this little piggy

Kale pesto, cilantro chutney, and guest blogging!

2012-02-03T14:38:00.005-05:00

Cilantro? You either love it or hate it. Me? I can't seem to get enough!

And kale? Yes, that very leafy green, vegetable that seems a bit intimidating for a few. I'm quite addicted.

If you're looking for fresh new recipes, please head on over to the Harvest Kitchen Sisters where I share my Cilantro Chutney and Kale Pesto recipes. They're both vegan, raw, gluten-free, and dairy-free....perfect to put on giant burgers :)

Thanks to Amelia and Laura for hosting this food nerd on their awesome blog! Now, please go give them some blogger love and say hello!

Brown eyes and all

2012-01-27T08:17:00.008-05:00

'Like waves of the ocean, up and down, up and down.'

Bikram used to say these words often during training and had become one of my favourite memories of him. He used it most when he would listen to our half moon dialogues, telling us to put some variety in our delivery, our voices, our intentions. Strong and loud in some parts, but also slow and building intensity in others when we teach.

Not too different from practicing the yoga. Some days we are strong, the others, we take our time, and we breathe more, sometimes less - but always, always we breathe.

So here's the thing. An old, stone-hearted self is knocking at the door, making a timely appearance, reminding me that I have gone too soft, that it might be time for intensity. These winter days, mostly grey and dreary, either bring rain or snow, they seem to have finally woken up that dark girl that went away for awhile.

You see, almost all my life, all 5'1 of me, would almost always receive the same adjectives over and over again. Tiny. Innocent. Little. I never minded much, because I knew no one ever worries about the tiny, little ones.

But the thing is, my little tongue got me into more trouble than I care to admit. My eyes, deceptive in their brownness, got me off of more trouble than I would ever admit. In truth, I'm sarcastic, a little bit cruel, and a lot harsh. Exes have called me difficult, inflexible, cold. I'm hard on myself, and equally hard on those around me.

Or rather, I used to be. Over time, I had flowed with the years, moving along as life threw its curve balls at me, some of them, of course, hitting me in the face. I allow myself to laugh more, I even smiled when I walk, and cared when no one else cared. It would be easy to blame it on the yoga, but in fact it was just life in general. Growing up, learning acceptance, understanding forgiveness, and using words as tools instead of daggers.

Now, years later, I stand in the middle of a crossroad, but the choice does not lie on the path, but on the parts I'm taking along for the ride. So carefully I thread between different versions of myself. I recognize that I need pieces of the old me back, more than ever as I enter a new phase in my life.

In the past, the cold veneer covered up the insecurities of growing up, the frustrations with the body and the mind, and of too much expectations of others. But this time, it's different. I am older, maybe a tad wiser. My harshness comes from a place of practicality, of function. Today, I am not really cold, I realize. I just have clearer boundaries.

You know how people write letters to their younger self? The only thing I will pen in mine is to stay that way, because it is she who have brought me to where I am today. I learned from her mistakes, then left them behind as I take the best of her with me to the present.

These days, I find myself walking with lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, eyes deep in thought, drowning out the aches and pains of the city around me. To be buried in my own thoughts is a luxury now rather than a curse.

I will always be hard on myself, but it is no longer about living up to the pressures of the world that plague way too many of our youth today, but the expectations I've built up to reach my goals, a destination I've carefully planned out. And the difficult, inflexible, and cruel? Not unlike before, it remains a refusal to appease the insecurities of others, a resistance to the unnecessary and unimportant.

So as Bikram says, sometimes we need strong and loud then also slow and building intensity at other times, but always, we breathe. Sometimes we need to be cold, dark, intense to balance out the lightness but always, we stay true to ourselves.

And always, I've remained breathing. Always myself. Brown eyes and all.

Then comes clarity

2012-01-23T00:55:00.006-05:00

You know those days when things don't seem quite right? Those days where everything seems to be going wrong no matter what efforts you place in salvaging it? And when it's over, you feel like you just climbed a mountain wearing the wrong shoes and finished your water too early in the hike?

Well, I had a week full of those. It all started when I began having dreams of epic proportions, making the very simple task of falling asleep a treacherous minefield. So I finally decided to face something I had been trying to ignore for years. I knew it was going to be messy, dirty, frustrating. As the days went on and I was brought back to that place, kicking and screaming. I went deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. Despite what Alice tells us, it was not Wonderland.

Dusting myself off from that week, I realized that the bottom is where probably I needed to be. To find that clarity, to see a road from the other side. Because at that bottom, I found myself with my guards down, head in my hands, letting my shoulders sink into my body. And as I laid in that hole with no one and nothing else except the past, in complete surrender is when the skeletons of my closet finally released themselves.

At that bottom, where we are bare and naked, those things that haunted us can no longer take anything else from us. Like Goldilocks in the Three Bears' house, I had to feel the burn of a hot porridge, the hardness of the wrong bed, and breaking an unfit chair before finally falling asleep.

It took a bit of grungy work and getting dirt under my fingernails, even my yoga practice was a battlefield at best. Ok fine, it took some Argentinian wine, letting my walls down, and more wine but I'm finally climbing back up, carrying with me important lessons about forgiveness. Forgiveness of others and of myself (thanks, C and E).

Oh what a bitch that path can be but those doors can finally close - the rabbit hole that was covered for far too long.

First we burn our tongues in a bowl of porridge, then comes clarity.

Limitless

2012-01-17T12:00:00.003-05:00

The past few days have been a blur of snow, cold, and now rain. Not surprisingly, the weather has had an impact on some of us, myself included. I have been walking around like there's a cloud hovering over me, a thought bubble or two beside it. Thought bubbles filled with way too much stuff weighing me down.

Finally yesterday, I had finished something on my to-do list, a crucial item. And just like that, I felt that familiar feeling of hope. Not anything grand like a thousand light bulbs coming on, but a combination of relief, optimism, and encouragement.

It got me thinking about how I approach difficult or trying things in my life. More often than I'd like to admit, I avoid them, or go through them numbed, coasting by, thinking somehow that if I hold my breath long enough, it'll be over quickly and then I can breathe again.

But life ain't so. Sometimes, the more we look away, the harder the impact. We look away, numbing ourselves, protection from the sting of disappointment. We make excuses, we deflect, we distract. We do everything to delay the inevitable, as if somehow we have the super power to change the course of things by denying their existence.

Well, we do actually. We have such power. But it only comes when we strengthen ourselves, strength built from overcoming circumstances, learning from our mistakes, and honest-to-goodness hard work.

So in the yoga room, we work through the postures to face our fears, to confront what we've labeled as our shortcomings. Over time, that burning sensation in our lungs after the Balancing Series becomes familiar, no longer something to be feared, to be avoided.

Then one day, we find ourselves looking for that edge, that pounding in our chest when our heart feels like it's going to jump out of our ribcage. Its absence no longer acceptable because it has become the measure of our determination.

Over time, we stop fearing the difficult things, the sting of hard work becomes a comforting sensation because we know that it was achieved through struggle, perseverance, and courageousness.

That is how us yogis push ourselves in the room, but that is also how we could work off the mat. Face our fears, confront what we've labeled our shortcomings, looking for that edge to push beyond. Eventually, in the future, they become familiar, no longer something to be feared or avoided. That is when we become limitless.

And the clouds hovering over us on those dark cold days become merely reminders of our strength and the great things that come after we struggle, persevere, and take courage.

Great achievements, great love

2012-01-05T16:37:00.002-05:00

The other morning I was teaching a 6:30am class, and I shared with the students this quote: 'Great achievements and great love involves great risk.'

The word great is a such relative term. A risk could be as huge as diving off from the cliff into an ocean of water or as simple as wearing coloured socks. And so I said to the early yogi birds, this risk in yoga could be that they go deeper into second set. That they challenge themselves in different ways because they might discover something new.

Later on, I read a great article here that said '...yoga was never, ever, about always feeling good, happy rainbows and unicorns, but about facing our demons so that we might finally, finally let them go.'

The risk here, in the yoga room, is to face our 'demons', whatever they may be. I believe, our mats are one of the safest place for us to open up to what we fear or what pains us the most. Here, we can practice courage over and over again, until we're ready to wear it outside. And when we take that risk, to go deeper into a posture, to hold it just a little bit longer, to move past the fear of pain and failure, we gain patience and kindness and, eventually, love for ourselves once again.

Soon, we let go of things and people and jobs and foods and habits that doesn't allow us to put ourselves first, that doesn't make us feel good. We become healthier, too (because it really isn't about that chocolate cake, but how you feel about yourself afterwards - but that's another post altogether).

And when we care for ourselves, we learn to listen to our heart and follow our passions.

This, I think, is the power of yoga. It is a great risk indeed.

Closure

2012-01-02T13:18:00.012-05:00

As proper as it would be to write a glowing reminiscence of the year past being the start of 2012 and all, it would be too easy. I've tossed and turned about this post. It kept reminding me that it needed to be written, to be released. How fitting that it is about closure and here I am, taking my time.

Many times than I'd like to count, I've written about changes and new adventures, about learning new things, discovering new places on and off the mat. 2011 was a full year. And I'm sure eventually, in the future, I'll be able to look back without tasting the salt on my wounds, and then I may be able to say it was a good year.

I remember last New Year's Day, a promise I made to myself that I will do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to get to Teacher Training. To be peacefully alone, to find solitude, to cut ties. To keep my sanity. To break down walls. To finally open my heart. To go after my dreams.

So I'll say it. 2011 kicked my ass. It threw me to the ground, knocked me down when I got back up. There were days, weeks, even months where every move felt like an uphill climb. Tooth and nail. Sweat and tears. Knees scraped, palms raw.

When I look back at working weeks and weeks straight with absolutely no break, running on a handful of hours of sleep, and my gas tank on empty, I twinge in pain just a little bit. Not because of the physicality of it all but because that's how badly I wanted and needed the change. I used up everything in me to make sure I got to where I wanted to be. By the time I was on the plane to Los Angeles, I felt raw, exhausted, hard spun, hardened, cold. And this was before Bikram Teacher Training.

I was afraid I would be too hardened, too cold of a person as I take on those 9 weeks. But when we make the right choices, the universe has a way of letting us know. There was no room to be rigid or hard in LA, I didn't give myself the option. And in return, I had the time of my life and met the most amazing people. I smiled and laughed and danced my way through to graduation. I pieced back together fragments of myself that were slowly chipped away and I came back a better person.

People always say that satisfaction comes after honest-to-goodness hard work. I'd like to add that satisfaction is when your heart finally stops aching and begins to breathe again. And so as 2012 slowly makes its presence known, I've begun to lift my chest up and fill my lungs again. It's hard to make a brand new start when one is burdened with old heartaches and scars of past wounds.

This work continues into the new year, but only to finish up what was started, to complete this part of the journey, to finally let go of things that desperately need to be let loose and be left behind. Then my slate shall be clean and ready for more.

As we say to our students in class, let that posture go for the day. Let 2011 go, it's done, over. Go deeper in 2012.

Sometimes, the forest needs the fire to keep herself healthy. So in ode to a better version of ourselves, here's to the flames of the new year, where we finally allow ourselves to let go of the past, let go of our fears, heal the soul, rise from the rubble, to get closure on loose ends. It'll get us closer to the person we want to be, to the dreams we dream of, and the life we want to lead.

"Never too late, never too old, never too bad, and never too sick, to start from the scratch once again." ~ Bikram Choudhury

It's not about me at all

2011-12-28T21:35:00.002-05:00

The city's still asleep as I head out to teach the 6:30am class :)

It's been over a month since returning from training, and teaching has opened up a whole new world for me, beyond my imagination. No, I don't mean this in a fairy tale sense. Every time that I teach, I learn something new, discover something surprising, am amazed, and yes, even horrified.

I won't lie, I struggled very much in my first few classes. I'd go in a nervous wreck, study my dialogue religiously before class, and sweat beads are already on my back before I go in the hot room. My confidence wavered, unsteady like a boat in the storm. No one said it was going to be easy, but I had no idea there were going to be moments that made my head ache in anxiety.

