t going to have the perfect career and easily sketched life I’d imagined for myself all those years. Somewhere along the line, I realized, with a staggering jolt, that I didn’t have all the answers, nor would I. This realization of how little I knew led me on a bumpy path back to a yoga mat, a church pew, and finally, after years of shying away from the one thing that had always made me, me: writing again.
I started writing in tiny notebooks, in notes on my iPhone, on airplanes, waiting in line outside free concerts. If I’ve learned anything of value so far, it’s that spirituality is intrinsic to the writing process, because creativity itself is justa form of spirituality. What is a writer if not someone, as William Faulkner put it, attempting to understand and convey “the human heart in conflict with itself?” And is spirituality not just trying to understand that same heart? A search for peace and meaning and inner strength? A way to slow down in a world where it is all too easy to speed up until one day you wake up old and wrinkled, and you cry, looking back, thinking, “That was my life.” Fiction, poetry, nonfiction—these are all really just attempts at divinity.
See also 9 Top Yoga Teachers Share How They 'Talk' to the Universe
For years, I had stopped writing, practicing yoga regularly, and praying, allowing myself to sink into a daily fray—worrying about the unruly edges of my life, how things were not settling how I wanted them to. I lost my true sense of awe and wonder, of spirituality. I was overwhelmed, instead, by personal tragedies and plans gone awry, at heartache and mistakes that built up into disillusionment and depression. But, I also think, like almost any great religious story—whether it be Jesus wandering off into a desert in Israel or Luke Skywalker flying off on a spiritual quest to Dagobah—there comes a universal knowledge that to find yourself, and your true voice, you must first lose everything and build up from the dirt.
Over time, I shifted direction. I began walking out of my personal desert—a place where I had felt lonely and entitled, angry at my life for not unfolding asI imagined. AndI started being more humble: accepting that even if some people involved in the church were terrible, that didn’t make faith terrible. I started going to yoga, not to improve my form, but to calm my mind.
I began to, slowly, feel happy again. I started laughing more, and talking more, and drinking more red wine. I started meditating. I went to yoga classes regularly again. I started praying again, in odd, awkward moments, as I’d done as a girl. I focused seriously on meditation in a way that felt not at all incongruous with blessing myself with the sign of the cross as I lay in the dark, reading Psalms from my iPhone Bible before bed.
See also 5 Ways to Turn a Mental Breakdown into a Spiritual Breakthrough
"Spirituality, both in yoga classes and in prayer, simply became my non-acceptance of my predicament." - Gina Tomaine
I prayed when I needed a parking spot. I prayed when there was airplane turbulence. I prayed when I felt anxious about a conversation or a relationship. I prayed thanks when I had a piece of writing published. I prayed thanks when I was laying in Half Pigeon Pose. I prayed for my family.
When I prayed, I said that I wasn’t sure if what I was praying for was the right thing, but if God could just do whatever was right, I would be OK with it. It didn’t even matter if anyone was listening—capital G God or anyone at all—it just mattered that I had finally learned, once and for all, that everything was not up to me.
I started to shake myself out of whatever had been holding me. I did legs up the wall every night. Psalms told me, “You are fearfully and wonderfully made.” I started acting fearfully and wonderfully made.
Spirituality, both in yoga classes and in prayer, simply became my non-acceptance of my predicament. I didn’t consciously decide I wanted to be Christian again, but it was a survivalist instinct. If I wanted to live and not just exist, I hadto let myself believe again. It was as simple, and perhaps as childish, as that. Spirituality became my decision to transcend depression, emotional malaise, and discontent, and instead worship the creative process, the divine in everyday life, and the things I loved about the world. After all, how we are all cosmically connected and divine is real—and I would rather believe it and be called foolish than die faithless, cynical, and smart.
See also 3 Things I Learned After Taking a Break from My Yoga Practice
At the end of yoga class on Ash Wednesday, I sat up straight, cross-legged, breathing heavy with eyes gently shut. My ashes were sweaty on my forehead, my yoga tights sticking to my thighs. I felt emptied and grateful,reminded thatI am dust.
Our teacher offered an option for our final pose: “Rest your hands on your knees facing down if you are searching for answers within yourselves,” she said.
Without a thought, I placed my hands down on my knees.
“Or,” she continued, “rest your hands on your knees facing up if you are searching for answers from the universe.”
I flipped my hands facing up.
“Namaste,” we said, in unison.
The week after that, I read another Bible verse; I wrote another poem, another essay, another short story; I took another yoga class; I rose up into Warrior Pose II before transitioning into a twist, my hands folded softly together in Prayer Pose, my breath moving steadily, my heart open.
About the Author
Gina Tomaine is a Philadelphia-based writer and editor. She is currently Deputy Lifestyle Editor of Philadelphia magazine, and previously served as Associate Deputy Editor of Rodale’s Organic Life. She’s been published in Prevention, Women’s Health, Runner’s World and more. Learn more at ginatomaine.com.
0 notes
Link
How one writer combined her yoga practice with her Christian faith to find true spiritual awakening.
People often think that yoga and religion are two separate things. And while that may be true for some, yoga and religion are intertwined for others. Here’s one yogi’s story of how her Catholic faith impacted her practice.
I walked into the high-ceilinged, sunny-yellow Philadelphia yoga studio with ebonyashes clouding my skin. The mark, smeared across my forehead earlier that day by an old man’s thumb, was less a cross and more of a faded, L-shaped blotch.
It was 4:30 p.m. on Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, and I noticed that no one else in the class had a similar mark. I hadn’t had ashes on my forehead since I was in Catholic high school more than 10 years ago. When I was young, I learned that we wore ashes as a public admission of guilt—an expression of a deep and incomprehensible sorrow. Back then, I knew I was supposed to spend Lent correcting my faults, purifying my heart, and controlling my desires, the way Jesus had when he was allegedly tempted by Satan as he spent 40 days in the desert.
