Мой Девятый Класс Йоги ( My Ninth Yoga Class)

Posted on November 18, 2011 by

by cheri block

In the yoga studio last Tuesday evening, I moved to a new location—the front row.

My mindset went like this: I must displace the large Czech women who like to dominate that front row.

My strategy will be simple: arrive earlier than they  and unroll my green mat directly in front of the teacher. Upon arrival, they may be so engrossed in discussing Mosel glass and Pilsner Urquell  that they will not notice the coup of one about to happen.

My tactics will be sneaky: unfurl my mat and stake out my territory. Then,  close my eyes and begin limbering up, pretending to be lost in the State of Flexibility. Down, my spine bends to my thighs: up, my arms stretch in a salute to my toes. Sweeping to the east, my salute continues. I am not thinking about the Czech Republic, about the old Czechoslovakia, about tall handsome young men and large breasted (from the beer) Czech women.

The door to the Om Studio opens without warning.

They arrive in a dominant way. In a yoga studio, dominance can be asserted by talking too loudly or laughing or taking the names of the yoga sutras in vain or discussing whether a Lara Bar is more flavorful than a Clif Bar.  This they did. In Czech, of course.

I continued my meditation but in truth, I unsoftened my eyes to glimpse their march into my space.

They were not deterred by the castle my body had become, as they infiltrated  the territory they had staked out eight weeks ago.

In a power play, they flanked me, boxing me in between them.

And then they began their talk, in Czech of course.

“Кто она думает, что она? (Who does she think she is?) questioned the big one, looking at me like an East German backstroker in the next lane.

“Она – маленький человек, легко над которым доминируют,” (She is a small person, easily dominated), answered her friend.

I closed my eyes and focused on my breath, inhaling while making space for my lungs and then exhaling while shrinking my waist to my navel.

Then, listening to them solve the problems of the yoga studio in their language, it hit me.

“В следующий раз, сделайте, поскольку мы сделали в 1947: движение в ее место. Конечно ее циновка станет серой, (Next time, do as we did in 1947: move into her space. Surely her mat will turn gray)” the older one asserted.

Olga and Irina are not Czech! They are Russian.

Posted in My fiction, People | Tagged , , | 22 Comments

The Meaning of Life: Can we find it in great literature?

Posted on November 7, 2011 by

by cheri block sabraw

Last year, I visited the marvelous San Francisco Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park.  Along with a shockingly gorgeous white crocodile and a room full of butterflies, was a human skull time line, illustrating the changes in the evolutionary development of the human brain. I stopped at one of the  small skulls of early man and wondered what types of concerns this person might have had about his life. Survival, I thought and moved on.

In modern culture,  we don’t usually worry  about being attacked and eaten by wolves. The wild animals that gnaw on our bones at night while we sleep are usually those same ones that haunt those of us who crave meaning.  Is there meaning to our lives? And if so, what is it?

I’ve written before about finding the meaning of life in Nature, but since I have been enrolled in Scotty McLennan’s course at Stanford this quarter, The Meaning of Life: Spiritual and Moral Inquiry Through Literature , I am now revisiting much of the literature I have taught through the years, searching for meaning beyond the obvious.

What is the meaning of life?

First, it is hard to find meaning if you talk too much and listen too little.

Meaning cannot be found in distraction (your iPhone, stupid).

Meaning has nothing to do with mirrors, but reflection may get you there.

Meaning has little to do with you, but others may help you find it.

Literature introduces us to characters like you and me, characters such as Hester Prynne, Willy Loman, and even the giant caterpillar, Gregor Samsa. What can we learn from them about the meaning of life?

I’ll be writing about some of these characters over the next several months and look forward to your thoughts about the meaning of life.

Posted in Education, On fiction | Tagged , , , | 44 Comments

My Sixth Yoga Class

Posted on November 3, 2011 by

by cheri block

I usually arrive at my yoga class early, partly to avoid the traffic and also to find a spot on the floor where I can see the teacher. I’m only 5 feet 1 inch tall and about 110 pounds, so most people block my view in movie theaters, sporting events, and yes, even in yoga studios.

