Calm Minded

Last week I attended a Hatha Yoga class for the first time. Although quite different from many of the other yoga styles I have tried, including Vinyasa and Bikram, I quite enjoyed the class because of its differences to these other yoga styles.

Walking out of the class, I didn’t experience my usual post workout symptoms- fatigue, sore muscles, shortness of breath- all the typical signs of a challenging physical workout. And surprisingly, I was fine with that because for the first time in weeks I had a clear mind.

The class centered around seated positions and encouraged a strong connection to the mind’s eye, also known as the third eye. We were consistently reminded by our instructor to concentrate “between our eyebrows” and pay particular attention to our breath. And because the poses weren’t overly challenging, I was able to connect with my breath better than other yoga practices.

Toward the end of the class, we engaged in a breathing exercise that the instructor described as “cooling”. Sitting upright with our legs crossed, we were instructed to breathe in through the mouth with our tongue formed in a roll, and to exhale out of the nose. In any other situation this would have been hilarious to me; in fact, for the first minute I had to suppress a few giggles. But the breathing exercise was no laughing matter- it was wonderful! Not only did my entire body literally cool down, but my mind and body were able to fully relax and surrender to the flow of my breath.

After the breathing exercise, I entered into the final savasana pose with a calm mind and body. I always enjoy the savasana pose in my yoga practice because it allows me to, of course, take a break from the challenging practice, but also gives me an opportunity to relax and center my being. Usually though, my mind is filled with so many tasks and to-do items, that I can only fully practice savasana for about one minute before my mind takes over and anxiety sets in.

This class was different. I was relaxed enough to let both my mind and body completely go. I didn’t engage in any thoughts that entered my brain, and instead took the advice of the instructor to let my thoughts pass me by. Ideas floated through my consciousness, but not once did I engage any of my thoughts- I simply let them flow unattached.

The disconnect from my mind was an interesting experience, and more importantly a relaxing and calming one. Usually, due to my controlling nature, I have difficulties “letting go” and panic when I don’t feel in touch with myself. But I reveled in this new experience and I hope to practice it again soon.

First Day

Very few of my childhood memories are as clear as my first day of kindergarten. I can still feel my five year old heart pounding in my chest, my tiny palms sweating and my quickening breath as I entered the doors of CH Decker Elementary School for the first time.

Needless to say, I was terrified. There were so many strange faces looking at me, wearily judging me the same way I was taking in their differences and similarities. Many of the children had formed bonds and friendships in Pre-School, and clustered together in small groups through out the classroom reviving familiar relationships. I didn’t attend Pre-School so the classroom scene was a brand new experience for me.

It was easier to face the students and teacher with Mom and Dad at my side- as long as they stayed close to me I felt much more assured that I was safe. Thirty minutes into cursory introductions and Ms. Dickinson explaining to the parents her plans for the year, the parents were told they could leave and come back at noon for dismissal.

LEAVE????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!?????????? I think not. Stricken with panic, I wrapped both arms and both legs completely around Daddy’s right leg before he had the opportunity to get out of his chair. Bending over he whispered, “It’s time for me to go. You’ll be okay. See all of the other children’s parents are leaving.”

I looked around the room and examined the other children’s faces. They all looked calm and comfortable as their parents left the room. None of them showed the same signs of anxiety that I was experiencing; in fact, most of them seemed excited to have a parent free classroom. I did not share their sentiments.

“I want you to stay,” I said to Daddy as I began crying. “I am too scared,” I continued as I buried my head behind his leg. Noticing our scene, Mrs. Dickinson came over to try and persuade me to let Daddy go home. She said that all of the other children were okay, so I should be too. She promised that we were going to have a nice day and Daddy didn’t need to be in the classroom.

I didn’t even look at her. I refused to bring my head from behind Daddy’s leg. As far as I was concerned, Mrs. Dickinson was officially the devil and no matter what she said or did or promised I absolutely was not letting go. And I didn’t. Daddy told Mrs. Dickinson that he didn’t mind staying and it would probably make the adjustment to going to school daily much easier for me. She assented and proceeded with the curriculum for the day.

As we went through names, numbers and the alphabet I kept myself wrapped around Daddy’s leg. I refused to relent and kept a tight grip for the entire day. It was much easier for me to watch everyone from behind Daddy’s leg as I could study the other children without them realizing it. Daddy’s presence was my safety blanket.

I don’t remember what I said to Mommy that evening about my experience at school after she left, but she has since told me I only had positive news to report. I told her the teacher seemed nice and I hoped some of the girls would become my friends.