But that's ok, I've accepted it as part of my growth as a new teacher. I'm not supposed to be great on Day One. Nor should I be. There are many things, oh so many things that I've discovered this early on as I thread through the teaching world and it makes me very excited, jumping-out-of-my-skin elated, to think of what's to come. It only gets better, just like practicing the yoga.

This week, I taught a very small and intimate class and I was so happy just to be there. I didn't think about myself or how I sounded. I just...taught. And watched. And practiced with them as their teacher. There was no anxiety at perfecting the dialogue or 'sounding' like I knew what I was doing. I allowed myself to let go of any stumbles, mumbles, and stutters. Yes, I let go.

After that class, I began to feel what other teachers talk about. This feeling, almost indescribable with words. I watched as the students smiled, exhausted but energized. I know that feeling - the kind that you get when you had a breakthrough in class. When you found your limit and went past it. And the most important part to me was that it was about them. How do I know? Because I don't remember much of what I've said, but of what I saw in class. I saw them working hard, focused. I saw them go and push past their comfort zone, be challenged.

With this in mind, I'm learning to let go of my anxieties, fears of losing control, fears of not being good enough teacher. Because I am. I endured 9 weeks of training to be where I am, and there's no way I'm going to let fear and anxiety take away the experience of it all.

So as they wave goodbye glowingly at 8:30 in the morning, I told myself, this is one of the best things about this job. It's not about me at all.

The equality effect: 160 girls

2011-12-15T16:51:00.007-05:00

I've been forwarded these videos at work and I thought I'd share with you all. I hope it helps better understand the realities of those who live in different parts of the world. Much more thought provoking than the traditional images we see in mainstream media.

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The equality effect, formerly known as the African and Canadian Women's Human Rights Project (ACWHRP), is an international network of human rights advocates (including grass roots community members, artists, musicians, film makers, health care workers, journalists, lawyers, teachers, students, judges and Parliamentarians) working together to improve the lives of women and girls by using existing human rights law to achieve concrete change, and the meaningful empowerment of women and girls. We are human rights advocates, primarily but not exclusively from Canada, Ghana, Kenya and Malawi, that work collaboratively to learn from common experiences, to transform the sexist legal legacy inherited through the experience of colonialism, to achieve justice for women and girls.

WHAT IS “160 GIRLS”?

The “160 Girls” project is a legal initiative that aims to achieve justice and protect against rape for all girls in Kenya. The 160 Girls project will initiate litigation to secure legal remedies ordering the state to enforce existing laws in Kenya to protect girls from sexual violence and to hold rapists accountable.

The project will mobilize the law to secure concrete change for women and girls who currently experience some of the most appalling forms of violence in the world today.

BENEFITS OF “160 GIRLS”

If the State enforces its laws, girls will be protected from rape. There will be increased safety and security for girls and more state accountability for the enforcement of existing laws intended to protect women and girls.

This 4 1/2 minute, mini-documentary has been created and produced by award winning film maker Andrea Dorfman ( Halifax , Canada ), with support from Patrick Njagi ( Nairobi , Kenya ). Sixteen year old Lucy Wanjiku Ng'ang'a, of Nairobi , Kenya , provides the narration for the film.

For more information and to donate, please visit http://theequalityeffect.org

(Note: I do not work for the organization.)

Silly

2011-12-09T17:38:00.000-05:00

Bikram said that once we come back, things would seem silly. I laughed, only half believing him. But lately, I ghost through the halls of buildings and walk silently home. Before I know it, I have passed by a hundred and one city dwellers without having noticed any of them.

Within the first few days, I had felt little need to hear the groans and moans of a city frozen in autumn. No longer do people's faces catch my eye. Neither anger nor sadness nor frustration cling onto me like dust. Stories of people walking by do not feign the same interest I would have given them before.

And with this change, I was able to hear myself more. Without noise or shadows, thoughts have become clearer, stronger. They do not get drowned out or cast aside by someone else's bad day. They are front and center, on a podium.

And since I listen to myself more, I have discovered many things:

That patience, no matter the size, there's always room for more.

That negativity attracts more negativity.

That there are things I can no longer compromise about, there are those I am willing to wait a lifetime for, and that these things are a world apart.

That being quiet doesn't always mean meek. It is being observant.

That there is no harm in living in a world of black and white. As long as we visit the grey area once in awhile.

That limits need to be set. So we can go beyond them.

That boundaries can always be stronger. Because they'll always be blurred.

That weaknesses have the capacity to be our strengths. It is simply a choice.

So yes, Bikram was right. Things feel silly, a little. But I say silliness is when we take that big step forward, leaving the familiar behind in exchange for the more. Nothing fits right from the past, and we are still breaking into the future. As long as it means growth, I'm alright with silly.

'Let's make room for the good stuff.'

2011-12-08T14:46:00.004-05:00

Writer and designer Graham Hill asks: Can having less stuff, in less room, lead to more happiness?

He makes the case for taking up less space, and lays out three rules for editing your life.

Leaving it all on the floor

2011-12-07T16:06:00.004-05:00

Eat, work, yoga. Put hair in bun, wear spandex, and sweat. With the exception of food and cooking, there's not much to my daily routine. If I'm feeling extra special, I comb my hair. Sometimes, if I want to drive people away, I say it's because I'm an eco-warrior and don't believe in shampooing (I do). I'm not sure if that's a result of practicing minimalism as much as it is laziness.

I've also had to deal with my long hair during training but it wasn't much of a problem, since I just bunned it up and went on with my much-disliked rabbit pose. But then Week 5 happened.

For those who are not too familiar with the Teacher Training lingo, Week 5 is the 'Crazy Week', as in, well, crazy week. Claws come out, politeness depleted even in the mildest mannered Canadians, etc. My Crazy Week came in the form of a haircut. My hair suddenly felt heavy, suffocating, overwhelming. While the rational part of my brain told me it was my introverted self's reaction to the stress of training and thus I needed to find other, more appropriate ways to cope, it did not stop me from wanting to chop it off.

After my yogi friends kindly reminded me to wait it out and let Crazy Week pass, as I might just regret it, I went home with a full head of hair. I thought Week 5 passed by leaving me unscathed.

Now, back into the real world, where things have been different but look the same, where my post-training self is living, where our lives were no longer organized in weekly increments, the familiar feeling came over me again. The bun atop my head felt like a pile of black, sweaty strands, a deflated, weathered-out tire weighing heavily on top of me. I've held onto my long hair for security, for identity, for the beauty I believed it gave me, for safety and the other million-and-a-half reasons we all hold onto things. And so I kept my hair as lengthy as I could. It was simpler and easier then.

I read somewhere that 'you can't breathe for tomorrow, only for today.' It was then that I realized I was too busy thinking about the future to be present. Why was I letting the fears of the future stop me from trying something new, something different?

Riding on the waves of excitement instead of fear, I finally asked the nice lady at the salon to cut it off. And when I left, it wasn't just the pile of hair that was left on the floor.

Week 5 didn't let me come out unscathed after all.

On baking pies and facing changes

2011-12-05T11:56:00.005-05:00

The sun is not even out yet, I thought to myself as settled into tree pose. It was the 6:30am class, 20 people in the room, focusing, concentrating, meditating.

For awhile now, there's been something bubbling under my belly. This subtle feeling of restlessness, unease. I've been watching the symptoms get stronger and stronger.

I needed a change.

In response, I baked a pie. Shopped. Cut my hair. Threw out old clothes. Re-organized. Took a 6:30am class. All things one does to appease that distinct feeling of needing change. Because anything else might just be too painful or scary or...difficult.

The sun finally came out as the class finished. I laid on my sweat-soaked towel, catching my breath as if I had been running for miles and miles. That bubbling feeling I've been trying to calm down has got me exhausted, breathless.

As I slowly picked myself off the mat, I finally surrendered. I have been running for miles and miles. All the way to the waters of the Pacific and the California sunshine. To the comfort of my fellow trainees, many running the same circles as I have been.

But now we are on our own paths, and I'm back to where I started. I no longer have the luxury of the ocean and the courage of my yogi friends. I returned so I can make the changes I need to get to where I want to be. To stop running and take the leap because I do not have much hair left to cut or pies to bake.

And because there are grand things out there waiting for me.

What I have learned

2011-12-01T02:29:00.003-05:00

Rusty. Creaky. Stiff.

Those words could be heard from my joints in almost each morning class in training. The body just simply refuses to go deeper after a long slumber. The postures are the same, the body different. But through the same series, it starts to open up in different ways - slowly but surely.

And slow it must be. Because it'll hurt even more without patience. Without letting the body settle into the heat once again.

This I found to be true too as I settle back in everyday life back in the city. Rusty, creaky. A little stiff.

It's been a little weird returning to this life, to say the least. Some days, I've felt like I'm fumbling in the dark, bumping into things. I feel awkward, quiet, living in another world within this one.

Then there are days when my eyes readjust to the dark and figure my way around once more. I go to work, go to class, ride the transit, take a walk. But through the same routine, the world starts to open up in different ways - slowly but surely. I found more focus. More strength. More flexibility. More peace.

And with these I move forward slowly and patiently. What good will all the lessons and discoveries I've earned if I'm not willing to sit around to collect the prize?

So I tell myself to walk one step at a time, one day at a time because I know I will continue to grow leaps and bounds.

And time, time will show me what shall be. That, I have found to be one of the most important lesson I have learned from Bikram.

To have faith.

So the next time you hear the creaks and feel the rustiness, the sting of waiting, know that it's growth making itself known.

Have faith.

On being home

2011-11-29T10:58:00.003-05:00

It’s near the end of fall, I’m home comfortably in my own, warm bed, yet I find myself wanting to talk to my fellow trainees who are in their own warm beds. I’ve been fortunate enough to have my best friend visit for a couple of weeks and take my first class, too. It’s made the transition from training to home easier to bear.

As for transformations within myself, I’m much quieter since coming back. My mind, my actions, especially my practice. They always told us in posture clinic to only move with intent when teaching and that’s spilled over to outside world. Things are slowly returning to normal, settling in the dust since returning. My one big fear is that I will slowly become part of it all again. But these thoughts aside, I know deep down that I have changed and my place in this world has also changed. It's just a matter of time until I get used to my new wings.

As for teaching, thank god for being able to practice almost daily and having teachers listening to BYTT-related things. They have been very supportive in providing feedback, tips, and encouragement. It seems that’s all I want to talk about - yoga, yoga, yoga. That’s my new normal now, almost nothing else exists at the moment. All I think about is yoga and teaching! I'm excited to teach and get back in the hot room. And to think, it only gets better from here!

I am really happy that there were many decisions I’ve made during training but actually seeing them through is the work that lies ahead of me. So in the dreary days like today, I find myself wearing our group t-shirt that says ‘Bulletproof’. It really does make me feel that way - I can take on anything. Safe, strong. One step at a time.

I looked at my notes from lectures and I thought I'd share this one with you all:

'There is an easy road and a hard road. Don't hesitate to take the hard road. You will get to your destination.' - Bikram Choudhury

Let's take the hard road and see what unfolds.

The end of the beginning

2011-11-16T22:17:00.001-05:00

To my fellow trainees...

'You will not know missing until you leave here.' ~ Bikram

(click above for the full post)

'You lose your balance to find your balance.'

2011-10-21T06:24:00.002-04:00

It's almost 3 am and my body is screaming for sleep. Somehow, my mind feels like going to places other than sleep.

As the hallways of our quarters hum silence, I recall the class from this afternoon and his lecture this evening. Let no one steal your peace seems to be the theme.

I've been lucky & blessed to be surrounded by wonderful yogis, full of support, positive energy, and smiles. Laughter, I have found to be our common bond aside from our love of this yoga. And believe me, this makes this experience a whole world full of amazing.