Tuesday night, I learned how territorial even the most mindful people are.

The “Om” studio is the shape of the State of Utah. If you visualize Utah, I usually place my mat at the lower end of the Great Salt Lake. The panhandle of Utah is the teacher’s stage. There up two steps she places her mat and from this position, we are able to see her and she, us.

The first row of spaces under the panhandle must be coveted, but I’ll get to that part of the story shortly because I’ve never been a person to park myself in the first row of anything, unless you count the blind date I went on in 1968 while I was a student at USC. The chump picked me up late in an old Saab; we drove to Pasadena to see The Lion in the Winter, but the only seats available were in the first row. He bought those seats. For the next two hours, with my neck bent back like a birdwatcher, I studied the collars of King Henry II and the neck and chin of Eleanor of Aquitaine, played by Katharine Hepburn.

There on my mat in the Great Salt Lake, I watch a woman with short grayish hair enter the studio. She stares at me, nods, doesn’t smile, and picks the spot in front of me. Never mind that the entire state, from St. George to Provo, is wide open. She unfurls her purple mat and then goes to the bookshelf with the yoga props. I notice that she is taking out six blocks, instead of the necessary two. She is saving and marking spaces, I observe.

Her friends, all tall and formidable women, arrive. They speak another language. I strain my ears, hoping to understand the Eastern Bloc dialect. In my experience of running a business with customers who are from around the world, I believe that alternating from say, Mandarin to English in an English speaker’s office means you don’t want the English speaker to know what you are saying, such as This tuition is too expensive. Should we go to the Learning Bee to see if their tuition is lower?

The three women now blocking my view are probably Czech, I determine. They sound just like the people I listened to in Prague last May. They rattle on in Czech, which sounds anything but still. At the sushi restaurant across the street from “Om,” I hear English spoken in a crude intonation. It too, sounds anything but still.

I become mindful and redirect the factory of voices in my brain from manufacturing clutter to practicing silence.

The class begins. In our Bhujangasana (the Cobra), we stretch our legs back in an effort to keep the spine supple and maybe help our liver and gallbladder. I listen intently to the instructor’s restful voice. I practice listening instead of seeing since my vision is blocked by the Prague Castle itself.

I am making progress here in Utah.

Posted in Life | Tagged | 21 Comments

My Fifth Yoga Class

Posted on October 27, 2011 by

by cheri block

I left my yoga class Tuesday evening shaking my head. While the class had been satisfying as I stretched new muscles into forms my body has never experienced before, there had been an annoying interruption.

Let me attempt to set the scene.

The class is packed, so I arrive 15 minutes early in order to establish a place where I can see the teacher. I am a beginner.

The studio is a comfortable spartan space, dimly lit by lamps with soft light. The ceiling is open to the rafters. A string of Buddhist prayer flags arcs on one wall; watercolors of leaves, rivers, and Indian maidens decorate the other walls. A bookshelf made of a rich dark wood holds the bolsters, straps, and blocks that we use during the class. Several stacks of what look to me like Navajo saddle pads wait by the door. We take two of these blankets, two blocks, one bolster and one strap and sit quietly on our yoga mats, waiting to begin. I sit cross-legged and quiet, trying to relax my body and my mind.

It is a fair statement to assume that most of the fifteen or so women in the class are there to unwind, improve their body shapes and fitness, and become mindful. Three older men attend this class, as well, accompanying their wives.

Tuesday night, we began yoga practice on our backs, with a blanket under our hips. Our legs were drawn up to our bodies with the soles of our feet meeting each other. Each leg, now bent into a V,  rested on a block. We stretched the arms over our heads keeping the elbows close to the neck. The position reminded me of a pelvic exam, a thought I banished from my busy mind as soon as it fluttered through. The lengthening of the spine and the muscles which support it  felt marvelous. I could have stayed in this position all night, staring up at the rafters, inhaling by expanding the space around my lungs and then exhaling by making my waist small. The frustrations of the day began to melt. I stopped thinking about my need for approval, the muscle tone of my inner thighs, and my husband’s crazy work schedule.

