Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Coming Home

Yoga today was like coming home.

So weird.

Yesterday's class was yin yoga. It's hard, don't get me wrong, but it's more passive, and a perfect way to re-enter a practice after taking time off.

Today's class was intermediate yoga. I would call myself a beginner. Not a rank beginner, but a beginner nonetheless. So I was nervous.

I KICKED THAT CLASS'S ASS.

Full contact, competitive yoga, me against myself. I WON.

I am a BADASS.

Srsly.

I felt strong. I felt flexible. I felt trust.

It was like realizing the comfort of a place that you didn't know was comfortable, only this time I carry it around with me, wrapped around my bones, tangled up in DNA. There are very few times I feel totally relaxed in my physical self; usually I am faking it, or I am readjusting myself when no one is looking.

Today on the mat I felt power. I did push ups. Correctly. Lots and lots of them (only in yoga they are called Chaturanga Dandasana which is Hindi for "You've got to be fucking kidding me.").

I twisted myself around in this, and I almost looked exactly like this.

I lost track of time. And that never happens.

Glad to be back home.

 
(Image by dynamosquito via Flickr)

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Let It Go. LET IT GO.

With the push to finish the tiny house and the sheer exhaustion that came after finishing the tiny house, I had not been to yoga for two weeks until yesterday's class. The focus of that class was the concept of letting go.

This has suddenly popped up everywhere. Every now and then La and I will get that song stuck in our head and sing it all day. The lunar eclipse has something to do with letting go. My Tumblr feed is filled with references to acceptance and letting things go.

I get it, Universe.

Usually when a message is coming this hard from all directions it's important to listen. I am not sure what I am letting go of. Maybe it's impatience or anger. Most likely. I am still quick to anger with myself and with La. As much as I try to accept others, that is not often extended to myself.

Sounds so self-helpy. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.
But.

It's the truth. So maybe the truth makes me vomit when it is applied to me. "Truth hurts." And other side effects include nausea and dizziness.

Letting go. Being okay with the unsteadiness and losing the edge.

(maybe not losing the edge. I don't want to be soft. The edge makes me feel alive. But maybe allowing myself a little leeway sometimes.)

Letting go. Trying. But as Terry Pratchett says, too: "There are times in life when people must know when to not let go, too. Balloons are designed to teach small children this."

(image by Les Chatfield via Flickr)

On the other hand, this wisdom from Fridtjof Nansen: "I demolish my bridges behind me...then there is no choice but to move forward."

Monday, April 14, 2014

Who Knows Where The Road Leads?

I don't want to be Sicily's momager.

I can't remember who (chime in if it was you) who just last weekend asked me if I was going to go all Kardashian with tiny house publicity. I shudder at the thought.

But.

What is the tiny house and all the publicity for? Truly, the achievement of the house is its own reward. Should we push for more? Already La has been asked to design and build houses for other people (some serious, some in jest). She has many interviews under her belt, some TV, and a recent newspaper article. People want her to run workshops to teach other kids how to build. They are interested in what she has done.

On a side note, there is a serious educational philosophy behind this house, so if anyone is interested in that, the driving force behind how this house actually came to fruition, do contact me.

A momager would force the issue and say yes to everything. A momager would relentlessly promote and pursue to the exclusion of all else.

I am not sure that's what Sicily wants. I am not sure that's not what Sicily wants.

It is hard to determine how far is too far. Can we tell the story without exploiting the story? On Wednesday it will be 14 months since Dane died. The building of the house is part of Dane, but it also represents persistence and moving forward. How many times can she say she misses her dad in a different format?

So I guess the question is: what's the next step?

Stuart Orford via Flickr

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Too Much Time on My Hands

This past weekend at the tiny house conference we talked a lot about alternative lifestyles.

Let's face it: when you step off the wheel and start to live in anything less than 500 square feet, you have already made a choice to live out of the mainstream.

Add to that the fact that many people at the conference were freelance something-or-others or were running their own tiny house business or something else non-9-to-5 and you have the perfect storm of the burning question:

"What do you do with all of your free time?" followed  by sad looks for the level of deprivation we must all be feeling due to our perceived limited income. After all, lots of us are self-employed, which is just fancy talk for "siphoning cash off the government," right?