I find myself getting stronger everyday, in every class, in my interactions with fellow trainees. Never had I exhausted into practice the art of keeping my peace. 400 yogis from all different walks of life, with varying levels of patience will do that to you. And this practice outside the hot room has elevated my practice on my mat onto a higher place. Focus, determination, and kindness. Kindness to the self.

Being away from everything I know has also given me the opportunity for a new perspective. On life, my job, people around me - the very world I've created for myself. This process is truly unlike anything, as the teachers tell us. It transforms you not just physically, but from our entirety. From bones to skin, fingertips to the toes.

One of the biggest lessons I've learned so far here is to live without fear. Without fear of making choices, of taking chances, of falling. Of shining brightly.

'You lose your balance to find your balance.'

Trust the process, they say. I wholeheartedly agree. Faith is a powerful thing. And having it is the best thing I could give myself in this journey.

See you all on the other side.

Namaste.

Week 3 & 4

2011-10-21T05:51:00.000-04:00

Week 3:
'Posture holding still, breathing always normal.'

Week 4:
Intermission

Week 2

2011-10-03T03:08:00.001-04:00

'This yoga will make you fall in love with yourself.'

Full post over at Tumblr.

Week 1

2011-09-30T03:59:00.001-04:00

'You, you are platinum.'

For those who wanted to follow along with this incredible journey, head on over to my Tumblr postings.

Two thousand miles

2011-09-15T12:52:00.013-04:00

We are all broken somehow.

It's how we patch ourselves up and wear our scars that matters most.

Three days and two thousand miles to go.

Storm before the calm

2011-09-09T12:26:00.003-04:00

My mind have been racing in the last few weeks that I almost don't recognize myself. It's not just the training that has me running in circles, but, life in general.

I've been lucky enough to have been granted the time off of work and in preparation for my absence, I've had to cram all the work that needs to be done into the last 2 months. And let's just say that challenging would be an understatement. I can feel it in my bones, my brain hurts, cognitive functions are barely there (thank god for editors!), and I'm sure people around me are pretending that I make sense just to be kind or shut me up.

And all this, I believe, has brought my immune system to a screeching halt and got me some cooties. Not being able to hold down any proper food or having the energy to cook doesn't help heal the body well either. Additionally, it has really messed with my system and I now I know the effects of too much bread before a #Bikram class! (Hint: it's not pretty and I'll never do it again). No wonder they say stress is the root of (some) diseases. That and bad food.

Because crappy food makes people grouchy, and grouchy people are more stressed, I soooo do not want crappy food. But I'm not getting any kitchen love these days. The best I can churn out these days is boiling water. No, really, I'm not kidding. There's really nothing more comforting than an organized kitchen and that excitement one gets when creating a dish full of comfort, nutrition, and heart.

There's also nothing more satisfying than a spotless sink and stove. But my kitchen these days? Well, it looks like someone shook it all around, opened everything, and dumped the rest in plain sight. A frat boy would be scared of my place. While the cleaning freak in me is slowly dying inside, the human in me is just too goddamn tired to soothe her. Thank goodness I packed my suitcase weeks ago, because it's one less thing I need to worry about.

And yoga. Oh, how I miss the yoga. Many post-trainees have advised to take it easy before training, as we'll get plenty of it there. Totally understandable, and totally appreciative of the insight (thank you). But the thing is, the yoga is what keeps me sane. I've worked in the mental health field for some years now, and I know from experience that none of my physical being matters if I'm mentally, emotionally, and spiritually spent.

Yoga balances me out. Even as I sit here feeling the aches and pains of illness, overworking, and undernourishment, they don't compare to how gutted I feel without a proper practice. No egos about it, I just really, really need the yoga.

And while I share these things with you, I promise I am not complaining. I accept everything for what they are, and really, taking the time off for teacher training is an opportunity I am lucky to have. But I swear if I see Snow White's poisoned apple, I might just steal it so I'm guaranteed some rest. Somehow I doubt training will be the place to find it. At least there'll be lots of yoga, right?

Ahh namaste peeps!

BKTT/BYTT

2011-09-02T00:47:00.002-04:00

At first I wasn't sure if I was going to write throughout teacher training. Then all of a sudden, I had so much to write and we haven't even started yet! There wasn't enough space to put all the thoughts down that I've gone ahead and posted them on a separate blog.

Why separate? Because there are simply things on this place that I only entrust in you. And this place - it is much too personal to share with those who I might someday be teaching for, or more importantly, I might be working for. Call me odd, or simply accept that it's a Scorpio thing, but that's just how it's gotta be.

So for the, like, 8 of you that patiently and kindly read my blog and are interested in anything teacher training related, the little piggy can be found in the most random of places like this one.

On a random note, fall is here. A little sad to be missing it this year since I'll be in sunny California. Maybe I'll bring a few dried Maple leaves with me for company...

Lessons from my freezer: BKTT scavenger hunt

2011-09-01T16:30:00.003-04:00

Last night, I had these grand ideas for dinner then I remembered that a) I can only use what I have and b) I'm poor so I didn't have a choice but use what I have.

I needed to use up what I had in my kitchen before I leave for training so I've made it a mission to clean out my fridge and freezer of foods I've stored and saved over the past...year. Fine, past two years is more likely.

A quick survey of my supplies showed a package of dumpling wrappers, some frozen cheese, tofu, loads of butter (what priorities I have), Thai chilies, jalapenos for nachos, green salty olives, and my lone fresh produce: a yellow zucchini. Oh and there was also a questionable carrot and a couple of beets purchased from two seasons ago. I think. My celery is dying a slow, painful death so I left it be.

So being the challenge lover that I am, I decided to make use of the dumpling wrappers finally before they expired on Sept. 5. Grated cheese, zucchini, carrots, olives, jalapenos stuffed in pan fried dough? Why not!

As suspected, the carrot was wilty but I was too impatient to revive it in a bowl of water, so I just used the core that remained crisp. Honestly, it looked like a very fat and wrinkly orange thumb. I'm surprised I even touched it.

Then I grated the zucchini and cheese. The pickled jalapenos, which were the one ingredient I was actually excited about, looked as if someone chewed them up and then stored them in vinegar. I tried, but I couldn't get over the texture. Note to self: never buy pickled jalapenos ever again.

I added olives, some fresh garlic, and Thai chilies for flavour. Finally, I stuffed them in the wrappers and pan fried the heck out of them til the cheese melted to oblivion.

Verdict: They were really good!! Or so I thought until I woke up at 3 am nursing a lactose-intolerant stomach ache. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, I uh, am not very good at digesting dairy.

Clearly that doesn't stop me, though I should really make an effort. I think after this episode, I'll have to pass on cheese during teacher training. Baby steps.

Moral of this random story: As my fellow teacher-trainee-to-be and Fab-Four member, Nicola Poppet from the UK, eating up the contents of your cupboards and freezer is not as fun as it sounds.

Lesson learned: Never freeze anything you find questionable now. It won't be like find wine. Time will not make it better. Neither will a hint of freezer burn.

I'm SOOOO not looking forward to dealing with those frozen strawberries. I doubt my housemate would want to eat them...

On the other side: Why I want to be a yoga teacher

2011-08-26T18:55:00.010-04:00

All Bikram yoga teachers have encountered this question at least once.

Why do you want to become a Bikram Certified Teacher?

When I filled out my application, I admit, I put some generic answer that I can't even remember anymore. Not because I didn't care, but because I didn't know my answer.

Yet.

But this week, I finally found the words.

Growing up, I was never the cool kid. I was never the one with all the toys and friends and trips to amusement parks. I was never the one adorned with the latest fashion craze, either. I was the girl who didn't fit into the first 2 schools she moved into, the girl who stopped fitting into small sized clothing and hated gym, the girl who collected insecurities like they were baseball cards.

And always, always, it felt like I was on the other side.   Who belonged anywhere else but there.

But I knew deep inside that I was also the kid who learned how to read before anyone else, preferred books and puzzles over toys, chose trips to the library over dates with boys . I was the kid who chose my ma's old dresses and my pa's polo shirts to clothe herself.   I was the girl who knew what to do with a car engine because her papa taught her well.

Now, no longer in my teens, being on this other side feels like home. My body still carries remnants of adolescent insecurities, not to break me down, but to hold my chin up when those mirrors are right in front of me.

Years after I started the yoga, I began to uncover what real power and wealth I had all along. Through understanding my body, I no longer saw the curves of my muscles as a curse, but rather, as a source of strength and beauty and pride. And when you finally truly, genuinely believe in yourself, you know can do anything. Like change the world, in time.

So when I am asked again why I want to become a yoga teacher, I will say it is because I know what it's like to be the other side. And those 'uncool' kids and overworked parents and curvy girls who refuse to fit into that narrow definition of beauty who find themselves in a heated yoga room surrounded by overpriced Lululemons, intimidating bodies of perfect postures, and glaring mirrors? They need to know that they belong in that room as much as anyone else.

And that their yoga teacher is one of them, too.

My own internalized classism

2011-08-17T11:33:00.010-04:00

I remember that day clearly. I had just finished school and my ma picked me up. She was waiting by the gates, outside the huge concrete playground where about a hundred tents were propped up as classrooms. I was in grade 2 and the massive earthquake had hit the Northern part of Luzon just a few months before. Our elementary school buildings were unsafe to be in, so all the students had been set up to continue their studies outside.

Looking back, I realize that we were in the middle of a natural disaster. As a child, the idea hasn't crossed my mind. To me, all it meant was that we lived in tents for 2 weeks and went to school in tents for the rest of the school year.

It also meant that my ma would pick me up more than usual - I was already allowed to go home by myself but perhaps it was the possibility of another disaster that prompted her to get me every other day.

Perhaps she was just being my ma.

Once we left the school compound, we walked downhill towards the market. It was then that I got to know how my ma bartered for produce, how she made connections with vendors, how she was kind enough to lend utang to the coconut lady, an old friend, who I thought wasn't kind enough to pay her debt back.

Sometimes, during those after-school market visits, she would get me a treat. An ice cream from Coney Island, streetfood on the walk home, or a trip to Jollibee or McDonald's. That day was burger day.

While the rest of the world fawned over corporate responsibility and ethics and unhealthy fast food choices, I was simply a little girl spending time with her mother on the second floor of that Baguio City's Session Road McDonald's where I discovered that this 90-lb woman's favourite thing to eat was a Big Mac.

Fast forward to 2011, I had not touched a Big Mac in 10 yrs. While my decision to stop eating McD's that was born mostly out of health, anti-globalization, and understanding of the role of fast food industries as corporations, I also had another reason I conveniently leave out of conversations.

After living in Canada for a long time, a family eating McDonald's was a stamp of social class we North Americans like to believe doesn't exist - that a family who eats fast food over home cooked meals was a family who was either poor, unintelligent, lazy, or just plain unhealthy. And yes, I admit, I had feelings of shame whenever my own family would gleefully gather around a box of fried chicken or piles of burgers. Hell for 10 years, I watched (and judged) instead of joined them.

But this year, for no special reasons other than curiosity and doing the run for my coworkers when I pick up my own lunches next door, I had my first Big Mac in over a decade.

Was it amazing and led me to burger heaven? Not really.

Does it taste the same as I remembered it? Eerily, yes.

Did it make me go to the washroom within the hour after eating it? Totally. (Sorry, TMI)

Did I uncover some lessons I needed to learn for myself? Yes.

As I ate my burger, it reminded my of those years I spent walking with her. Just like a student in the middle of a natural disaster who is excited to learn in tents instead of thinking about the crumbling buildings nearby, sometimes, it's not about health, globalization, or ethical high grounds. Sometimes, it's about a mother in her youth, spending time with a little daughter by her side.

When we talk about food bringing people together, we need to acknowledge that the memories attached to the food are what we look for, not necessarily the nutritional factor. And burgers, well, they count too.

I remembered my own judgments and internalized classism and how I desperately, in those 10 years, I wanted to be as far away from all things that would reveal that I belonged to the lower social class - that my family wasn't wealthy enough, intelligent enough, successful enough to know better. Something immigrant generations know far too well.