I, on the other hand, had carried my lavender yoga mat past a red-and-gold Om symbol painted on a wall next to copper statues of Buddha and Ganesh, inhaled smokey sandalwood incense, laid out my mat, and dropped down into Balasana (Child’s Pose). My knees splayed out wide past my bare feet, my arms stretched forward to the top of the mat, my ash-anointed forehead touched, in humility, rubber over hardwood floor.
See also Do You Really Know the True Meaning of Yoga? Thoughts from a British Indian Yogi
The sounds of flutes and sitars and Indian devotional music played in the background, and a slender, soft-voiced yoga teacher advised us to clear our minds, focus on being present, and to set an intention for our practice.
Earlier, at church, a kind and graying priest had advised worshipers not to “give something up” for Lent, but to instead be fully present to God—the divine—in ourlives. In the modern, minimalistic church, with its familiar central crucifix and ornate portraits of saints and the Virgin Mary lining the sunlit walls, I had felt as much at home as I did now in the yoga studio. The pews had been packed to capacity for Ash Wednesday, with people crowding in the back vestibule, coats still on, like my family always had when we’d arrived late to Christmas mass.
In the humid, heated yoga room, class was filled to its highest capacity as well—not because of a day-of, religious obligation, but because it was a community yoga class costing only $7, rather than the usual $15. A crowded class (or church, for that matter) never bothered me, really. But today I was dimly aware of the mark on my forehead, my struggles with faith readily visible to all. I rose from Child’s Pose to stand with the other spandex-clad men and women on a sea of neon mats, our legs locked in Vrksasana (Tree Pose) and our hands in Namaskarasana.
Searching through my Catholic faith in my late 20s sometimes feels empty and regressive. There are so many reasons to not believe in it: abusive pedophiliac priests, lack of equal respect for women, blatant disregard for LGBTQ people I hold so dearly. Unsurprisingly, for years since college, I’ve been more comfortable with yoga mats and meditations rather than confession and unrelenting guiltI learned to bear from rigid nuns in brown habits when I was young and still clapped blackboard erasers.
See also Q&A: What's So Sacred About the Number 108?
Tomaine and her mother praying at the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul.
I remember being a child in a wooden pew wearing flowery dresses on Easter and contemplating, in an abstract and sanitized way, what it would have felt like to have iron nails put through my hands. I pictured the blood running out in neat rivulets, always imagining it as a manageable pain, something confined, before drifting off to other daydreams and bemusements. In my world, my concept of pain was not enough to understand the gory and impossible torture of an actual crucifixion. Everything is neatly packaged when you are 11, delivered in a picture book both palatable and disturbing—a story accepted and then dismissed.
But at 28 years old, I haven’t just been searching for faith, but also for a sense of self I seem to have lost somewhere between growing up and post-college malaise—learning that I wasn’t going to marry that guy or the one after that. I also wasn’t going to have the perfect career and easily sketched life I’d imagined for myself all those years. Somewhere along the line, I realized, with a staggering jolt, that I didn’t have all the answers, nor would I. This realization of how little I knew led me on a bumpy path back to a yoga mat, a church pew, and finally, after years of shying away from the one thing that had always made me, me: writing again.
I started writing in tiny notebooks, in notes on my iPhone, on airplanes, waiting in line outside free concerts. If I’ve learned anything of value so far, it’s that spirituality is intrinsic to the writing process, because creativity itself is justa form of spirituality. What is a writer if not someone, as William Faulkner put it, attempting to understand and convey “the human heart in conflict with itself?” And is spirituality not just trying to understand that same heart? A search for peace and meaning and inner strength? A way to slow down in a world where it is all too easy to speed up until one day you wake up old and wrinkled, and you cry, looking back, thinking, “That was my life.” Fiction, poetry, nonfiction—these are all really just attempts at divinity.
See also 9 Top Yoga Teachers Share How They 'Talk' to the Universe
For years, I had stopped writing, practicing yoga regularly, and praying, allowing myself to sink into a daily fray—worrying about the unruly edges of my life, how things were not settling how I wanted them to. I lost my true sense of awe and wonder, of spirituality. I was overwhelmed, instead, by personal tragedies and plans gone awry, at heartache and mistakes that built up into disillusionment and depression. But, I also think, like almost any great religious story—whether it be Jesus wandering off into a desert in Israel or Luke Skywalker flying off on a spiritual quest to Dagobah—there comes a universal knowledge that to find yourself, and your true voice, you must first lose everything and build up from the dirt.
Over time, I shifted direction. I began walking out of my personal desert—a place where I had felt lonely and entitled, angry at my life for not unfolding asI imagined. AndI started being more humble: accepting that even if some people involved in the church were terrible, that didn’t make faith terrible. I started going to yoga, not to improve my form, but to calm my mind.
I began to, slowly, feel happy again. I started laughing more, and talking more, and drinking more red wine. I started meditating. I went to yoga classes regularly again. I started praying again, in odd, awkward moments, as I’d done as a girl. I focused seriously on meditation in a way that felt not at all incongruous with blessing myself with the sign of the cross as I lay in the dark, reading Psalms from my iPhone Bible before bed.
See also 5 Ways to Turn a Mental Breakdown into a Spiritual Breakthrough
"Spirituality, both in yoga classes and in prayer, simply became my non-acceptance of my predicament." - Gina Tomaine
I prayed when I needed a parking spot. I prayed when there was airplane turbulence. I prayed when I felt anxious about a conversation or a relationship. I prayed thanks when I had a piece of writing published. I prayed thanks when I was laying in Half Pigeon Pose. I prayed for my family.