The next morning Daddy took me to school and walked me to the door fearing he would have to sit through another day of kindergarten. I surprised him, and myself, when we reached the doors and I kissed him goodbye. “I don’t need you to stay today. I can do it all by myself.”

My Interior

I am growing and changing all the time.  Each day, I encounter new adventures that help me flourish as an individual.  I am not the Davina I was fifteen years ago.  Hell, I am not even the Davina I was three years ago.

But that doesn't mean I can't channel her.  

I remember who I was five, ten years ago and can empathize with that person.  I believe this is crucial to my humanity.  Although I have made mistakes in my past, or made decisions I am not entirely proud of, I don't punish or disregard the person I was when I made those choices.  

I know quite a few people- more than I would like to count actually- that try to abandon the person/self they were in the past.  They are ashamed of a previous relationship, or a bad addiction, and make an attempt to erase those years of their lives.  

I've heard it a million times.  "I try to forget it even happened."  "It's as if those years happened to someone else."  "The decisions I made were ridiculous.  I have no idea who that person was- it definitely was not, and is no longer, me."

But it was you.  You can't change the core of your being.  And I don't believe you should try.

I can still channel my five year old self that would throw temper tantrums over my dad not giving me enough time to pick out a Barbie Doll.  No, I do not throw raging fits over toys anymore, but I can still remember why I felt those emotions.

I am not proud of the Davina who continued to date a boy for months even though he cheated on me with numerous hussies.  But I don't want to forget her either.  

I want to remember why I made the choices I did, no matter how ridiculous they were in order to continue my personal development.  If I abandon, or even try to ignore the person I was, then I am cheating.  I would be fooling not only those around me, but most importantly, I would be tricking my soul.

Because even after all my years of physical change and development, the core of my being, my soul, has generally remained the same.   

Child Star

I was born to be on stage.

Unfortunately though, I wasn't blessed with the talent. My father’s singing gene did not get passed down to me, which was something I didn’t become painfully aware of until just before puberty.

During childhood I held allusions that I would grow up to be a famous singer. I promised my daddy that the singing business would never leave the Coady family. I would take over Dave Coady’s Irish Express when he retired. Of course the name would have to be changed, but we would handle that when the time came.

I spent weekend afternoons running errands with daddy, which I saw as a perfect opportunity to showcase my singing talents. While in the car, between the post office and the cleaners, I would belt out my favorite Mariah Carey or Celine Dion songs—with my headphones on.

I actually feel sorry for him now. He never once told me I was a terrible singer. He simply encouraged my other talents and told me to explore different options.

But I was relentless. I watched Grease like it was going out of style. While dancing and singing in front of the television dressed up in purple pants, faux leather jacket, and blue cowboy boots all topped with bright red lipstick (all borrowed from my mother’s closet), I believed I was the next Sandra Dee.

It wasn’t until I recorded myself singing that I realized I was awful. It is uncanny how similar I sound to a Tom Cat alley fight. Needless to say I was heartbroken. Devastated. Shattered.

I abandoned my dreams of starring on Broadway. I found other dreams and left my singing career as a thing of the past. I continued dancing and actually found decent success, but honestly, you can’t be a real star unless you can do both singing and dancing.

I still have an affinity for singing- I sing while showering, cleaning, driving, and sometimes working. But it is now done in private as I prefer not to have an audience. And I definitely do not sing loudly while wearing headphones. I no longer have the confidence or reckless abandonment as I did as a child.

But sometimes, while no one is watching or listening, I imagine my bedroom is the stage and the center spotlight is shining directly on me.

Pining

While driving through my college campus last weekend I was struck by the oddest feeling- sadness.

I really miss college.

During school I spent most of my time thinking about how much “easier” and “better” life was going to be when I graduated. I anticipated the days when I would no longer have the responsibilities of writing papers, studying for exams or attending lectures. When I felt bogged down by the amount of studying or writing I had to do, I always made myself feel better by counting down the weeks left in the semester. To help me trudge through I would reason, “Sure I have a 22 page paper to chunk out in three days, but in two more weeks it will all be over!”

Life didn’t get any easier. In fact, it got a whole lot harder.

Gone are the days of variety and discovering new things. The workday generally consists of the same routine day in and day out and surprises don’t happen very often. Classes on the other hand were always introducing new concepts or ideas, and although I didn’t always agree with these thoughts or theories they usually gave me something new to think about.

I yearn for the challenges of college. I miss juggling my various classes and the feeling of achievement when I received a good grade on a test or essay. The constant feedback of doing well, or not so well, gave me a sense of progress. I was on a path to self-betterment.