Oh how very wrong I have been. It only took me a decade to truly understand this.

So I made a promise to myself that the next time I am home and she asks me if I would like something to eat, I will say yes, regardless of where it came from. She's just being my ma afterall. A thoughtful mother is more than anyone could ask for. I should be so lucky.

Oh, and she still very much likes Big Macs. Something I inherited from her, I guess :)

Note:
This isn't a plug for the fast food chain, I promise. Eating their burgers wreak major havoc in my system, but once in awhile, I'll deal.

The summer I learned how to rise

2011-08-12T11:24:00.002-04:00

A few nights ago, surrounded by a dinner feast and the August heat, a friend described this summer as one of the best. My mind echoed part of the sentiment, thinking back to the whirlwind of the past few months. I exhaled with a sigh, masking the exhaustion that rung through my bones.

Yes, those weekends of careless abandon and bellies full of laughter were handed to us like raindrops from the sky. Those dinners had wine pouring along with dreams and stories and hopes and plans for the future.

But you see, this summer was also bitter as much as it was sweet. Underneath the smiles and jolly, my heart was bruised and breaking. Exhausted. I was gutted, beaten by disappointments and life's kicks on the back.

I watched as my childhood home was put up for sale for other future children to fill the rooms. Because, mama says, it is simply too big for them now. I visited old friends whose lives froze with time, unchanged, uninspired, the lines on their face as the only signs of years and dreams gone by. I watched my best friend sail and swim the stormy seas only to be shaken, swallowed then spat back out. And in my own ocean, tears melded in with the salty waters.

I discovered painful life lessons as I walked through the grocery aisle. I cleaned mama's kitchen with an ache for her dreams unfulfilled. I battled myself, buried in work, trying to catch up on breathing, angry that my passion was slipping through my fingers. I struggled, deeply struggled, with my practice on and off the yoga mat.

This summer, I crashed and burned and rose and tripped. My muscles sore from the journey, my soul pained even more.

But I am not completely spent. I expected what was coming. Although knowledge couldn't stop the bruises and scars from leaving their mark, I prepared early for the crushing waves so the sting could leave sooner rather than later. The nights of laughter, wine, food, and friends were much needed comfort. I found a pen in my hand again, and onto paper I threw my sorrows.

I look back with pride that my friend was suited, armoured and ready for battle because she also knew what was coming. I thought to myself, if she can cross the sea, then I must too.

And so I crashed and burned and fell and tripped but how else would I learn to rise?

37 days

2011-08-12T09:29:00.002-04:00

Not enough lines

2011-08-09T12:59:00.009-04:00

For the first time in months, maybe even years, I had completely turned off my laptop. Folded and tucked neatly away, its absence was palpable. Except for the rustling of my plants from the wind outside, everything was still and quiet. I sat in silence in my humble apartment, trying to take in those few minutes on that sunny weekend morning.

Since unplugging my computer, I have gone to bed earlier. I cleaned, dusted, vacuumed, and laundered. I sat down for breakfast of cheese pancakes, strawberry jam, and crossword puzzles. And I wrote.

With an actual pen and paper.

Before laptops and iPhones and text messages, I was a handwritten girl. I perfected every loop and curve on dotted lines, over and over again, each carefully checked by my elementary teachers. My t's were always crossed, i's dotted, and my L's were beautiful (only because my name starts with the letter L :p ). I even hand wrote my papers in university and college.

Don't get me wrong, I love technology as much as the next person, and I frankly would be beside myself if my iPhone was detached from my hand. But...there is just something about ink and paper and the stroke of the hand to create something magical or powerful or sad or profound. Just like yoga, I find writing to be peaceful and as natural as nature itself. A birthright, I would even say.

So on that sunny weekend morning, laptop folded and tucked neatly away, I searched for somewhere to write. I stood over my pile of books and looked for a beautiful notebook, given to me when I first moved out of my hometown. I had written on a couple of pages and it sat empty through the years gone by, unsure of what it should contain.

I will be leaving behind my laptop but will be bringing this notebook with me to teacher training. Now I know for certain, there will be so much to write and there may not be enough lines to hold all that I want to say.

Humility's price

2011-07-31T17:39:00.005-04:00

I returned to my mat today after a four day absence. I walked to class on an early Sunday morning, with a pep in my step, happy that I was finally back to my usual self. I even smiled at passerby's as my ponytail bounced up and down the street.

I saw the intructor's smiling happy face, albeit tired, and off to the room I went. The floor was hot and I got excited for the heat. I remembered the clouds outside and I got excited for the extra humidty. I saw a yogi friend set up beside me and I got excited for the company.

This was going to be a great class, I said to myself.

As soon as we get into half moon, my body decided that it preferred to be stiff. As in barely-budging-to-the-side kind of stiff. I guess it wasn't much of half a moon! By the balancing series, I was racing with my breath, trying to catch up to life before my lungs started screaming. I even had to take extra gulps of water, which I try not to do except during the water breaks. When we hit the floor, I was so glad for savasana I gave the gods my thanks and praise and a hallelujah, too.

I. was. dying.

Death had knocked on the door and threatened to stay for dinner. In negotiation, I let him have 2 sets of locust and 1 set of bow.

So yes, I struggled to catch my breath in the standing series, sat out one and a half of the postures, sweated more than usual. But humility had a high price and I had to pay my due.

In the end, it was more than a great class. It was the class I needed.

Let me get lost

2011-07-27T02:19:00.014-04:00

It's a cool July eve, days after the heatpocalypse, and Adele is playing softly in the background. Her words, so simple and profound are floating around in the air like the light scent of summer. I sit in my home, reminded about yoga and how far I've come.

Not long ago, I would walk my heavy feet to the studio, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I would force myself to make it to class, an even heavier feeling when I thought about those 90 minutes that lay ahead after a long day at work. I know now that my heart was not completely in it yet, still untrusting, cautious.

I was not ready to leap.

But here I am now, less than 2 months away from training, and I couldn't be further from where I started. This yoga, this amazing yoga that found me at one of my lowest points, has carried me through. Showed me so many shades of myself. Let me get lost in all that I am - on and off the mat. Now, when I miss a day, I am gutted, sometimes to the point of despair.

I had found a passion I never expected, strength I never knew I had. And perhaps, I thought to myself, that is why my practice today tastes that much sweeter, means so much more. I slowly climbed my way, where often I fell and slipped and tripped. Now, when I do find myself heading to the bottom, the yoga somehow softens the blow, helping me prepare for the unexpected with grace, humility, and calm.

As my playlist hummed through the night, these words lingered in my head:

Nothing compares, no worries or cares.
Regret's and mistakes they're memories made.

This yoga, it is definitely something else and I'm all in, trusting, leaping, getting lost in myself even deeper. Because nothing absolutely compares. And the only mistake is not to get on my mat.

'Embracing the Otherness, Embracing Myself'

2011-07-23T10:54:00.003-04:00

I was watching this video of Thandie Newton from TED the other day and I just had to share:

Embracing the Otherness, Embracing Myself

'My skin colour wasn't right. My hair wasn't right, my history wasn't right. My self became defined by otherness, which meant that in that social world, I didn't really exist. I was other before being anything else. Even before being a girl. I was noticeable nobody....

The self's struggle for authenticity and definition will never end unless it's connected to its creator - to you and to me. And that can happen with awareness. Awareness of the reality of oneness and the projection of self-hood.

For a start we can think about all the times when do we lose ourselves. It happens when I dance, when I'm acting. I'm earthed in my essence, and my self is suspended. In those moments, I'm connected to everything.

The ground, the air, the sounds, the energy from the audience, all my senses are alert and alive. in much the same way as an infant might feel, that feeling of oneness....

I honestly believe the key to my success as an actor, and my progress as a person has been the very lack of self that used to make me feel so anxious and so insecure. I always wondered why I could feel others' pain so deeply, why I could recognize the somebody in the nobody. It's because I didn't have a self to get in the way. I thought I lacked substance and the fact that I could feel others meant that I had nothing of myself to feel.

The thing that was a source of shame, was actually a source of enlightenment. And when I realized and really understood that my self is a projection and that it has a function, a funny thing happened. I stopped giving it so much authority. I give it its due, I take it to therapy. I've become very familiar of its dysfunctional behaviour but I'm not ashamed of my self. In fact, I respect my self and its function. And over time and with practice, I try to live more and more for my essence. And if you can do that, incredible things can happen.

I was in Congo in February, dancing and celebrating with women who survived the destruction of their selves in literally unthinkable ways, destroyed because other brutalized, psychopathic selves all over that beautiful land are fueling our selves addiction to iPods, pads, and bling, which further disconnect ourselves from ever feeling their pain, their suffering, their death. Because hey, if we are all living in ourselves and mistaking it for life, then we are devaluing and desensitizing life. And in that disconnected states, yeah, we can build factory farms with no windows, destroy marine life, and use rape as a weapon of war.

So here's a note to self, the cracks have started to show in our constructed world. And oceans will continue to surge through the cracks. And oil and blood. Rivers of it. Crucially we haven't been figuring out how to live in oneness. with the earth and every other living thing. We've just been insanely trying to figure out how to live with each other billions of each other. Only we're not living with each other. our crazy selves are living with each other and perpetuating an epidemic of disconnection.

Let's live with each other, and take it a breath at a time. If we can get under that heavy self, like light a torch of awareness, and find our essence, our connection to the infinite and every other living thing. We knew it from the day we were born. Let's not be freaked out by our bountiful nothingness. It's more a reality than the ones our selves have created.

Imagine what kind of existence we can have if we honour inevitable death of self, appreciate the privilege of life and marvel at what comes next. Simple awareness is where it begins.'

Lessons from the kitchen floor: How life is supposed to be

2011-07-18T15:29:00.009-04:00

I consider myself an organized person. I pack early, I have routines, I make lists, I clean and do laundry with glee. I even wash my floors with a toothbrush. Lately though, that status has been on thin ice since there is just so much to do. Work, yoga, life. I feel like an impostor, pretending to have her shit together.

I find cleaning very therapeutic and relaxing but there are days when it just doesn't feel like things are organized enough. I begin to chase this elusive idea of perfection - a true, organized shang-ri la, with lots of storage options. Then I realize how far away I am from this paradise and I become dissatisfied. I stress myself out at how much I need to do, then I'm embarrassed that I've even refer myself a neat freak. I go into depths of despair and begin baking copious amounts of chocolate for relief and just so I can justify my messy kitchen. Because you know, baking requires equipment and flour on the floor for it to be remotely tasty.

Then, of course, my sugar high sends me crashing down some rocky cliffs and I ultimately have to turn the dirty kitchen towel in and accept reality. I cry, sleep, or watch an episode of Hoarders to make myself feel better (seriously, anyone should feel cleaner after watching that show).

After some rocking back and forth in the corner, I pick myself up and clean again. Sometimes, I don't pick myself up until a week later. But I always come back guns blazing, or should I say, brooms blazing and I feel somewhat at peace again. What I've come to learn and accept is that, I may never feel completely satisfied that I've done enough.

And that maybe, it's the process itself that keeps me coming back for more.

Just like the sea. She comes crashing into the shore, pulled back by the ocean with her every effort. Yet, she never ceases to shape the earth, bring the wind with her, and wash away yesterday from the sand. I guess that's just how nature wants it to be.

In yoga, oh sweet, beautiful yoga! You fall out of the posture then you get right back in. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it's uncomfortable, but you always come back to your mat. Everyday, we try harder, push ourselves, and aim higher because we believe that eventually, in the future, we'll be able to touch the ceiling. Regardless what the laws of physics say.

We try and try, fall back down, watch bad reality television, fill ourselves with sugar til we get sick, then we get back up and try again. And perhaps, the perfection we seek actually lies in the process.

And maybe that's just how life is supposed to be.