When I prayed, I said that I wasn’t sure if what I was praying for was the right thing, but if God could just do whatever was right, I would be OK with it. It didn’t even matter if anyone was listening—capital G God or anyone at all—it just mattered that I had finally learned, once and for all, that everything was not up to me.
I started to shake myself out of whatever had been holding me. I did legs up the wall every night. Psalms told me, “You are fearfully and wonderfully made.” I started acting fearfully and wonderfully made.
Spirituality, both in yoga classes and in prayer, simply became my non-acceptance of my predicament. I didn’t consciously decide I wanted to be Christian again, but it was a survivalist instinct. If I wanted to live and not just exist, I hadto let myself believe again. It was as simple, and perhaps as childish, as that. Spirituality became my decision to transcend depression, emotional malaise, and discontent, and instead worship the creative process, the divine in everyday life, and the things I loved about the world. After all, how we are all cosmically connected and divine is real—and I would rather believe it and be called foolish than die faithless, cynical, and smart.
See also 3 Things I Learned After Taking a Break from My Yoga Practice
At the end of yoga class on Ash Wednesday, I sat up straight, cross-legged, breathing heavy with eyes gently shut. My ashes were sweaty on my forehead, my yoga tights sticking to my thighs. I felt emptied and grateful,reminded thatI am dust.
Our teacher offered an option for our final pose: “Rest your hands on your knees facing down if you are searching for answers within yourselves,” she said.
Without a thought, I placed my hands down on my knees.
“Or,” she continued, “rest your hands on your knees facing up if you are searching for answers from the universe.”
I flipped my hands facing up.
“Namaste,” we said, in unison.
The week after that, I read another Bible verse; I wrote another poem, another essay, another short story; I took another yoga class; I rose up into Warrior Pose II before transitioning into a twist, my hands folded softly together in Prayer Pose, my breath moving steadily, my heart open.
About the Author
Gina Tomaine is a Philadelphia-based writer and editor. She is currently Deputy Lifestyle Editor of Philadelphia magazine, and previously served as Associate Deputy Editor of Rodale’s Organic Life. She’s been published in Prevention, Women’s Health, Runner’s World and more. Learn more at ginatomaine.com.
0 notes
Text
Yoga and Religion: My Long Walk Toward Worship
How one writer combined her yoga practice with her Christian faith to find true spiritual awakening.
People often think that yoga and religion are two separate things. And while that may be true for some, yoga and religion are intertwined for others. Here’s one yogi’s story of how her Catholic faith impacted her practice.
I walked into the high-ceilinged, sunny-yellow Philadelphia yoga studio with ebonyashes clouding my skin. The mark, smeared across my forehead earlier that day by an old man’s thumb, was less a cross and more of a faded, L-shaped blotch.
It was 4:30 p.m. on Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, and I noticed that no one else in the class had a similar mark. I hadn’t had ashes on my forehead since I was in Catholic high school more than 10 years ago. When I was young, I learned that we wore ashes as a public admission of guilt—an expression of a deep and incomprehensible sorrow. Back then, I knew I was supposed to spend Lent correcting my faults, purifying my heart, and controlling my desires, the way Jesus had when he was allegedly tempted by Satan as he spent 40 days in the desert.
I, on the other hand, had carried my lavender yoga mat past a red-and-gold Om symbol painted on a wall next to copper statues of Buddha and Ganesh, inhaled smokey sandalwood incense, laid out my mat, and dropped down into Balasana (Child’s Pose). My knees splayed out wide past my bare feet, my arms stretched forward to the top of the mat, my ash-anointed forehead touched, in humility, rubber over hardwood floor.
See also Do You Really Know the True Meaning of Yoga? Thoughts from a British Indian Yogi
The sounds of flutes and sitars and Indian devotional music played in the background, and a slender, soft-voiced yoga teacher advised us to clear our minds, focus on being present, and to set an intention for our practice.
Earlier, at church, a kind and graying priest had advised worshipers not to “give something up” for Lent, but to instead be fully present to God—the divine—in ourlives. In the modern, minimalistic church, with its familiar central crucifix and ornate portraits of saints and the Virgin Mary lining the sunlit walls, I had felt as much at home as I did now in the yoga studio. The pews had been packed to capacity for Ash Wednesday, with people crowding in the back vestibule, coats still on, like my family always had when we’d arrived late to Christmas mass.
In the humid, heated yoga room, class was filled to its highest capacity as well—not because of a day-of, religious obligation, but because it was a community yoga class costing only $7, rather than the usual $15. A crowded class (or church, for that matter) never bothered me, really. But today I was dimly aware of the mark on my forehead, my struggles with faith readily visible to all. I rose from Child’s Pose to stand with the other spandex-clad men and women on a sea of neon mats, our legs locked in Vrksasana (Tree Pose) and our hands in Namaskarasana.
Searching through my Catholic faith in my late 20s sometimes feels empty and regressive. There are so many reasons to not believe in it: abusive pedophiliac priests, lack of equal respect for women, blatant disregard for LGBTQ people I hold so dearly. Unsurprisingly, for years since college, I’ve been more comfortable with yoga mats and meditations rather than confession and unrelenting guiltI learned to bear from rigid nuns in brown habits when I was young and still clapped blackboard erasers.
See also Q&A: What's So Sacred About the Number 108?
Tomaine and her mother praying at the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul.