For thirty more minutes we sculpted ourselves into new women by concentrating on lifting, turning, and holding our pelvic bowls in place. It was time to pick up the blocks, light rectangles of  blue pressed foam. We attempted a new pose, right leg forward and bent at the knee, left leg back with its foot turned out. One of our hands held the metal chair in front of us for balance. We raised our right arms, holding the blocks and then stretched them up and to the side in a modified Statue of Liberty position. I sneaked a look at my right tricep muscle and the little layer of fat that has attached itself and jiggles under my arm.  You know what I am talking about if you are a woman over forty. These rims of arm fat used to be called bat wings; today, they are called kimonos.

Holding this pose would be sure to firm up my kimonos. With that thought in mind, I hoped we could stay in this position longer than 30 seconds. This wish I shouldn’t have made because somehow, I channeled it far across the room to the mind of a man in his sixties named John.

John called out loudly, ” I can’t do this!!! I have no flexibility!! My back hurts and I’m all balled up.” He continued to bellyache and draw attention to himself. His wife moved her mat several feet away from him.

My focused reverie was shattered. Forget firming up my kimonos.

The instructor, also the owner of the studio, said, ” John, I’m coming over to help you now,” and for the next five minutes during which she forgot we were holding the blocks up toward toward heaven, we listened to John’s complaints and rants.

I had an urge to swear loudly at John. I wanted to say, “F_ _ K You, John. This class isn’t about you. It’s not about your flexibility or your muscles being balled up or your need for attention. It’s not about your being a cranky old man, the type most of us women here tonight are trying to escape, if only for 1.5 hours. “  The irony of the moment overtook me and all mindfulness evaporated into the air of the room.

As the rest of us tried to hold the blocks, some had to give up, dropping their blocks in exhaustion. We looked like parts  of those old buildings whose time has come for implosion by dynamite.

“Namaste,” the teacher said at the end of the class.

In my car on the way home, I thanked the Good Lord that John was not my husband.

Posted in Life | Tagged , , | 15 Comments

On Seizing the Day

Posted on October 25, 2011 by

by cheri block

I sit in a hard plastic lounge chair  reading Saul Bellow’s Seize the Day but find myself distracted by the enormous cactus  growing out of the red rock that lines my mother’s Arizona patio home.  Its ribbed arms, protected by rows of needles lined up tactically in the best of Army formations, remind me of the emotional pain I could inflict on myself, lest I succumb to sentimentality.

A lone bunny with a white cotton tail hops into the scene and sits up on her haunches, transporting me  to more carefree times on the same patio when both of my parents were alive and vital.

The cactus and the bunny witness two quail race by, the female ahead of the male, his black feathered plume bobbing mechanically up and down.

On the patio of my mother’s desert home–her retreat from the isolation she must have felt at times in Sacramento after my father’s death and after her bout with meningitis–she could grasp at independence, albeit with her cochlear implant, walker, and adult three-wheeled bicycle.

Today, surrounded by  thorns, bunnies, and quail, my head chases my heart away in a zen effort to enjoy the moment.

Still, the memories invade. How do I seize the day here in the Land of the Sun when hers are now in assisted living?

I redirect my thoughts and realize that they are mine, not hers.

For she continues to inspire us all like a dazzling diamond worn in the tiara of a Bedouin desert princess.

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Letting Go

Posted on October 20, 2011 by

 

You cannot change another dog

by cheri block

I have this dog, ya know?

I bought her one month after my other dog died. You might say I avoided the grieving process by replacing my loss too soon.

This dog, a yellow Labrador Retriever whom I call Dinah, has boundless energy, an amazing I.Q., and an insatiable appetite for anything that she determines is “food.”