Lessons from the grocery store aisle: A Thousand Papayas

2011-07-10T14:44:00.008-04:00

Since making the decision to go to Teacher Training in the fall, I've had to face some real, hard truths about the financial toll it was going to take. I mean, I knew what I was getting into. I read enough about it long before I signed those papers a few months ago.

I knew that my summer was going to a hard one. Hell, I knew my year was going to be a rough one. No extravagant spending, no trips except to visit home, and definitely no retail therapy. I had a goal I was determined to make happen.

Now, I've been on on my own for a very long time, and the concept of budgeting and stretching your money is not new - as any university kid (or former) living away from home could tell you. What I didn't expect was how I would feel as I decide between a bag of rice or that sweet-looking papaya - which would nourish me more until the next paycheque? As I stood there quickly debating with myself, memories of growing up came flooding in.

And I can tell you, it hurt. Not in that way that tugs at your heart when you see a puppy or a cute shoe you absolutely must have but they don't have in your size. It was a flashback to watching mi mama sitting in the kitchen, pouring over envelopes filled with bills, late at night when she thought everyone would be asleep. Back then I knew as much as my young mind can hold. It pained me then to think of the choices my parents had to make between bags of rice or a sweet-looking papaya that reminded them of their home. Somehow, despite making minimum wage, being underemployed, and alone in a new country, there was always, always, food on the table.

While my choice between rice and papaya didn't have as much weight as it would to my parents 15 years ago, I never felt more understanding of their plight than I did at that moment. Or more humbled.

I stood there, taken back in time, and was reminded why I have such a strong connection with food, with history, with family recipes, with culture. Food is more than a meal to get you through the day. Food isn't about pretty pictures or a perfect recipe. To me, it will always be a reminder of where I've been and where I want to be. A reminder of the lessons my parents have given me that money simply cannot buy.

I may not be able to see the world this year, have that glamourous shoe, or buy a sweet-looking fruit anytime I want, but I'm ok with that because frankly, I have bigger fishes to fry. Besides, really thinking about limits can make one very creative in the kitchen. Who wouldn't want that? Also a good way to prepare myself for living in a hotel room for 2 months in Teacher Training, too. A win-win situation, methinks!

And despite all this, I am having one of the best summers I've ever had. I learned to appreciate what I have: good friends, good food, a comfortable home, and of course, lots of yoga. These things are worth more than a thousand papayas and sparkly shoes, I'd say.

Summer's bounty: Mango-Peach Ketchup and Pineapple Hot Sauce

2011-07-09T23:58:00.000-04:00

Because it is a sin to not enjoy what summer has to offer, here is a homemade chunky ketchup with a Filipino spin using mangoes. Peaches are so, so abundant this time of the year, and what's more perfect than these two together?

Also, some pineapple hot-hot-hot sauce that'll make you think Bikram yoga is no longer hot enough. Note: never cut chilies before a class. Trust me on this.

Recipe soon when I grow tired of the glorious sunshine. Ok, that'll never happen, but I'll be back anyways :)

Happy summer eating!

The company I keep

2011-07-08T16:18:00.001-04:00

Lately I've been thinking about friendships and relationships, I thought about the company I choose to keep. When I was younger, I was told that one is measured by the number of friends they keep. To be popular, to be wanted, to be cool - you needed to be desirable. Thank goodness aging fixes this myth!

As we get older, there are people we meet along the way and there are ones that disappear behind the dust. And from them, I choose to hold on to only a few in my small pocket.

In life
They are the ones who stay with me for those long, grueling trips, the ones who encourage me to take the road less travelled, the ones who will walk back with me when I take the wrong turn. Things are funnier when they're around, the world is lighter, brighter. And of course, they're ones who would keep an eye out when I need to pee in the bushes. Travelling long distances fills up the bladder, ok?

In the hot room
We put our mats down next to those who inspire us, strengthen us, believe in us, and those who humble us. We take their classes and learn from their experience. They're the ones who will laugh with us when we fall, and those who will convince us to stay in the room when yoga death seems far too close for comfort. They're the ones who want to sail around the world on a Bikram ship and save us the best seat in the house. And of course, they won't mind one bit that you've gotten your sweat on them.

In rough times
When we seem to make bad decisions and choices, in the end we still get to move on, get up, and try again. And those people, well they make getting up just that much easier. If you lose your baby toe nail, they'll be the ones who will laugh but will be the first ones to buy you a box of bandages and a bottle of wine. They'll judge us, but they'll be honest about their opinions. That's a whole lot better than pretending not to judge, right?

In the end
When you have these people around you, there are no wrong turns, really. No bad classes, no wasted time. Just opportunities to learn something new, feel something different, taste something foreign. To cry, fall, to ultimately try again, stronger and all the wiser. It's just that much easier to pee in the bushes with someone keeping an eye out.

Oh and one last thing, they'll always feed you when you're hungry. That's arguably the best part of it all!!

Namaste, peeps. Namaste.

Kulinarya Cooking Club: Decadence Pt. 2 - Dinuguan and Papags

2011-07-03T04:05:00.008-04:00

December 8 was a special day for many reasons. It was the barrio's fiesta, but it was also a yearly reunion of our family from all over, cooking and celebrating together. My ma, aunties, cousins, and other lolas who've travelled from other towns are all gathered in the back of Lola Aleng's house, sitting on top of her papags in her outdoor kusina.

Lola Aleng's outdoor kusina/kitchen - my parents' wedding

Papags are tables or benches made of bamboo, traditionally gathered from the backyard (see above pic, bottom left corner). They are lower in height to a regular dining table and have a variety of uses. For our family, we used them for many things. Food, laundry, sleeping, the occasional gambling ring. They also vary in size - from benches to full on beds. The papags in the bedrooms are covered with banig (woven straw mat) or a little bit of foam if we can afford it. That was our bed in the probinsiya.

There are papags set outside, usually the site for lunches under the trees, laundry workbenches on the weekends. Because they are made of bamboo with spaces in between each stick, cleaning the papag only required a hosedown of water, soap if needed. After a few minutes in the scalding afternoon sun (the time it takes to wash the dishes), it is dry and clean, ready for a game of bingo. Usually, on a quiet afternoon after lunch, my lola and aunties would lay out a pillow on an outside papag and nap underneath the breezy tamarind and bamboo trees, sometimes gossiping, tsismis, about other people's business. Now that is what I would call multi-purpose!

A few days before the fiesta, lola's kusina buzzed with culinary activity. The papags would be filled with cutting boards, knives, bowls, and every other kitchen utensil in the house. All the prep work for the handaan is being done by the women in the family, each taking a task or two. They would all sit on or around the papags, chopping, peeling, grating. I was too young for anything more than peeling garlic, which I would then dikdik in a gigantic mortar and pestle. My task was to prepare all the garlic that was to be used for the entire celebration which...was a lot!!

Lola would visit her pet pigs often, one of whom would be butchered in the next few days for the fiesta, the other for Christmas. We usually don't cook lechon, as the pig is used for more than a dozen dishes. Every part of the pig will be used, of course, including the fresh blood and its intestines for dinuguan or tidtad in Kapampangan.

I've never made dinuguan before because my ma makes it so darn yummy. Why mess with a good thing, right? Well, now I'm far away and I just don't trust anyone else to make this dish - a dinuguan drought! Too long of a drought, so I gathered the guts (pun intended!) to cook it myself after she talked me through the steps.

I didn't measure anything in the ingredient list except for the blood. Mainly because the container had the measurements on it. See, I do try sometimes. Try to read labels, that is. The ingredient list is more of an approximation, so please feel free to experiment. See the Kulinarya post back in April (Part 1) here.

Dinuguan, Tidtad (Blood Stew)

1 lb pork belly, chopped in 1/2-inch cubes
1 medium onion, finely minced
4 garlic cloves, finely minced
1 cup fresh pig's blood
vinegar (1/2 cup to mix with the blood, plus about 1-2 cups for softening the meat)
handful of green chilies
1 bay leaf
salt
ground black pepper

Optional additional meats, chopped into 1/2 inch pieces:
beef tripe
pig's ears
pig's intestines

NOTE: If using tripe and/or pig's ears, you must clean, boil and prepare it separately ahead of time, as it takes awhile for it to soften. If using intestines, you must clean it ahead of time or purchase pre-cleaned ones (my ma gets hers from an Asian grocer). I was way too lazy to do all that cleaning.

1) Prepare the meat. Cut the pork belly in 1/2 inch cubes.
2) Boil the meat with vinegar and freshly ground pepper until tender (about 30 mins). If using tripe/intestines, include them in this boil.
3) Once tender, drain the meat.
4) Saute minced onions until translucent, then add garlic and a pinch of salt.
5) Add the drained, vinegar-softened meat into the pan.
6) Mix the pig's blood with vinegar. Add to the pan, making sure there are no clumps.
7) Mix the entire pot once or twice. Add a bay leaf and green chilies then let it boil for 5-10 minutes.

Do not over stir the pot, as per mama's orders. It should turn dark brown/black almost immediately. If the stew is too red, add a little bit more vinegar and simmer for a few more minutes.

Serve hot with a steaming plate of rice or with fresh putong puti (recipe when I finally get it right), sitting on your papag, if you have one :)

***

I prepared

2011-06-20T08:34:00.008-04:00

I'm a pretty private and shy person. The thought of people asking about my life is a bit overwhelming so I try to avoid those situations. Sure, I write on this very not-so-private blog, but I choose what I put on here. I've always been very particular at who and how I share my personal life with and the more recent years, I was even more protective of myself.

When I first came out of the teacher training closet, I was so nervous when anyone would ask me about it. I would look at them doe-eyed, as if they had just asked me for one of my kidneys. I wasn't surprised when I was shaky telling the studio director. I expected to sweat buckets when I told my boss about taking a leave of absence. But what I didn't put into account was how it would be with the rest of the world. Well, my circle of peeps anyways. I had forgotten that people might just be curious, too.

One day after class, someone asked me if I was going to teacher training. My answer? Someday. I didn't say much about it and would use code words to talk to fellow future trainees about our plans, etc.

Something didn't feel quite right.

Then the other day, one of my instructors said something to me while I was in the middle of Standing Head to Knee.

'Don't be so insecure.'

I froze.

Suddenly there was tightness in my throat and I found myself fighting back the tears. I was surprised at my reaction. Why did his words have that impact? Wasn't this something I've heard before and brushed off? It's not like his words were new or foreign. Another teacher have commented on it before too.

But he was right. I just wasn't expecting for the truth to come out while I trying to balance on one leg.

Since then, I've been thinking a whole lot about my honest feelings about teacher training, my practice, my work, who I am as a person.

Why was I so nervous and shy about teacher training? Why did I sound like a scared mouse when asked to recite dialogue on the spot? Why was I so hesitant to openly tell anyone who asks that I am going to teacher training? Was I really so terribly insecure?

These questions were in my head, buzzing about like bees. I had to take a few days off from the practice because of a heavy workload, so I took that time to really think about all this.

A few answers came up. They've been in the back of my mind for awhile, but never really giving them much of a thought. I was afraid. I was afraid that my body wouldn't be good enough for training so I was being hard on myself and practicing as much as I can. I figured that if I can do postures well, with perfect dialogue, then surely I earned the right to go to teacher training.

I was afraid that I wasn't good enough so I prepared and prepared and prepared - as if being prepared would make up for whatever else I was missing.

The truth is, there was nothing missing. Nothing except confidence in myself.

He was right. My other teacher was right. I had been blowing smoke in my own mirrors so that I didn't have to look what was really happening.

Now, it's all out in the open. I've been found out and I had no choice but to come clean to myself, while trying to balance on one leg. I had to be honest.

'The mirror is there for corrections, not judgments'

So since that night, I have become more open about teacher training - excitement and fears and all. I finally felt unstuck studying dialogue - I couldn't move past one posture for months (I wonder why!). I let go of the grip on my own expectations in my practice. I told anyone who asked if I was going that yes, I am going to teacher training in Fall. I got great advice from new teachers whose training experience is still raw and the excitement still bubbled within them. I spent a fun weekend talking about yoga, practicing dialogue drunk, and generally having fun with people who loved the yoga as much as I do. No one was asking for my kidneys. And I didn't have to tell them I had two, either.