I remember being a child in a wooden pew wearing flowery dresses on Easter and contemplating, in an abstract and sanitized way, what it would have felt like to have iron nails put through my hands. I pictured the blood running out in neat rivulets, always imagining it as a manageable pain, something confined, before drifting off to other daydreams and bemusements. In my world, my concept of pain was not enough to understand the gory and impossible torture of an actual crucifixion. Everything is neatly packaged when you are 11, delivered in a picture book both palatable and disturbing—a story accepted and then dismissed.
But at 28 years old, I haven’t just been searching for faith, but also for a sense of self I seem to have lost somewhere between growing up and post-college malaise—learning that I wasn’t going to marry that guy or the one after that. I also wasn’t going to have the perfect career and easily sketched life I’d imagined for myself all those years. Somewhere along the line, I realized, with a staggering jolt, that I didn’t have all the answers, nor would I. This realization of how little I knew led me on a bumpy path back to a yoga mat, a church pew, and finally, after years of shying away from the one thing that had always made me, me: writing again.
I started writing in tiny notebooks, in notes on my iPhone, on airplanes, waiting in line outside free concerts. If I’ve learned anything of value so far, it’s that spirituality is intrinsic to the writing process, because creativity itself is justa form of spirituality. What is a writer if not someone, as William Faulkner put it, attempting to understand and convey “the human heart in conflict with itself?” And is spirituality not just trying to understand that same heart? A search for peace and meaning and inner strength? A way to slow down in a world where it is all too easy to speed up until one day you wake up old and wrinkled, and you cry, looking back, thinking, “That was my life.” Fiction, poetry, nonfiction—these are all really just attempts at divinity.
See also 9 Top Yoga Teachers Share How They 'Talk' to the Universe
For years, I had stopped writing, practicing yoga regularly, and praying, allowing myself to sink into a daily fray—worrying about the unruly edges of my life, how things were not settling how I wanted them to. I lost my true sense of awe and wonder, of spirituality. I was overwhelmed, instead, by personal tragedies and plans gone awry, at heartache and mistakes that built up into disillusionment and depression. But, I also think, like almost any great religious story—whether it be Jesus wandering off into a desert in Israel or Luke Skywalker flying off on a spiritual quest to Dagobah—there comes a universal knowledge that to find yourself, and your true voice, you must first lose everything and build up from the dirt.
Over time, I shifted direction. I began walking out of my personal desert—a place where I had felt lonely and entitled, angry at my life for not unfolding asI imagined. AndI started being more humble: accepting that even if some people involved in the church were terrible, that didn’t make faith terrible. I started going to yoga, not to improve my form, but to calm my mind.
I began to, slowly, feel happy again. I started laughing more, and talking more, and drinking more red wine. I started meditating. I went to yoga classes regularly again. I started praying again, in odd, awkward moments, as I’d done as a girl. I focused seriously on meditation in a way that felt not at all incongruous with blessing myself with the sign of the cross as I lay in the dark, reading Psalms from my iPhone Bible before bed.
See also 5 Ways to Turn a Mental Breakdown into a Spiritual Breakthrough
"Spirituality, both in yoga classes and in prayer, simply became my non-acceptance of my predicament." - Gina Tomaine
I prayed when I needed a parking spot. I prayed when there was airplane turbulence. I prayed when I felt anxious about a conversation or a relationship. I prayed thanks when I had a piece of writing published. I prayed thanks when I was laying in Half Pigeon Pose. I prayed for my family.
When I prayed, I said that I wasn’t sure if what I was praying for was the right thing, but if God could just do whatever was right, I would be OK with it. It didn’t even matter if anyone was listening—capital G God or anyone at all—it just mattered that I had finally learned, once and for all, that everything was not up to me.
I started to shake myself out of whatever had been holding me. I did legs up the wall every night. Psalms told me, “You are fearfully and wonderfully made.” I started acting fearfully and wonderfully made.
Spirituality, both in yoga classes and in prayer, simply became my non-acceptance of my predicament. I didn’t consciously decide I wanted to be Christian again, but it was a survivalist instinct. If I wanted to live and not just exist, I hadto let myself believe again. It was as simple, and perhaps as childish, as that. Spirituality became my decision to transcend depression, emotional malaise, and discontent, and instead worship the creative process, the divine in everyday life, and the things I loved about the world. After all, how we are all cosmically connected and divine is real—and I would rather believe it and be called foolish than die faithless, cynical, and smart.
See also 3 Things I Learned After Taking a Break from My Yoga Practice
At the end of yoga class on Ash Wednesday, I sat up straight, cross-legged, breathing heavy with eyes gently shut. My ashes were sweaty on my forehead, my yoga tights sticking to my thighs. I felt emptied and grateful,reminded thatI am dust.
Our teacher offered an option for our final pose: “Rest your hands on your knees facing down if you are searching for answers within yourselves,” she said.
Without a thought, I placed my hands down on my knees.
“Or,” she continued, “rest your hands on your knees facing up if you are searching for answers from the universe.”
I flipped my hands facing up.
“Namaste,” we said, in unison.
The week after that, I read another Bible verse; I wrote another poem, another essay, another short story; I took another yoga class; I rose up into Warrior Pose II before transitioning into a twist, my hands folded softly together in Prayer Pose, my breath moving steadily, my heart open.
About the Author
Gina Tomaine is a Philadelphia-based writer and editor. She is currently Deputy Lifestyle Editor of Philadelphia magazine, and previously served as Associate Deputy Editor of Rodale’s Organic Life. She’s been published in Prevention, Women’s Health, Runner’s World and more. Learn more at ginatomaine.com.
from Yoga Journal http://bit.ly/2EL0pCA
0 notes
Text
Tonights entry
The last year and a half has been the hardest time of my life, however it has also been the biggest year of growth I have also been through as a person as well.
