When a girlfriend noted what was happening in my classes by allowing eighteen and under free to join us, it took awhile to stand back and see it. It’s true the six month old was melting faces faster than I could with even the best vinyasa sequence to music. All she had to do was coo, and the room settled. It’s also true that when you place people in a more communal vibe there’s no room for pretension.
Such has been my transition to teaching independent of a ‘yoga studio,’ and growing clearer about what I offer that others don’t. I don’t care if you drank too much tequila the night before, or frankly hate the thought of yoga, I just want you to come hang, breathe with us, and sing…
Because it helps us all if we feel accepted and part of something. This showing up with our life authentically despite self-restrictions needs to be shared. So I’m asking Santa Feans to submit to a new web series I’m creating about yoga, life, and everything in between. I aim to shine truth out into this darkness, to make yoga and transformation accessible to everyone who thought they never would.
(See casting notice here)
The pulse of Manhattan—my feet so comfy below 2nd Ave, East Village escapes me now walking in heels up the narrow stairway to the balcony of the famous Spotted Cat on Frenchman.
My New Orleans jazz guitarist, leading us during set break to watch the start of Carnival brewing alongside full moon magic. It really is the juxtaposition of travel, the astral projection into something new.
Experience keeps us awake, alive to the humanity around us, urging us to pay way more attention. To be free, and roll with it, baby, just roll…
Don’t Let ‘Em Bring You Down.
I cried after watching the first episode of HBO’s GIRLS. I cried because it was so fucking beautiful, and so the show I’d want to watch, but even more—the show I should have made. That was the depth of my tears, with absolute happiness, honestly for Lena Dunham, I had personally, dropped the ball.
I did write a spec script for the show that’s been a nice calling card through it’s six year run. I date Adam’s. I memorize life, like Lena does…like Hannah, standing outside the Brooklyn bar watching him fall in love with someone else. I struggle with success and sexuality and being feminist, just like her.
That’s what TV does, especially half-hour—it gives you this precious slice of the heart we all come from. It reminds us, we’re not that different. We’re not separate. In fact, we love each other, flaws and all.
Thank you Lena, for writing the best show ever. And reminding me how badly we deserve more like them, and that when you speak your real, authentic truth—everyone listens.
Here’s To One Last Season,