I’ve been trying to change her basic personality for four years now because, frankly ( I thought I would use “frankly” even though it is one of the most redundant words in the English language), I want her to settle down, slow down, and well,  do what I want her to do.

But my coaching isn’t working. She is still obsessive and famished, ultra-sensitive and busy.

Today, I am letting go.

I know this phrase annoys some of you. Letting go means to you, the giving up of cherished beliefs, beliefs which would make the world a better place.

The Truth (with a capital T) is that letting go means finally relinquishing those beliefs which you were sure would make your dog a better dog.

I know that after all the pressure Dinah, my dog, has felt in the last four years as I have prodded, psycho-analyzed, cajoled, cheer-leaded, and well….just made logical conversation about her activities there out on the Rancho, she will be relieved.

I know I will.

Posted in Life | Tagged , | 20 Comments

On The Death of Ivan Ilych

Posted on October 17, 2011 by

by cheri block

My class this semester is entitled The Meaning of Life: Moral and Spiritual Inquiry Through Literature.

Part of the requirements is to submit a one page reflection after reading the short story, play, or novel assigned each week.

Last week, we read Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilych and then spent 2.5 hours in class discussing its modern moral and spiritual relevance.

I’m not sure the professor will return these papers with comments, so I will publish some of my reflections here and wait for your comments.

On The Death of Ivan Ilych

     It is tempting to judge Ivan Ilych as a man so driven by power and position and so devoid of spiritual reflection that during the last three days of his life, his excruciating pain was inevitable. It is also possible to view Ilych’s graphically depicted death as one of Tolstoy’s doctors might do so:  clinically and methodically, like a corpse ready for dissection. But in the end, do we really care about Ivan Ilych as a person? Tolstoy draws Ilych’s character—one like so many other men in literature who forsake the spiritual for the temporal—rather predictably, surrounded by stock characters: insensitive wives, average children, and greedy colleagues. So why does this story stick? Why does it trouble us so?

It weighs heavy because it is, perhaps, one of the best descriptions of a slow death ever written. What is most disconcerting about Ivan Ilych’s life is that despite his dutiful and ambitious drive to achieve all accouterments of success (at his insensitive wife’s behest, I might add), he misses the spiritual life, as represented by the peasant Gersasim. We, too, might wonder Have I lost my way, tangled in a pile of wires and gadgets, purses and shoes?  In the months from Ilych’s accident to his death, we can’t help but see ourselves and wonder what our death will be like. We calibrate our spirituality. We take yoga. We volunteer. I visit my brave mother in assisted living, look deeply into her eyes, hoping to understand her suffering and see something meaningful about it.

Death is surely a mystery. So is life. By painting Judge Ilych as the accused, the defendant, the prosecutor, the jury and ironically, as the judge in his own earthly trial, Tolstoy’s own gavel comes down hard.

Posted in On fiction | Tagged , , , , | 15 Comments

The Mystery of a Spider Web

Posted on October 4, 2011 by

Charlotte's gift to me

by cheri block

Every year at this time, I become pensive.

The end of summer’s promise signals the beginning of fall’s reminder.

Those of us who continue to seek deep meaning in our existence must put our cushions away until next summer and now face the darkening days.

We make soup. We tend to those projects that should only be completed under rain’s cover: cleaning closets and basements, reorganizing the garage, and sorting our photos.

Some resist. The begonias on my patio  stand up on their thick stalks and flaunt their gorgeous blooms of yellow, orange, and red.

I ruminate.

The news distresses me. Stupidity abounds. So does intellectual righteousness. Humility, generosity, and insight seem to be hiding in our modern world of violence, selfishness, and collagen.

Yesterday morning, protected by my robe and stimulated by my mug of hot coffee, I opened the front door to let Dinah out.

Charlotte the spider had spun a message far greater than “Some Pig.”

The intricacy and perfection of this web humbled my thoughts and forced a reconsideration.

I am one of the lucky ones, perhaps like you,  to be living deep in Nature’s inner circle of creatures, plants, and trees.