A lot of my close friends know I have had depression and anxiety for most of my life. I have struggled with GAD and social anxiety from what I am assuming were things that happened in my past. I believe it has affected my friendships and relationships over the years and also became worse over time being caused by bad friendships and relationships.
The last 18 months have been traumatic, from watching my mother die last year to cancer, to losing my wife this year from my own stupidity, lack of improving my mental health and learning how to communicate constructively and honestly without holding anything back or reacting badly to confrontation.
They say you shouldn’t live life with regrets, but no matter how true those words feel, it’s difficult to not regret everything you should have done better or differently to do more for the people I cared about the most in the world. With one, I should have spent more time to help my mother as much as I could when she was having her bad days. On the other side, I was blinded by my own happiness being with my ex-wife, that I didn’t see that she was unhappy and struggling being with me, I didn’t ask her the right questions and I never knew the pain and sadness which was in her mind.
My mum was the strongest person I’ve ever known. To live with cancer and live in pain for over 10 years. She put on a front constantly that she was ok all the time because she didn’t want her children to see her in pain. I only learnt she was always in pain and how terrible some of her days were once I discovered her diaries after she died. The words on those pages cut me to my soul, to realise the pain and sadness she was hiding from us all those years because of how proud she was. She was truly such an amazing and humble woman. The words in those pages were deep and it was hard realising that many days I visited, she would be in pain those days, yet she still forced herself to come out of the house with me and walk around the Plaza or get a coffee or get Korean food just to do things with me even when she didn’t want to leave the house.
My mum used to complain a lot that I was always on my phone when I was visiting her. While I spent the time on my phone messaging my partner while with her, I now realise that it was the wrong thing to do. People shouldn’t be on their phones when they are with people they care about, even if they are contacting other people special to them. It makes the person you are with feel like they are not worth your time when you are staring at those screens. I also made the same mistake in my relationship, I have a habit that when I’m anxious, I would play a quick game of something like Hearthstone on my phone to try and put my mind elsewhere and try to calm the thoughts in my head, sometimes I’ll just scroll aimlessly through facebook even though I’m not interested in anything being shared. I’ve now realised I need to find a healthier avenue for dealing when I am in these situations when they occur and need to face them head on instead of hiding infront of a screen or not getting out of my comfort zone.
My anxiety caused me to have an irrational fear of flying for many years. I was terrified of getting into a plane and going somewhere. The constant fear of something like the plane crashing or even getting somewhere and then something really bad happening at the destination was enough to make me not want to travel at all. This year I have more than faced that fear 100 fold. It took me 1 ½ years to finally push myself to plan an entire honeymoon in Fiji and then go through with it for my ex-partner. I was also blessed to have a chance to make a spontaneous choice by being invited by one of my friends Rudy to experience Mexico and Belize with him in May. That was a total of ten flights all together in the span of two weeks. It was insane, I never would have in my life thought I could do something like that, but I did. I even got sick for half the trip yet it was still a super amazing experience and I feel like it caused me to conquer my fear of flying. To prove some months after I got back, I was then invited by another friend Rachel to join her for a few days in Wellington where I had never been before. I was no longer afraid of flying at all, it had become easy to me and this trip proved that. These people being there for me and making me do this thing completely out of my comfort zone caused me to fight my anxiety of flying head on and I came out victorious.
This has lead me to believe that it really is possible to overcome things like anxiety even if it is little by little, I want to attempt this, it does take a lot of work though. The strength my mother had to push herself to get out of her house when she was down and in pain makes me realise I need to do better, I want to live up to the strength my mother had and make myself worthy to be proud of. I have been through 10 counselling sessions this year and was given CBT techniques and exercises to do to try and combat my negative thinking. It really is so hard to try and think positively after you have already lost the one person you would have fought the hardest to try and be positive for. However as they say, you need to also do it for yourself, you can’t be truly happy unless you combat your own demons and try and become happy with you too.
My social anxiety took a turn for the worst this year, I found it extremely hard to leave the house and see people for months, I had the constant feeling that I wasn’t good enough for anyone, the feeling that no one would want to hang out with me, that I was unlovable and worthless. I was lucky that I have some amazing friends who have been helping me through this time, people who have been trying to get me to see my own self-worth is not in having a partner and people who have also dealt with things like anxiety in the past so they sort of understood me on levels like I had never felt like I had been understood in the past. I am so grateful to people like Stephanie, Julia and Dari in my life who never gave up on me even when I would have annoyed the shit out of them many times. I’ve also been lucky to reconnect with a few people from my past within the last 6 months who have been there for me and given me valuable advice when I was at my low points like Karma, Samantha, Caroline, Rachel, Becs, Jennifer, Nicola and Taylah. There has been a few people who have had countless lunches with me in town (Julia) and coffee time at my own home (Tere) or dinner with me (Jhancy) when I’ve felt so miserable and alone at times. The moments with them were always full of love and compassion and sometimes just seeing people’s faces when you are down is what you need to bring you back from a dark place. I’ve even had a voice at reason in my own office at work from a friend called Max who has been through many of his own trials in the past, he has been amazing at helping me try and rationalise some of the irrational things that occur in my head daily.
I have been through many breakups in the past and the reality is, I’ve never really learnt very much from them. My break-ups have usually ended really badly, cheating, being left for someone else, etc. Even though there has been some really bad and hurtful times which has caused me to breakdown through all this, this is actually the first breakup where I have stayed in contact with my ex-partner afterwards, it has been a blessing because it has given me the opportunity to talk to her and find out what went wrong and the sort of things I need to improve about myself, things I had never had the opportunity to learn in the past because there was no communication afterwards. This has given me a strong foundation and the ability to look upon situations from the past with a fresh set of eyes and a new open mindset to change, I have been trying to learn about myself so that I can be the best version of myself in an attempt to not repeat past mistakes and cause anymore hurt in the future.