I can still be private but I don't have to be afraid. Best of all, I learned to forgive myself and let go of any expectations inside and outside the hot room. I'm still prepared, but this time it includes preparing to fall then get right back up and to have fun while doing it. Damn it, that dialogue was right. I can't always balance on one leg but now, I can always laugh and look at my smiling happy face in the mirror when I fall.

And what do you know, it makes a world of a difference!

Namaste, peeps. Namaste.

Looking at fear in the face

2011-06-14T12:59:00.000-04:00

“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience by which you really stop to look fear in the face...You must do the thing you think you cannot do.“ - Eleanor Roosevelt

Summer bloggin'

2011-06-08T10:39:00.004-04:00

Sun. Heat. Lazy holidays.

I wish my summer is all about that, but life needs a lot of attention before I head off to a new adventure. I've committed to an almost daily practice and more time at work - working til my eyeballs throw their hands up and say they've had enough! So for now, this piggy's shop is closing up for the season. I'll be sure to drop by once in awhile to dust the place, water the plants, wave to passerbys, and catch up with my blog neighbours.

Hope your summers are all off to a great start!

Don't forget to hydrate, it's hot out there :p

Namaste, peeps. Namaste.

Glad to have lost

2011-05-30T14:52:00.003-04:00

Jaw clenched, shoulders tight, back refusing to bend like it did yesterday. Balance nowhere to be found and I fought with myself every step of the way, every posture. I negotiated, bartered, sold my soul, finding any excuse to sit out a posture.

Still, the yoga wins. I have no choice but to get up and move my heavy limbs.

But as always, during that final savasana, I am grateful. That the class is over, that I could rest. Most importantly, grateful that the yoga didn't take my offer of mediocrity.

These are the days when I am glad to have lost.

What's in your freezer?

2011-05-25T08:35:00.015-04:00

Like many of you out there, my freezer is full. Not falling-frozen-debris-as-you-open-the-door full, but close enough. Upon the spring cleaning extravaganza I did during the past month, I have discovered that my freezer, just like my closet, needed a good purge.

At first, the thought of cleaning out my freezer seemed daunting because of two reasons.

One, I'm an immigrant daughter. My mother has two freezers filled to the brim with everything short of an entire barn. She, like many who came to a new country with very little, had worked hard to make sure her family would never go hungry if anything were to ever happen. Every morsel of food was saved. I was scared I may have inherited her charming but frightening ability to hoard enough food to feed an entire school. For a year.

Two, I did inherit her charming but frightening ability to hoard food to feed an entire school. But worse. That entire school exists in my stomach. And there's only one student.

Despite the huge task that was in front of me, I decided it was time to change the course of history. There was a lot of things to go through but I would not allow myself to be a food hoarder any longer.

It was perfect timing because my friend Jezebel has been eating through her freezer to prepare for an impending cross-country move. So together, we've made this process an adventure.

Over the weekend, I had barbecued marinated chicken, defrosted some coconut and cassava for a Filipino dessert, and finally gave a friend some homemade longganisa I've been promising her for awhile. Jezebel had a hot pot seafood feast, baked some blueberry sticky buns, and oven-roasted chicken wings - all served at a dinner party. Who would've thought?

Taking on my freezer has been the last of the chores I've put off for a long time. But now that I've taken it on, I feel great. I have finally extended my minimalist attitude to the freezer and I am no longer afraid of that indistinguishable frozen bag (it was lentil soup, btw).

Perhaps I'm not-so-secretly afraid of becoming a hoarder in general. Or perhaps I just need an excuse to eat (not that you really need an excuse). Either way, it's allowed for some fun the last couple of days rediscovering what meals I may take to work. Again.

One huge lesson I learned from all this: I will only freeze things that would still excite me the second time around. Freezer-burnt leftover chocolate cake? Not so delicious even after a killer Bikram class.

I'm curious, peeps, what's in your freezer?

Kain na, peeps. Kain na.

Dusting the crumbs off

2011-05-20T12:39:00.004-04:00

I struggled to begin this post the other morning. I wrote and deleted words over and over again. Drafts stacked up, piled high atop thoughts from the week. I pondered on what to write as I mindlessly collect the empty cupcake papers in front of me. Have I really eaten that many? I don't even remember the first one.

A lot has been on my mind since I heard the news earlier this week. Although it was good news, a sense of loss blanketed the post-yoga dinner amongst friends. I ate to fill my yoga stoned belly, mostly to fill in the heavy silence.

But I wasn't just thinking about yoga. As I digested the news with my food, I remembered the many changes in my own life that have passed by and the many more that have yet to come. The past year has been filled with an almost daily practice, something that has helped me gain clarity to so many things I didn't know even needed clarity.

I let myself grieve a little for the things soon to be let go. Almost immediately, the lightest feeling of freedom I haven't had in a very long time washed over me. So I put away the cupcake papers, dusted the crumbs off of me, and faced the week as best as I could. There's news to celebrate and I have giant chocolates to look for.

They say that going to training changes you. I just didn't expect it to happen before I got on that plane.

Namaste, peeps. Namaste.

I thought I knew so many things

2011-05-16T12:29:00.004-04:00

If someone had told my 24-year-old self that one day, I will find myself preparing for teacher training, that 24-year-old me from years ago would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea.

Having spent a few months in foreign country fresh out of university and traveling in parts of the world unknown, my suitcase was full of ideas to change the world, a long list of do-gooder deeds, and faith in humanity only 24-year-olds fresh from university could ever really have. Yoga, definitely was not even on my radar.

I thought I knew so many things.

Fast forward a year later, and I found myself wearing way too much clothing, hair disheveled despite my careful ponytail, face red as can be. I was in my first Bikram yoga class. I don't remember much except that it was hot and that I had forgotten my mat which I had set up by the front door so I wouldn't...forget. I do remember feeling like a million dollars as I walked home that night. I bought a yearly pass a few months later and I showed up 3x a week in class. I did just enough, the bare minimum to get by, never pushing myself, always afraid. Still, I was so proud of myself, not realizing I was picking up bad habits as I treaded along.

Oh, how I thought I knew so many things.

Then life got in the way. My pass expired, I was about to graduate from my counselling program in college, I was juggling two jobs and a relationship was rapidly deteriorating. To cope, I threw myself into work. I thought, if I was amazing at my job, surely other parts of my life will follow. Not so much.

After a long break, I went back to yoga. It was not how I remembered it. It was hard, brutal, painful. I didn't recognize the person I saw in the mirror. But as much as it pained to see myself in that state, I kept with it. Slowly I came back, each day working harder than the next. I started reading about yoga, talking about yoga, trying other yoga. I dedicated myself to a daily practice. I even took a yoga class on New Year's Day. From there, it got even harder, more brutal, more painful, but I never took the time to understand why. I simply brushed them aside and carried on.

I thought I knew so many things.

The past year and a half, I found myself craving the yoga more than ever before. I finally let go of the other physical activities I was involved in, including capoiera which I enjoyed very much, so I can do more Bikram. My circle of friends have slowly become a circle of yogis. Our conversations, the dinners, all we talked about was our love for this yoga. I watched a couple of students from our studio transform into amazing teachers and I became inspired. I began writing (again) and through that, I found more people who loved yoga and food as much as I do.

I showed up everyday not because I was on a 30-day challenge or wanted to be stronger or better but because I needed it. I showed up even when I knew I didn't have much to give. I worked harder, physically. I finally started to work on my bad habits. I got over my fear and joined the advanced classes. I slowly worked on wearing less clothing and begin to understand my body more.

There were days where the only thing that made sense was the yoga. It became the only stability in times of confusion, stress, anger, disappointments, change. It was in that hot room where I turned to when I was lost, even to myself. When I finally found the guts to consider teacher training, I started to question even more things about myself and my surroundings. Thoughts I never even entertained before were now right in front of me. Ideas about who I thought I was and who I want to be have begun to shift, blurred and unfamiliar. It seems my decision have heightened these thoughts to a degree I never expected.

That's how I knew it was the right decision for me.

To my younger 24-year-old self, there are still many things we do not know. Sometimes knowing what's right for us is all we need and the rest will fall into place. And don't you worry, the world is always changing. It need not rest on your shoulders alone.

.

Baby steps

2011-05-11T00:06:00.003-04:00

They say the first step in fixing a problem is admitting that there is a problem.

I, the piggy yogi, have a slight aversion to furniture.

Ok, not so much the actual objects themselves but what they represent. Ok, slight might be an understatement. Ok, when I say furniture, I mean anything that requires commitment.

I can sit here and write out the analysis of why and how I have come to fear such things, but how many books and movies out there already do that? I, for one, am not interested in boring myself to death. Instead, I invite you to join me in recapping some of the thoughts that go through my head as I wrestle with my 'problem'.

What if there was a fire and my place is too cluttered for me to grab the important things? My emergency kit simply cannot fit any more items. It's hard enough running down the stairs with a passport, a pair of yoga shorts, and a cast iron Dutch oven that weighs more than a small pet. I wouldn't know where I'd find the strength.

What if I needed to move but I've accumulated way too much to do it by myself? This addictive personality of mine has way too many genetic predispositions to attachments. The odds are against me. I'm just leveling the playing field here.

What if I die in a tragic accident and my friends have to carry the burden of sifting through my cluttered stuff? They really don't need to see those shopping spree extravaganzas from my university years. Or those shiny leggings.

What if a neighbour gets bed bugs (since they're becoming an epidemic) and spreads it into the entire building? I would take way too much pleasure in burning theirs and my belongings. Or steam-treating them til I was satisfied. Them as in the people. Uh, did I just say that out loud?

Ok, so here's another piece of the puzzle. I have a real and massive fear of bugs. It doesn't help that my skin is allergic to most insect bites. I keep my place very space-y, airy, clear. It is also white with lots of sunlight so I can see everything, including the small grain of rice that falls on the floor.

You see, my reasons aren't that unreasonable. And combine fear of bugs with fear of....being attached to large things, it's a recipe for a quirky (and often misunderstood) lifestyle. What's a girl to do?

BUT in the spirit of growth and progress, I am facing my fears and taking baby steps. As a start, I've revealed my secret and named the problem. (Of course this revelation has indirectly led me to a huge book donation to the building lobby library before the end of this post. In the face of difficulty, people get the sweats, I downsize.)

I even went shopping this weekend. Ok, window shopping, but I touched things! Baby steps.

Next up, withdrawal. This is going to be fun. Not really.

Just around the corner

2011-05-10T09:03:00.010-04:00

So I did it.

I took that huge step, the last big 'thing' I needed to do. Weight on my shoulders significantly lighter, even the light from the windows have gone brighter.

Suddenly, ideas have entered my mind once again, old and new. Places to see, people to meet, things to do, foods to eat. The Bikram dialogue says 'where the eyes go, the body will follow'. I guess for a little while there, I've been so consumed at what is in front of me that I've forgotten to look ahead.

Slowly, and carefully, like the steps up the Mayan ruins, I head towards the biggest dot on my map at the moment. Each day gets me closer but I'm not in any rush - time is not something you can fast forward. So while time readies for me, I entertain dreams of the past back into my life - which, coincidentally have returned oh so easily. It's amazing how opening yourself to one possibility can introduce you to more opportunities or re-ignite what got buried underneath all the rubble of years gone by.

As a little girl, I've always wanted to see the world in its entirety. Of course that's a huge feat for a roaming piglet like me, but this week was my restart. And soon, I will hike my way up the Inca Trail. I shall one day swim in the seas of my country and climb the volcanoes of the Pacific. I will dance with a man who plays the Spanish guitar and listen to the sounds of elephants. My feet will walk on pebble stones and let the desert sand sift between their toes. I might even play with ducks along the canal with Jezebel.