So funny.

Yes, LPM took quite a bit of time.

Yes, some time is now free, even though there are still tweaks to make to the house.

But check this out: I actually get to choose how I would like to spend my time. And that is a gift.

Yes, I have to make some money, so I write for a couple lovely websites on holistic remedies, and I just got another freelance gig writing for a lifestyle website (which is pretty funny to me, but hey. Good writing is good writing.). I may compile the experiences of 2013 into a book with pix from the build. I wrote a non-fiction book a couple years ago. Maybe I will put that together.

I will certainly change out some faucets in the big house. Fix the fence. Mow the lawn (you're welcome, neighbors). And I will go to yoga every morning. And make
this. And this. And, oh, hell, yes, THIS.

I foresee a few road trips.

So too much time on our hands is a good thing. There's plenty to do.



Monday, April 7, 2014

Hey. You.

Yes, you.

New person reading this blog. I know it's you because I met  a lot of yous this weekend at the tiny house conference, and I am pretty sure some of you are here now, checking this out.

Welcome.

Maybe start here with the beginning, then move on to a life-changing milkshake, and finish with a little advice (that last one is the most popular one I have written so far). Feel free to share whatever you like, wherever you like (give me a little credit if you do #kthanx), and leave a note to say you wuz here. If you put your email address in the little box up there on the side, every time I write something profound (well, or about twice a week, whichever comes first) you will get a little email.

Thanks. And welcome. Hopefully you will love this just as much as La Petite loves my hugs:

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Tiny House Tragedy


The only thing preventing me from drinking my weight in Angel's Envy tonight is a 4 1/2 hour drive tomorrow, followed by some shiny happy people infusion on Saturday and Sunday in the form of the tiny house conference.

You know, that thing that has propelled Sicily and I forward on the tiny house for the last eight months? The thing that has literally made me get out of bed every morning when all I want to do is just sink in? That conference.

The hauler damaged La Petite Maison. Neither Sicily nor I trusted him when we met him yesterday, but we didn't say anything. The capper was when he said the house was pretty good, "for girls."

So we are still going. Magical things will still happen. We will still meet the beer-drinking buddy who directed me to the job that allowed me to finally call myself a writer. We will see a beautiful new baby and a big grey dog. We will break bread with an old friend who has been an unflagging supporter of Sicily's dream, the same guy who sent his dad to teach us about electricity and changing brake pads.

But no house.

When I tell you it is beautiful, I am not just whistling Dixie. Last minute help from Steven at Classic Bars, Dane's old job that he loved so much, helped us really pull the room together (it's not only a rug that can do that; in this case it was an African mahogany countertop ). And three or four 12-hour days helped us finish the rest.

But the conference will have to make do with pictures. And La Petite Maison, stuck at home, has had some dings, is missing a wheel, and is not in her appointed place. The guy who damaged her was more concerned with whether or not he would be able to get his truck out of the yard (I could have got it out of the yard in half the space he took) than if she was stable and safe back where she was. He dropped her on an incline and only moved her when I said something.

People won't believe it unless they can walk around in it. Sicily is pretending that it's okay, but I know it's not. I will know it later when I stumble into the bathroom for a drink in the middle of the night, and her light is still on, and she is restless and insomniac.

Devastated. Drinking more bourbon tonight than I should.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Regret and Do-Overs

When I was _____ years old (this is how bad of a friend I have been; I don't even remember how long it has been), my friend Terri got married. She sent me an invitation, and I didn't go. I was in Seattle at the time, but that is no excuse.

Missing her wedding is one of the regrets I have: not picking what matters over what's easy. Over and over again. Too many times.

BUT.

Terri and her husband Mike are renewing their vows in May of this year. And I got another invitation. AND I AM GOING.

It may not seem like much, but for me, the chance to have a do-over and be a part of my friend's important days means so much to me.

So it is with gratitude and humility that I say thank you, to Terri and to the universe, for the second chance.

{{{LOVE}}}