All of these people have helped me become better, to think better and to try and act better. I have been forcing myself to attack my social anxiety head on recently by going to meetups and hanging out with people I hardly know and meet new people. I’ve been lucky that my friends Cheng and Min also sometimes go to these events so even though I have had a few panic attacks and left the events in the past. Having a good friend there has put my mind at ease on other occasions and I count anytime I can stay there for multiple hours as a success in combating the social anxiety I’ve always struggled with.
This year and been an extremely trying year for me, I still haven’t mourned the loss of my mother. I don’t really know how I’m supposed to if I’m completely honest but this really is a year for me to try and improve and try and work on my mental state. I do believe even though I started slow and have had a lot of bumps in the road this year, that I am still on my way to a better version of me, a much more open version of me but I still have a lot more work to do at this stage. I need to keep pushing forward and become open in mind and heart to the ideas of moving forward and moving on. I need to do this for myself and I need to do this for the people who care about me. I no longer want my irrational and constant negative mindsets to define me or hold me back in life.
0 notes
Text
“The Plains and Pacific Coast Indians ranged over larger expanses of land in their search for plants, animals, and shelter to meet their needs, and adopt seasonal homes to take advantage of natural bounty of different areas during different times of the year. Their movements were directed by natural events such as annual salmon spawning runs, periodic bison migrations, or seasonal abundance of nuts or grains. In some areas, Indian communities established more permanent settlements. Some dug irrigation channels and flood damns to capture water for their crops; some established villages where water and other resources were plentiful. These early water users viewed the resource with reverence; water was the life blood of their communities.”
–Searching Out the Headwaters: Change and Rediscovery in Western Water Policy
Back to stand in the mud and the snow with the heavens above and the devil below. To the north is the army, the south BIA, to the east are floodwaters, and to the west are journalists begging to see for themselves what is really going on. The few desperate men and women stand strong in their centers.
There was a time when Standing Rock was an active resistance with daily efforts to create havoc for DAPL and the greater communities. Those communities, Mandan and Bismarck, would be the primary beneficiaries of DAPL and would shoulder less risk to their communities. Standing Rock, like every indigenous community in the United States, would also benefit from the expanded wealth of our nation – however, Standing Rock would have to live with the consequences of this health hazard at the headwaters of their homes. Camp sent out caravans of a hundred cars in four directions to disrupt construction and make the voice of the people be heard. I remember laying in a pickup truck with five other people riding somewhere unknown. It was terribly cold in the open air, and we huddled together on the hour long pilgrimage into Bismarck. One girl began to lightly sing sweet lyrics swept up by the wind.
Our courage was reinforced through confidence in one another. We unified in song, prayer, ceremony, and actions. Camp was a light rolling comedy of people arriving with starry-eyed surprise, bursting with good ideas, as elders and natives rolled their eyes – oh, brother – have we got some decolonizing to do. Friends and relatives met in the dining areas after days chopping wood or building out camp for the new Water Protectors. From aerial photos, camp appeared to swell on the weekends and contract during the week, like a heartbeat pulsing four times per month. My body was exhausted at the end of every day. I would curl inside two sleeping bags and listen to the DAPL airplane circling as if strung on an infant crib mobile. Cognitive dissonance was at an all-time low: DAPL was in the north, your allies were in the south, and infiltrators were hard to spot. It was not the same at Standing Rock after ceremony died and dark days descended.
Highway 24, North Dakota.
I drove to Bismarck to get my truck repaired. The snow blew across the road with that dreamlike silence. White light glowed on the canvas horizons. Snow is half light and half emptiness. It receives any light and shows you its shadows and curves like a wave simultaneously rising in the front and falling in the back. Snow builds up in drifts on the roadside. Tire tracks in the snow are how it tells stories in a medium that is constantly perishing and returning. Flattened to semi-permanence as ice, it becomes pure fate when your tires cease to hold onto the road. The only way to survive fate is to immediately accept your lack of control and don’t over-correct.
In this way, Standing Rock has gone from snow, to ice.
In Bismarck, the mechanic totals me out for the work. He and his wife work at separate stations decorated in feel-good knickknacks and photos of loved ones. The conversation turns toward Standing Rock. After touching on political and social touchstones. In truth, we didn’t have a great deal of disagreement. In the confidence of the office, he tells another difficult story.
It was a waste of time.
I asked how.
Most of the people out there have no purpose in their lives, and this is giving them the sensation of purpose – but only God can give you purpose.
Perhaps God has given them Standing Rock.
Why did you come out here? He asked.
I told him it had to do with Amy Goodman’s report on the dog biting incident.
You believe that happened?
Yes – would you like to see the video?
Well… Do you think it’s possible they did anything to deserve the dogs?
No. Do you?
He stepped around the question. I tried to keep it polite. I had a second appointment and his perspective was important to understand. What stories had he been hearing?
Oceti Oyate, North Dakota.
After I returned to camp in mid-January, our media team was forced out of the Cannonball Community Center (CCC). It had provided sovereign legal protection, full internet, a kitchen and a place to sleep. Without option, we moved the team into several rooms at the casino. The Prairie Knights Casino Hotel is located 10 minutes south of the snowy encampments of Standing Rock. Suites became a sprawl of equipment and work stations. Our team had purchased field equipment using donations earmarked for Oceti Sakowin Camp Media, thereby expanding our optics of the movement.
But what were we looking at now?
Oceti Sakowin had been rebranded as Oceti Oyate since the Oceti Sakowin (7 council fire) had been extinguished. Some of the headsman from those 7 councils were still in camp, while others had left. Their tipis had created a crescent shape around the fire called it the Horn. The sacred fire had also been put out, and with it the ceremony had left. Camp was a decentralized amalgam of private camps attempting to cooperate in the fight to stop DAPL. I was convinced there was hope, but I’d become skeptical of the movement for several reasons.