It might be awhile, but that doesn't matter. Those dreams are back and I am more than happy to hang onto them until they come true.

It surely pays to take a leap. And all I had to do was make a small step up the ruins of the present.

Where the eyes go, the body will follow. Fall Bktt, I'm just around the corner.

:)

Ducks in a row

2011-05-09T11:00:00.011-04:00

I rolled out of bed begrudgingly, the dread of Mondays wrapping me up like a wet blanket. I made the effort to look out the window and I saw that summer might finally be here. I stared out the window, desperately trying to grasp at anything to lift my spirits up.

It wasn't as if I was down on the dumps, really. On the contrary, I had a decent weekend with myself - doing a bit of yoga, cleaning my place until it sparkled (yes, I enjoy cleaning), catching up on shows, eating good food.

Still, despite being well fed in stomach and spirit, my body felt like lead. Every effort to move it costs me way too many minutes in the morning. In the past month, I have gone from a 15-minutes-to-get-ready girl to a-whole-lot-longer-than-that girl. When I'm finally out of the house, I drag my feet on the ground as if the world is chained to my ankles. My eyes feel tight and raw despite enough hours of slumber and lots of Bikram yoga.

Then, this morning, I saw a tweet from a fellow yogi, J (who has a lovely travel blog over here). In capital letters, she says 'CHASE YOUR DREAMS'.

Her three words made me stop and think. There's something I need to do, and I need to do it soon. Something that I know will play a huge part on how the rest of my year, and life, is shaped.

As I write this piece, I am speaking to my friend Jezebel and there too, I am reminded of the changes she has had to face this year, and an even bigger one coming up.   Despite the huge challenges thrown at her, she's all ready, with her ducks in a row.

And me? I'm sitting here, cowering in too many hesitations, waiting for the right moment.  I've been sitting on my hands, mostly because of fear. Of the unknown, of failure, of possibilities, of change. Fear of myself in a whole new light. What if I get lost? What if things don't turn out? What if I fall?

So I remind myself, I fall all the time. In standing head to knee. In standing bow. Hell, in standing savasana I fall. I fall trying to get up. I even fell on the streetcar a few weeks back, which didn't even hurt my ego so much as it confirmed my flexibility brought on by yoga (ok, I was a tad embarassed).

And getting lost? Well, that's what Plan B and C are for. But I can't get to B and C if I don't reach A first.

So this piggy has decided. The right moment is the present.   I will no longer retreat back in the shadows cuz my ducks are ready to play in the pond!

Mondays will never be the same again.

:)

Six hours

2011-05-06T09:59:00.012-04:00

My sweat is soaking my shirt as I continuously sipped the stale water, wishing it would wash away the uncomfortability of our conversation. I mindlessly trace my prints on the glass and listened cautiously.

I felt my thirst all throughout the evening despite having drank an ocean, my sweat making the air cold and wet on my skin, the fireplace providing a warm and familiar comfort. But no matter how much I drank, nothing washed away. I knew the water would soon run out, and I would be parched. Or rather, exposed.

Her words, she was holding them in front of me, wheeling the chair around so I can face myself like a hairdresser would after an hour at the salon.

Only this time I wasn't pretty. I didn't have a new haircut or a fresh style that made my head feel light and free. It was raw and exhausting. Awkward, frustrating, hard. Ugly.

The walk home with my good friend was heavy and tired, soggy and cold. And for that night, I did not want to write about the evening in a hopeful, peace-be-with-you yoga inspirational kinda way or paint a pretty picture of lessons learned, of growth, of self-awareness. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and close my eyes.

Finally, I just let it be. No make-overs or a nice hairdo. Just a pile of hair on the cutting room floor, a gloomy post, and six hours of truth.

That was my yoga for the day.

Never familiar

2011-05-05T23:59:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, going with what 'feels' right is going with what feels comfortable, familiar. Growth is not always comfortable and never familiar.

A night of mirrors faced today outside the yoga room. Namaste, peeps. Namaste.

Belly button treasure hunting

2011-05-03T16:44:00.003-04:00

After a long, exhausting weekend, I was longing to be in the hot room. I set up my mat calmly, skipped the random stretches I sometimes do and just sat down. That's when it happened. I looked into the mirror, right into my own eyes and I became fascinated. It had a wonderment about it that reminded me of my first Bikram class 3 yrs ago. That and I was very fixated about one of my eyes (I won't say which one, tho).

What? Aren't we supposed to do that all the time?

Yeah, supposed is a the word. So you see, despite the dialogue and our teachers telling us over and over to look into our own eyes, many of us don't really listen. Makes me think about what else I haven't paid attention to. Ha! Sounds like life outside the hot box.

I mean, I always thought I looked in the mirror, but yesterday made me re-think that. What the heck was I staring at all these years? Oh right, my belly button. And sometimes my ankles. And muffin tops.

I must say, staring straight into your own eyes changes your practice (duh, L). I had a completely different focus and held standing head to knee and standing bow longer than I've done before (woot!). I kicked so hard that my arms felt like jello. Wait, what the heck was I doing before in those postures?!

If you lose the balance, you're NOT kicking hard enough.

Oh...! I guess I wasn't kicking hard enough! Dialogue, how right art thou?

After class, I was talking to one of the instructors, questioning myself if I was just coasting through class before. She said that perhaps in those past classes, just doing the postures was the challenge. Now, I am growing and have to build a different level of endurance, she added. I totally can deal with that. Yoga teachers rock. One day, I want to be just like them, cuz who wants to be a coaster? Not I, not I!

So from this day forward, no more belly button treasure hunting and coasting the standing bow shoreline for this piggy. If I die by triangle, at least I know it's because I was too busy staring at myself in the mirror. Just kidding.

Namaste, peeps. Namaste!

What I don't want to be when I grow up

2011-05-03T12:54:00.005-04:00

During dinner last night with a good friend and great yoga instructor, she said something along these lines: 'You can't be around people who don't want to grow.' As those words rung in my head, I stared off at a distant wall - mind running a mile a minute. She was right, of course and then I remembered that not too long ago, I had written this post.

'This growth, it is dirty, painful, hazy. When we step out onto the streets the morning after, everything is laid out in the open. Old memories, scattered dreams, secrets unvaulted. But eventually and slowly, we pick up the pieces even as we step on nails and shards of glass and rubble becomes those that could not withstand.'

How timely and comforting our own words can be, if we let them.

It's been a frustrating time for me the past few months, and finally, this weekend, it was over. The process that was tedious, annoying, irritating, and just plain weird. But as much as hatred has settled and brewed inside of me, I shall instead choose to be honest with myself and extract the lessons hidden beneath the rubble. The good will eventually come when we are willing to do the work. Use this energy and lessons learned to our benefit.

When people choose not to grow and face what's in front of them, they'll end up looking like a frazzled woman in her mid-30s with a big pile of mommy issues, a boyfriend who's afraid to eat a cupcake without her permission (fact. no joke.), no friends to help her move (i counted, absolutely zero), and control/anger issues causing her to pack on the last day (why torture yourself like that?).

I guess she didn't realize that would only make her life more difficult, not of others - something we all learned from Sesame Street or college, ya?

I'd rather weather the storm and look in the mirror than let all my baggage consume me and my relationships.

'When we leave behind those that are too broken or not worth fixing, that is when the chico, avocado, and guava become sweeter, flowers more vibrant, and leaves greener.'

The next time I go through something challenging, all I have to do is press rewind and I'll be reminded of what I never want to be. I should make a button for that says 'What I don't want to be when I grow up.'

Or a mobile phone app. I'm totally open to suggestions :)

Growth, my lola would say.

That breakthrough can wait

2011-04-26T01:59:00.013-04:00

I looked in the mirrors and my hair was covering my face and I could feel the tightness in my throat rising. I was a sweaty, exhausted pile on my mat but I did not, could not let the tears escape as freely as I've been told. They say 'let their saltiness mix with sweat and no one will ever know.' and 'you're breaking through something.'

But you see, I will know. I had decided that they were not allowed to stream down my face. Release wasn't what I wanted.

That breakthrough can wait. Instead, I holding onto my anger tightly.

Anger, well, it fuels me. I am never ashamed to admit it. Never hurtful to anyone, of course, but I find it a very useful motivator. Those tears yesterday, well they threatened to wash all the fury away and reduce me to a soggy mess. I could not let it happen.

With a heavy chest, I gathered my mat and left those stranded tears behind in that room. In a few days, I will be completely free then I can be open. And those tears, they can come all they want. And by then, they will be of joy and relief, not the stranded ones left behind in that room.

But for now, the anger stays until I am free. The countdown begins!


Carlos

Kulinarya Cooking Club: Decadence Pt. 1

2011-04-25T16:57:00.019-04:00

Decadence is a relative term. When I chose this theme, I thought of those dishes that traditionally were only cooked for special occasions, festivals, fiestas, etc. I thought about the stews and desserts that are either so complicated or required skills or equipment that only a handful of people in the barrio possessed. I thought of the delicacies whose recipes have remained unknown until the new generation knocked on history's doorstep and requested to be taught. I thought of foods that awaken the adventurers in us and be inspired.

Food that has a special place in our bellies with their richness that no amount of substitution can replace - that, to me, is the ultimate meaning of decadence. Who knew blood, intestines, belly, and tripe would fall under this category? Well, together they can!!

Dinuguan, anyone??

In Kapampangan, dinuguan is called tidtad - loosely translated as 'chopped'. I think my vegetarian friends might just pass on this...

A short love affair

2011-04-19T09:34:00.005-04:00

I met someone.

Well, I've met you long ago, but we were never fully introduced. But after my recent encounter with you, I continued to dabble in the mystery of your intoxicating effect I've only heard people speak of. I would spend my afternoons with you, and you would write proposals and reports with me. We would stay up late at night together and then you would get me through these grey spring mornings as of late. You even came with me to yoga.

But then, like every secret, scandalous affair, it must come to an end.

We weren't right for each other.

In a matter of days, you had me under your spell. So much so that I felt like I couldn't start my day without you. You had me in your grip and it was becoming hard to let go.

This has become a dependent relationship, coffee. Unfortunately, I cannot engage in such things that make me rely on others. Or want them too much. I do not want to one day find myself shaking in my work desk because I could not have you in the morning. Or for an afternoon delight.

It's just not my style to say 'why can't I quit you', you know?

I know I should have said something sooner, but you make my chest want to jump out of its ribcage while in class. I mean, who does that? That's not cool, coffee. Not cool at all.

I won't even get started on how you wreak havoc in other parts of my system. There are some things that must stay between you and I.

So, yes, I'm breaking up with you, coffee. I'm sure we will cross our paths again, and it may be awkward when we find ourselves facing each other at brunch with friends. The silence will be palpable and I might even get weak once or twice.

But for now, let me move on and face the world without you beside me. I've done it before, and I could do it again.

Coffee. I do not need you anymore. It was fun while it lasted.

Growth, my lola would say

2011-04-15T09:19:00.009-04:00

On my way to work this morning, I saw a picture in the paper: a forest being burned to make way for new growth. I remember as a child in my lola's garden, every afternoon at 5pm, the pile of dried leaves, twigs, and fruits half eaten by her grandchildren are quietly set ablaze.

It was for the trees and the hardin, she told me.

Ashes becomes that pile of leaves and her trees would rise taller, stronger. Her chico, avocado, and guava would be sweeter, flowers more vibrant, leaves even greener.

Growth, my lola would say.

If we are lucky, growth sends us an invitation written on fine paper and gold ink. We might even get to watch the flowers being arranged, ribbons cut, silver being set. Then we carefully choose which dress to wear and shoes to polish. Our hairs are curled , some slicked back, standing tall, ready for what's to come.

But more often than not, growth quietly creeps into town at night, when all are blissfully asleep in our unlocked homes, unprepared, unknowing.

It's the a storm that sends winds to knock down power lines and rip open roofs and doors and breaks windows, exposing us to the elements.

It is not the neat pile of leaves in our grandmother's garden everday at 5pm. It is darkness, confusion, chaos - all to break us down.