I also miss the freedom. If I wasn’t feeling well, or simply wanted to skip down to the beach for the afternoon, I had no one to answer to except myself. As long as I made up the work, or received the notes from a classmate, I was in the green. Could you imagine skipping out on work for the afternoon simply because you thought it was nice outside? Hardly. I can see my boss’ reaction now.

I went to one of the most beautiful colleges in the country. Nestled upon a hill in San Diego, the landscape and location always made me feel as though the world was at my feet. I felt that equipped with a Liberal Arts education from a good institution, I could accomplish anything. Upon graduation I would start my ideal job and my career would take me to fun and exciting places. Office work was not what I had imagined.

But there is still time, and I am still quite young. The world is my oyster and I have the opportunity to make whatever I want out of myself. Hopefully, my college education will help take me to those career places I dreamed about only a few short years ago.

If not, I could always go back.

Food Evolution

I grew up in a house where food was a necessity. Eating wasn’t something we particularly enjoyed doing. We simply did it because we needed it to survive. In fact, cooking (and the inevitable long clean up) is something my family members, myself included, didn’t enjoy doing. We ate out quite often and did our best to have simple and smaller meals.

Not to say that I didn’t enjoy the occasional Irish Stew Mom would make on ‘colder’ winter days (please note that colder is in quotations as it refers to Vegas cold and after living in Michigan I know that is NOT cold). I also looked forward to the Irish Breakfast Fry Dad would do on Sunday mornings. But I definitely didn’t think about the food I would be eating. Or long for it.

Things have since changed. I now dream about what I am going to eat, how I am going to eat it, where I am going to eat it, and what exactly it is going to taste like.

And no, I am not a fatty.

Scott opened my eyes to the world of food. When we started dating he pushed my food comfort zone and encouraged me to try food I had refused to even look at only months prior. He pushed me into eating sushi, Thai food, Mexican food (because I learned that Taco Bell was in fact not Mexican food), Vietnamese food, Spicy food, Health Nut food- you name it, he encouraged me to try it.

Now, I must be upfront here, my husband is a fantastic cook. And, truth be told, if he wasn’t so good at it I probably wouldn’t be open to eating all these different types of meals. But I struck gold with Scott (in more ways than one), and everything he touches in the kitchen tastes like heaven. I’m a lucky girl.

Over the course of our five year relationship, I have become more and more involved with his cooking and food choices. In the early stages I was simply a food victim, being bullied into trying the different, and sometimes odd looking, plates he put before me. I have since evolved and now like to help pick out the recipes in our cookbooks or on various internet cooking sites. I also, and this is a huge change from pre-foodie Davina, enjoy accompanying him to the grocery store to pick out the necessary ingredients.

Unfortunately though, his cooking abilities have yet to rub off on me. Meals I attempt to make never taste as flavorful and always seem to be missing something that he nails every time. As my mom said after sampling my fish tacos, “It’s good, Davi, but it’s obviously not Scotty’s.” Thanks, Mom.

In the meantime, I will continue to be Scott’s little sous-chef. But I won’t complain, it’s actually quite the gig.

Attempting to run

I have started running. Which, for anyone who knows me well enough, is odd.

I actually hate running. Well, I used to hate running, now I am starting to find it a little more tolerable.

It all started because I wanted to spend more time outside during the warmer months in Michigan. Why didn't I pick up biking you ask? Well, my poor baby, Mea, is stuck inside all day and she needs to spend some time outside too. It's really hard for her to keep up with the bike, so I usually end up pedaling at snail pace and get absolutely no exercise out of the routine.

So, Scott and I decided on running. He began first- taking Mea for a brief one mile run in the mornings while I worked out in the living room to various Exercise TV routines. When he came home he always looked refreshed and ready for the day. Eventually his comments about the gorgeous flowers blooming made me jealous and I decided to sign up for running too.

I have been running religiously for a week. We did about 4.5 miles last week (I know, I am almost a pro) and some days were better than others. Friday was a tough fun- I truly thought I was going to die at the end of it.

I am hoping I stick with this as I usually tend to abandon things after a week or two of zealous effort. It's actually quite nice to run in the mornings when the rest of the world is slowly waking up. I love the smell of the morning dew, the soft sunlight breaking over the trees and houses, and the lack of noisy distractions.

It's my time of reckless abandonment, as silly as that may sound. Although I feel like keeling over, or vomiting from exhaustion at the 3/4 mark, I am always really glad I decided to do it.

My relationship with running, thus far, is quite contradictory. My joy peaks twice during the jog- at the very beginning when I first hit the pavement and then again at the very end when I know it's all over.