Chase IronEyes had become a self-appointed voice for the movement, following in a long list of leaders and organizers who had come and gone. He denied the notion that he was a leader, however, in Lakota culture, a leader is someone the people naturally elect to follow. His influence was felt in camp even though he was only there part of the time.
The previous month, a friend had shown me photographs of a warehouse filled to the brim with goods donated to Chase’s organization Last Real Indians (LRI). While I had been in the CCC, I had personally unloaded so many of their donations that it had filled one-quarter of the gymnasium bleachers. With camp in crisis, I wanted to know these supplies were being used. I’d heard rumors of numerous warehouses filled with donations to LRI from folk who’d worked in them. How was it being allocated?
Army tent. Oceti Oyate, North Dakota.
Understandably, in the rush to fight DAPL, financial officers had not been elected who understood transparency. So, I broadened the story, and began looking into online funding platforms keyed to Standing Rock. There were thousands of private funding efforts online. I tried to understand how Sacred Stone, Rosebud, Oceti Sakowin, Red Warrior, Medical Council, Water Protector Legal, non-profits and the Standing Rock Tribal Council were allocating their donations. All tallied, I modestly estimated 20 million dollars might have been raised independent of physical donations. Every shred of cloth and dollar donated was the good will of tens of thousands of benefactors. There were so many jackets they were used in construction as insulation to keep out the North Dakota freeze. I wanted to know that cash donations and supplies were being used ethically and expressly for the cause.
During my inquiry, an old friend came to warn against pursuing the investigation. At first, he dismissed my concerns, then he claimed I would be killed or hurt. When I refused to let it go, he accused me of trying to gain at the cost of the movement – then he said that he would distance himself from me if I went after leadership. After looking into corruption I myself was now being accused. After a long fight, we parted ways. The next day he and his traveling companion attempted to discredit me publicly online. I felt like Caliban to their Stephano and Trinculo. Without recourse to debate, I blocked them on all platforms and moved on, disappointed but unhindered.
Picked-over donations. Oceti Oyate, North Dakota.
Abandoned structure and loose donations. Oceti Oyate, North Dakota.
Dark Days
In a composting toilet stall by medical in Oceti Oyate, North Dakota.
The residue of past trauma burst into catharsis on the landscape of resistance and rejuvenation at Standing Rock. There is chaos and disorganization, like the wreckage of some spiritual frat party. Garbage is pushed into behemoth piles of snow, then loaded into trucks which Morton County weighs (snow accounting for well over half of the matter) and uses the stats to libel the camp’s image. The flags have been taken down and moved to Sacred Stone. Bureau of Indian Affairs amass at the casino, ready to enforce the move out deadline set by the tribe. All the land is muddied in the warming spring air. Like some biblical tale, Standing Rock will end in a great flood, cleansing the land with the force of gods more ancient and intolerant than our prayers can placate.
In the bathrooms by medical there were anti-rape slogans tagged on the stalls. Sexual assault at camp had become an all-too-real concern for women (and men to a lesser degree). In my investigation, I was given medical documents that showed a statistical abstract dated between the new years and middle January – There was about one sexual assault per day at Oceti Oyate. According to my contact, victims were afraid to report the attacks because they didn’t want to be looked down upon, or to discredit the movement. Drug and alcohol use, which was less common in camp before the New Year, were factors in many instances. I wondered if the breakdown of the spiritual ceremony had brought darkness into camp. There was another shadow now – I had to ask why this person was telling me this story.
I asked the contact why they wanted me to tell this story. Their answer was fairly unabashed – I want this all to end – There’s no good coming out of camp; not against DAPL, nor for indigenous rights. As I listened, it occurred that if I were the FBI, I would definitely want these kinds of stories to circulate. We’d seen this kind of rumor in camp, but never proof of it. Infiltrators loved spreading scary stories through camp. As an example, on one occasion, a man had come into the media room around midnight to show us video of actual shooting at the frontlines – he’d seen it – a truck with two men was shot at – the passenger and driver were missing… The video showed no bullet holes, and the sound of shooting was inconclusive. He went on to talk about his poor dear friend, a young boy from back east, whose mama was worried sick about him! But he’d looked out for him since his arrest at the Canadian border by sending him money for jail food down in Pierre, South Dakota. Then he shined us on for being great people, scanning us for our reactions. I hadn’t seen acting this good since junior college. I wouldn’t have been certain of it except everyone else in the room all agreed the guy’s story was ultimately designed to panic the camp, his evidence was shit, and he was shady.
Sitting across from my contact in medical, I had no way of knowing if they were FBI, Tiger Swan, or just a concerned citizen who was sick of dealing with rape. I opted to tell the story with first-person victim testimonies, and to thereby empower victims to give this crisis context. After, I’d ask the Medical Council, Standing Rock Legal, Standing Rock Tribal Council, and the Horn all weigh in. Let it be condemned, and damn the movement if self-reflection was so threatening.
After I told my contact the plan, she left for two days to help source testimonials, and came back with bruises on her neck and arms. She had been attacked in the bathrooms, she told me. The bruises on her neck seemed blotchy and inconsistent with a cable she’d claimed had been wrapped around her neck before using her knife to stab him in the belly. Was this proof enough?
How could I truly know?
Another social worker I spoke to gave me another perspective. She argued that Neocolonialism itself was what caused the high levels of rape specific to native country. Statistically, there was a higher rate of sexual assault in native communities than the rest of country, however this coincides with higher rates of poverty. The social worker confided that she had been involved in activism her whole life, and had been sexually assaulted on several instances.