This growth, it is dirty, painful, hazy. When we step out onto the streets the morning after, everything is laid out in the open. Old memories, scattered dreams, secrets unvaulted. But eventually and slowly, we pick up the pieces even as we step on nails and shards of glass and rubble becomes those that could not withstand.

When we leave behind those that are too broken or not worth fixing, that is when the chico, avocado, and guava become sweeter, flowers more vibrant, and leaves greener.

This growth, it tears us down so we could rise taller, stronger, just like the trees in her hardin standing amidst the ashes.

Growth, my lola would say.

(Lola = Tagalog for grandmamas)

Bobby socks and black patent leather shoes

2011-04-12T07:45:00.012-04:00

Property of Lala.

These were the words written in careful handwriting with blue ball point pen on the back of my books' front cover. From Filipino folk tales to fairies with happily ever afters to stories of flowing long hair from a girl in a tower, I loved them all.

I also read Lucky Me instant noodles packaging. Instruction manuals for appliances. Song books from church. The Bible (note: past tense).

I read the labels on my clothes, dictionaries, old calendars, letters, diaries. Bus tickets, afternoon snacks, chocolate bars, carinderia menus, maps, and postcards.

I even read the phone book.

Then I was introduced to this thing called a library.

Discovering this gigantic room with walls of hardcovers and leather bounds was like finding out the world wasn't flat. Cue music, clouds, and bright lights. Throw in a hallelujah and self-opening golden gates for the little girl in her blue and white uniform with bobby socks and black patent leather shoes. When they told me I could take the books home, I swear I heard angels sing.

My bag was always filled with so much books, I could barely carry it home. I read so much that I was forbidden to have the light on at night, for fear that I would read instead of sleep. They desperately wanted me to sleep so I would grow taller. Lucky for me, they'd forgotten all about flashlights underneath blankets and the street lamppost outside the bedroom window. I would have screaming fights with my father, the engineer and mathematician, because he did not want me to tire my eyes before I even hit my teens. Silly papa, he should've known that it was genetics that sealed my fate with eyeglasses, not my hunger for books.

Still, they continue to send me books with dolls that looked nothing like me, encyclopedias along with pink haired ponies. Those books, they were my childhood, my connection to my parents when they were overseas, more than toys and trinkets. I quoted scenes, poems, songs in my letters to them. The world then was made out of adjectives and lyrics and I wanted them to have that world in their hands too, whatever continent they were at.

Today, I still read labels and instruction manuals and noodle packaging but I no longer read the Bible. Maps and postcards remain on the table. Blogs on food and yoga in bed, text messages and emails, quotes and tweets, cookbooks and recipes. Birthday and mother's day cards no longer have poems and lyrics from little girls, but the stamps are still licked, envelopes sealed, and promptly mailed.

Tomorrow and some more after that, I must read pages and pages of scripts to be memorized. I no longer need flashlights under the blanket, though sometimes, I am tempted to do it for old time's sake.

Perhaps a pair of bobby socks and black patent leather shoes, too.

On my fingertips

2011-04-11T01:14:00.011-04:00

We walked through the door, and I saw that she was here today. I looked at her, wondering what and how I should tell her.

No, better wait, I decided.

So waited I did. In between then and afterwards, I couldn't help but steal glances her way. What kind of mood was she in? Will she think me ridiculous? If I worked hard enough, will she deem me worthy? Will I deem myself worthy?

I hope she doesn't catch me staring so intensely because my eyes would give everything away before I could say anything. Or totally creep her out. Neither is a good outcome, really.

Finally, a million and a half glances later, I got myself ready. I showered, wishing the water would wash away my fears. I combed my hair slowly, as if I needed to go through every single strand. I dried every single drop of water from my skin, as if they were doubts I needed to finally let go.

I moved my wobbly legs towards where she stood, brushing her own hair. Sweat poured out of my pores as the words poured out of my mouth.

She smiled with excitement and I exhaled relief.

There, I told her what I've been holding onto for months. Her response gave me more than I needed to know and suddenly, my shoulders felt lighter again.

Those bigger and brighter things that people tell us lie ahead? I think I felt a few drops on my fingertips. I'll be damned if I let them slip through in between.

Kulinarya Cooking Club: Vegetables

2011-04-08T09:59:00.012-04:00

The radio was quietly humming with the wind as we drove past fields and fields of rice. Samson and Delilah, a radio drama show (old soap opera), was regularly interrupted by debates on the shortage of rice crops and the price of oil rising.

My family always tried hard to teach us where food was grown. And how food was grown. Whenever we came for a visit from the mountains, my apo (papa's papa) would spend hours driving us to the rice fields and vegetable farms of his youth, the side of the roads lined with palay - rice laid out to dry under the heat of the sun. Green was what you'd see for miles. Little nipa huts stood under the blazing sun, providing refuge for the farmers in the afternoon. My cousins and I would walk through the fields to the huts where we would play and drink and soak in the country through our little hands.

My apo was a man of many stories (and mysteries). By the time I had formed memories, he had already flown to the South Pacific, Asia, and the Middle East, a route many of our people would continue til today. He built ships and planes but he always went back to earth. When they moved into the suburbs (or subdivision, as they're called), my lolo bought the land next to their house and planted rows and rows of talong (eggplant). An eggplant farm in the middle of the burbs. Who would've thought?!

My love for talong probably have been shaped by my apo. Regardless of the source, talong remains one of my favourite vegetables so it was only fitting to highlight it for Kulinarya Cooking Club's March theme (chosen by Erika of The Ivory Hut and Mimi of La Pinche Cocinera). Yes, I realize it is now April, but food knows no boundaries :p

This peasant dish of Tortang Talong was cooked often back in the day, 20-some years ago by my lola (grandma) when electricity came on for a few hours, water was collected in drums in the morning, and dinner was lit by an oil lamp in the middle of the table. Humble doesn't even begin to describe it.

Tortang Talong
(for every eggplant, use 2 eggs)

1 eggplant, Asian/Japanese variety, rinsed and dried
2 eggs, scrambled
salt
oil

This is traditionally done over a wooden stove, but since my building has these things called fire hazards, I had to ditch my dreams of roasting eggplants on an open fire.

Place a skillet (stainless steel or non-stick) on a regular, fire-code compliant stove over medium heat. Once hot, place the eggplants onto skillet and brown all sides. The aim is to get the inside soft enough to mash. The skin of the eggplant will eventually char. Don't be alarmed, this is what we want!

Once the eggplant is fully browned and tender inside, remove from the heat and let the eggplant sit for a few minutes. This will let the steam help peel the skin off (similar idea to roasted peppers). Leave the stem on as a handle. Careful, as it is really hot inside! Confession: I like peeling them right as they bubble up, but I can't endorse such dangerous habits...

Place the peeled eggplant in a large bowl and mash with a fork, still leaving the stem on. Pour in the scrambled eggs and a pinch of salt.

Fry the torta/omelette and serve with rice and your favourite dipping sauce. Mine, as always, is patis and kalamansi. Sometimes I change it up and eat it with banana katsup.

Variety of this torta sometimes includes leftover giniling or other ground meat dishes. But why mess with a good thing??

Fun fact: Philippines is among the top ten producers of eggplant in the world. Eggplant FTW!!!

"Kulinarya was started by a group of Filipino foodies living in Sydney (Australia), who are passionate about the Filipino culture and its colourful cuisine."

"Each month we will showcase a new dish along with their family recipes. By sharing these recipes, we hope you find the same passion and love for Filipino Food as we do."

You don't need to be Filipino, nor in Australia (clearly) to join. Only requirement is passion and excitement over this wonderful cuisine that's more often misunderstood by outsiders.

The current members are:
Kath - http://www.acupcakeortwo.com/
Trisha - http://sugarlace.com/
Trissa - http://trissalicious.com/
Olive - http://www.latestrecipes.net/
Caroline - http://whenadobometfeijoada.blogspot.com/
Ninette - http://bigboldbeautifulfood.blogspot.com/
Peach- http://www.thepeachkitchen.com/
Althea- http://www.busogsarap.com/
Asha - http://forkspoonnknife.blogspot.com/
Malou - http://www.impromptudiva.com/
Cherrie - http://sweetcherriepie.blogspot.com/
Acdee - http://acdee.blogspot.com/
Valerie - http://www.acanadianfoodie.com/
Sheryl - http://crispywaffle.com/
Divina - http://www.sense-serendipity.com/
Anna - http://www.anniesfoodjournal.blogspot.com/
Dahlia - http://www.energychef.blogspot.com/
Joy - http://joyjoycreativeoutlet.blogspot.com/
Maribel - http://www.foodgeek.webs.com/
Tressa
Jen - http://www.jen-at-work.blogspot.com/
Pia - http://bisayajudkaayo.blogspot.com/
Malaka - http://thegrandinternational.com
Mimi - http://lapinchecocinera.blogspot.com
Erika - http://ivoryhut.com/
Kat - http://twitter.com/alanokat
Lala - http://thislittlepiggywenttothemarket.blogspot.com/
Selfie - http://eats.sefiebee.com/
Connie - http://homecookingrocks.com/
Oggi - http://oggi-icandothat.blogspot.com/
Katrina - http://lardonmyfrench.blogspot.com/
Rochelle - http://www.whydiss.blogspot.com/
Words and Nosh - http://wordsandnosh.wordpress.com/

*if I am missing anyone, please feel free to leave a comment so I can update the list*

My mother's daughter

2011-03-27T23:01:00.014-04:00

I sat at the communal table, looking at the woman in front of me. Her story, partly unfolding between us, the rest left up in the air for me to fill in the blanks. I was eating perogies at the market, much needed after a tough Bikram class, and she was on her lunch break from the butcher's.

But there won't be much guessing from my end. Her story, much like the other stories I've grown up with, they seem to be cut from the same cloth, written with the same ink.

As a child, I had the opportunity to see many sides of this world, from the mountains and seas of my homeland to the desert of the Middle East to the prairies of North America. Some travels not by free will but of economics. Some by need, not want. And I always knew that my parents did it all for us. I always knew my mother did it for me.

This woman, she has my mother's eye colour, a shade slightly darker than mine. The worry, buried within the lines of her face, traces a familiar path. Those lines I knew very well. They carry the burden of family, of tradition, of obligation, only further complicated by migration.

As I listen to this woman, who also sounds very much like my mother, list her concerns over her own mother's health, her son, the coffee and sugar that she has collected over the months to send back home, I become torn.

Torn between anger and empathy like I always do when I hear my own mother say these words:

'They have nothing back home. We have everything. We moved here so you kids can have a better life.'

Though it did not show in my face, my cheeks flushed unnoticeably. Why was I angry as I sat across the woman whose eyes shone like my mother's?

Because this is not the first time I have heard this story. Because it will not be the last time I will hear this story. Because I knew, that even if someone asked this woman what she needed for herself, she will never tell them. There are others who are more important, she will insist.

I also know that with all the sacrifices she had made, she will be too tired to take care of herself, too guilty to enjoy herself, too selfless to want something for herself. She will become unhealthy because the health of everyone else comes before her. She will be too worried to see the sun still shines as bright as it did when she was a child.

She will be buried under the shadows of gendered obligation, of responsibility. After years of taking care of others, she will forget she needs it too.

I was angry because these women once dreamed of the stars, of seeing the world, of changing the world. Those dreams they shared with their daughters, so we, their daughters, can shatter glass ceilings, melt iron walls, and break the chains of status quo.

But because of duty and obligation written by the cruel hands of tradition persists, all those dreams, their dreams, get left behind.

I say I am angry, but you and I know, after you read this, that anger is the mask that sadness wears.

You and I also know that anger inspires hope. So you see, as much as mothers say their children are their lives, there is nothing their children would want more than for their mothers to follow their dreams, too.

I will never be ungrateful for what I have been given because my mama did not raise me to be so. But I wish, women whose eyes shine like hers, would find those stars once again.