Cushions packed away, we are left with the swish of the wind, the crackle of the leaves on the driveway, and the thump-thump of the rain as it lands on the stucco roof.

What does Earth’s move to the far side of the ecliptic mean?

To atheists, it means little. It’s a clear set of meteorological data, perfect for analysis.

To the rest of us, it  reinforces the order of Nature, the grandeur of our world, and the mystery of the Creator.

Evidence of the Mystery!

 

Posted in Education, Life, My photography | Tagged , , , , | 41 Comments

Friedrich van Pelt

Posted on September 27, 2011 by

by cheri block

More than once in my life I have been compared to Charles Schultz’s Lucy van Pelt.

Maybe the comparison began in 1963 when I was running for Vice-President of Centerville Junior High. Except for my big wiseacre mouth, I was an undeveloped smart-alecky teenybopper running against a woman who wore a bra and like the Kardashians, was going to take full advantage of her God-given mazoomies. All of my campaign literature—signs, cards, leaflets—boasted Lucy calling my opponent Lisa a “Blockhead.” I understood the power of symbolism, Spoonerisms, allegory, and stupidity even at the tender age of 13.

My siblings (bless them all for their patience and resilience) railed to Mom and Dad every time I pulled the football out from under them, so to speak. They found themselves doing due-diligence, finishing my spinach, cleaning up my dog’s dog-doo, and mopping the floor, square by square, all while I rocked lazily on the hammock, dreaming of my literary career.

Anyone who has followed the Peanuts gang throughout the years knows that Lucy operates from a position of strength.

Lucy does not believe that the “Meek will inherit the earth.”

In fact, she believes that people like William the Bastard, Adolf Hitler, and Leonard Ahmadinejad will inherit the earth unless people like Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill, and Serena Williams stop them.

Operating from a position of strength doesn’t mean bowling people over with big talk.

It means knowing who you are and trusting that you are moving yourself in the right direction, despite distractions like Barack Obama, Sarah Palin, and the United Nations.

Operating from a position of strength means expunging your overwrought behavior from your list of emotional responses to life.

Operating from a position of strength means you don’t need to emote every time something doesn’t go your way.

Most of all, operating from a position of strength means listening to those who might be feeling weak at times and only charging 5 cents for your services.

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Quebec City

Posted on September 22, 2011 by

by cheri block

Tonight, as is customary during our fall months– before winter’s chill hovers and then settles into the meadow, silencing the fall breezes that blow ten-thousand leaves off the sycamore trees–  the crickets grate a syncopated tune with their wings.

The skies darken earlier. The earth makes her way toward the distant points on the ecliptic. The squirrels living on the Rancho work around the clock, furtively collecting walnuts from our trees and boldly raiding my bird-feeders for sunflower seeds and grain.

The gophers too, seem restless underground in their darkened tunnels, so they surface on our lawn each night, leaving mounds of fresh dirt, some filled with squirming worms.

It was only a week ago that we were in Quebec City, the provincial capital of Quebec.

How long ago those images seem to me. I, like the crickets, the squirrels, and the gophers have been busily tending to necessities. The animals need attention and grooming; the plants need fertilizer and weeding; the basement needs rearranging, the library needs organization, the pantry needs culling.

Ahhh! The complications of modern life that tear us from our buoys, sending us out into a sea of responsibility.

My mind travels back only a week, to the gorgeous land that is Quebec.


We marvel at the same scene, illuminated by the sun and then the moon.

The street pauses in surprise.

Where are the tourists? The cars?

The Grand Dame of Quebec City, Hotel Chateau Frontenac, stands at river’s edge, pushing out her bosom, daring suitors to challenge her role here on the bluff by the Plains of Abraham.

On the Island of Orleans, fifteen minutes from Quebec City, we escape the tourists and treat ourselves to images that  elicit mixed feelings.

And the leek fields.

A waterfall from the back and the front.

The land is lush; the experience varied and rich; the Québécois, gracious and hearty!

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