The Moon: another feature of Standing Rock.
There is a general trend within the psychically-walled story of camp that accuses the major problems in life on colonialism. One man suggested that native communities were egalitarian before western contact. I asked him if he knew that Sacagawea had been a slave of the Mandan people before joining the Lewis and Clark mission. Or that many tribes were raiders who constantly warred on technologically-equal footing with their indigenous neighbors prior to western contact. Were Europeans really responsible for all the darkness here? Could I tell that story without incurring the wrath of the Standing Rock mindset?
I went to a native elder whom I respected to ask for more information. He warned me about telling this story as well… Don’t give them a headline they’ll use against the movement. You’re a non-native trying to talk about a native issue. This argument I flatly disagreed with, but he kept going. There are generations of trauma that are being brought into this camp. Many of these victims were bringing their outside relationship dynamics and drug use into the movement and being attacked by people they know. Readers won’t understand that. They’ll just see it as characteristic of the movement. If you do publish this, you should wait until later when it won’t hurt us – It doesn’t matter how you say it – They’ll use it against us.
I wondered if he’s say the same to someone who had come to help stop DAPL only to sacrifice more than anticipated. It was getting harder to find out how to tell any story, much less a happy one.
My purpose was not to disparage the movement with inconvenient truths or demand it self-reflect more than anyone else. Sexual assault and human trafficking, for instance, are a huge component in the economy of man-camps that build oil pipelines such as Dakota Access. Governments, businesses and little old ladies all blow other people’s money. But my native friend was right – The mainstream media was eager to smear the movement, and state officials were only too excited to highlight any blemishes in order to justify violence toward Standing Rock. The political environment in D.C. itself was rife with political secrets that could damage much larger investments in national leadership. The risks of talking about financial abuse and sexual assault was not overstated.
I was playing in political waters, asking what I believed were important questions, while men with guns waited over the hill for public opinion to turn against Standing Rock. The movement was trying to save the planet starting with the Missouri River. But was the movement worth one rape per day? Was it ethical or reasonable to moderate this by comparing sexual assault to environmental catastrophes caused by oil spills?
Warriors and Freedom Fighters
Personal politics are of the deepest essence at Standing Rock. Factioning within the movement did not exclude the sense of unity, but it did complicate it. For me, seeing the presence of kafias (the traditional Palestinian head scarf), while simultaneously seeing a rise in anti-Semitic narratives cropping up in American politics, pushed me back into a place of concern for the safety of my community. For some, Standing Rock is primarily about environmental policy reform and civil rights, while for others, it seems to be a leverage point to break the system and start over. Although I do not believe we are at that point as a nation, there is a place for such perspectives and I do understand the sentiment. Israeli politics, which I don’t profess to fully understand, are viewed with the same “damn the man” political anger by many at Standing Rock. As a Jewish person, I found the equating of US state policy and Israeli state policy as misguided. In terms of timescales, I saw more similarities between Jews and Native Americans than Native Americans to Palestinians.
UFC fighter Ronda Rousey made a quick visit to Standing Rock early this year. I’m reminded of her last two UFC fights. Defiant and cocksure, Rousey entered the ring with Holly Holms in November of 2014 with the hubris of a 10-0 winning streak and refused to touch gloves. The underdog, Holms, methodically worked her over for a KO win. It was satisfying to see a rude, albeit brilliant Goliath, get put in their place. A year later, Rousey was back in the ring with Amanda Nunez. The fight lasted 48 seconds and was Rousey’s second loss. This time, it was a painful spectacle.
The spirit of the fighter is an immortal ideal. Many people at Standing Rock are underdogs to some to degree, wishing to be inhabited by the strength of a warrior in order to protect what they love, and what is considered sacred. As with Palestine and Rousey, the perception of oppression doesn’t always coincide with the track record. As a UFC champion, Rousey’s support of Standing Rock was important, but her status as non-indigenous citizen of North Dakota for me was greater. She came with a spirit of perseverance and support between communities, which meant more to the movement than a publicity stunt.
The story of Standing Rock is in the quiet, unnoticed struggle of many hundreds who will never ask for acknowledgement. Some of those stories can be told. Most will exist between the Water Protectors and their higher power.
The thawing in Oceti Oyate, North Dakota.
With the pending eviction of all Water Protectors on February 22nd, time has run out for this chapter. Whether or not DAPL was stopped, it is important to remember that, like the Occupy Movement, a basic meme has been injected into the greater society that is a great success. For Occupy it was the concept of “the 1%”, for Standing Rock – Water is Life. As with any struggle, this fight will continue beyond Standing Rock.
The native elder I spoke with asked me, why I have focused so greatly upon these darker aspects of Standing Rock. Why am I not telling the stories of those silent masses working in camp? Since this is anything but secular journalism, I will clarify – should little brother movements develop out of Standing Rock, they need to learn from our mistakes. One lesson may be not letting writers tell whatever story they want, or demanding 100% accountability and transparency in any fundraising efforts, and another might be to truly protect their members and actively eliminate threats within these movements themselves. Because of my experience at Standing Rock, I feel deeply responsible for the safety of those who come to fight in alignment with their principles, and that no harm come to them from their fellow warriors.
“When we deny the evil within ourselves, we dehumanize ourselves, and we deprive ourselves not only of our own destiny but of any possibility of dealing with the evil of others.” –J. Robert Oppenheimer
What Story Can I Tell? “The Plains and Pacific Coast Indians ranged over larger expanses of land in their search for plants, animals, and shelter to meet their needs, and adopt seasonal homes to take advantage of natural bounty of different areas during different times of the year.
0 notes