depending on the inversion.

Happy summer or winter to you, depending on the inversion. Summer hit us whole-heartedly yesterday, and our house smoldered like an oven. We don't have A/C, and up until yesterday, I didn't think we would need it. Today is back to cool 70s, so I guess we really don't need it. But after wearing shorts for a day or two, I'm wondering... when will I feel comfortable in my skin again?

{paso john gardner :: torres del paine}

Choosing summer clothes feels near impossible. For all intents and purposes, I've lost my pregnancy weight. There'd only be another 6-7 pounds to go, and this isn't the heaviest I've been in my non-pregnant life. Right now I need shirts with easy access for nursing Rowan. And preferably something that makes my soft belly somehow less wobbly. Nothing fits well. I know, I'm being shallow. (But while I'm at it, I have another confession: I don't like my lumpy scar--even though my sweet baby came out of it. Somehow it still feels numb or occasionally hurts dully, oddly.) Yeah, people who know me would say I am crazy.

So what? My clothes don't fit, or they're not right for the occasion. But clothes are just the surface. It's not only my wardrobe. Maybe I'm having culture shock. I recently moved back to the States, and we also moved to the oddest plot of city we could. After living here a couple of months I have to say it's not my cup of tea or coffee. I miss walking in pretty places. Honestly, give me a nice trail, and I'm a fairly happy camper. I wish we'd had the time and foresight to think of this back when we were moving. Our lease is up in September, so I guess that means an imminent something. 

{my trails don't even need to be well defined :: paso oggioni :: tdp}

I am finally starting to feel used to being a mom, and yet... I still wonder how others get used to this new role. Do they swim up into it at ease? How do you all manage to find balance in whatever you do? I have never been this inactive in my life. And I can't blame it on being a mom. There is time for me to start running again, to do yoga. Yet I don't.

{before I started working, I did manage to squeeze in
a couple of hikes with Rowan in the carrier :: coyote hills, fremont}

This keeps coming back to issues of physical health. It's not really that at all. Well, maybe a little. I think it's about balance and groping to get a grip on it again. In fact, after I started working, I struggle to even find time to blog, among other things. I'm not about to fall off the tightrope yet. But I don't think my pocketful of grace is quite ready for prime time yet either.

I would love to hear how you find balance in your life. 

This isn't only about motherhood, though I'm tagging it so... 

Cuz I'm also tagging the phantoms in my life, like running + yoga. 

me + my backpack + some other stuff.

Yesterday I enjoyed one of my last yoga classes in the dome. It's basically a yurt-style "tent" a few kilometers outside of town, with brilliant views of Última Esperanza Fjord. It's built to withstand the gales and near hurricane-force winds. (And let's just say this full moon kicked up some glass-breaking twisters and house-rattling gusts.) Practicing yoga in the dome--warmed by a wood burning stove and sheltered from the gales beyond it--is noisy. The loudness of lashings never really bothers me when I'm inside, but our yoga maestra kept reminding us to let the wind sweep away what we no longer need. Let go our heavy baggage so to speak.

About four years ago, I shouldered a blue backpack and set out to travel around South America. I had a plan (which included returning in two months), but I found it difficult to explain to others what exactly I was doing. Friends wished me farewell, saying: I hope you find what you're looking for. I had no idea what that meant or what I might be looking for.

{on the way to paso oggioni, torres del paine}

My backpack has climbed glaciers and volcanoes peaking 6,000 meters, soaked in the mists of Machu Picchu, weighed down my broken toe traversing the Bolivian altiplano, wobbled on donkeys and boarded canoes in the Amazon. It's froze beneath the snow of the Southern Patagonian Ice Field. It's explored Turkey and survived rickety trains throughout Eastern Europe. I heard its sighs of relief when--too heavy for me to daintily swing onto my back--S has picked it up and held it out for me to put on, as if it was anything as light as a coat. It's been nibbled by mice and manhandled by airport conveyors. It's been my home for months at a time and my chair at dinnertime.

{en route to paso marconi + the ice field, from el chaltén}

And most recently heavy blue has been sold. For nearly a decade, that backpack collected shells and stones, non-native pine cones, diary notes scribbled on maps, breathtaking views, and the camaraderie of other backpacks.

{almirante nieto, torres del paine}

I've collected beach glass, bird books and real feather pens, friends, transience, acceptance. I met yoga and meditation and my husband. In that order. Maybe I was looking for something. But when I stopped looking and opened my eyes, I found I already had everything. (But, of course, I still wanted to meet that special someone.) A few blinks later : enter S. Now we're moving to my California homeland, with the backwards backpack of my 7-month pregnant belly. What a long, strange trip it's been.

May the wind carry away some of your excess baggage today. 

What would you send with its next gust?

friday present: from sunshine intentions to kicking + moaning.

This Saturday, which should be a Friday, I'm thankful and loving...

some sun! 

It's still crisp outside, of course, but the temperatures have crept up. Or I'm getting used to the chill coming off the antarctic. Or hormones are keeping me warm. One good thing about posting late, is that the rain of the last three days has subsided, and I'm lucky to write with sunshine warming my left cheek, in through the window. 

krusteaz pancake mix + real maple syrup.

{waffles by philosopher queen}

Some of the special things from Wisconsin that my dad sent included pure maple syrup + pancake mix. Every so often I make waffle batter from scratch, but it's never as light or fluffy as Krusteaz. And the last time I had maple syrup was the last time I visited the States. The morning after my springtime Christmas, I made some American-style blueberry pancakes. This morning I wanted to see how the fluffiness held up as waffles. Oh yes, it was like eating clouds with a crispy golden brown lining.

intention trees. 

{intention trees photo by mindy}

Today I came across this post from Mindy's Wish Studio blog about making fall intention trees: "a wonderful way to begin each season… to outline your goals and intentions for the months ahead." I've been a glue stick marauder of late, collaging cards into the wee hours. I'm hoping to get some girls together to create a little intention love for spring.

a bed for savasana. 

Part of being back and catching up is returning to a good yoga routine. When my yoga instructor returned (sunned and refreshed after taking a course on Tibetan singing bowls in Greece), I restarted yoga classes in the morning. I had always gone in the evenings, but nights here in the winter are too cold and dark. During savasana (the final relaxation), she's been making me a special bed, since I'm not supposed to lie on my back for more than three minutes at a time. Though somehow I end up on my back again every night, despite my better efforts. 

On Wednesdays and Fridays, this makeshift bed of a couple cushions and a couple blankets blesses me with 10 of the most comfortable minutes of my day. People often fall asleep and even snore during savasana. I've certainly fallen asleep before, but I never wanted to be one of the snorers! Yesterday morning, though, I woke myself up with a pretty prolonged moan. Yeah, Nice.

elbows to the gut.

{a rainy day, circa 21 weeks}

This week even the hubby was able to feel baby throwing some punches. I thought I might even be able to see the bugger thumpin' up a storm, but still no cigar. I know they say this is going to keep me awake at night later on, but for now it's nice to know all's well in his swimmy land.

What are you thankful for?

{unattributed photos : unknown : please let me know if they're yours}

on thursday.

A couple of days ago, I was showing one of my student's dictionary.com's cool word pronunciation feature. I chose Thursday. One path led to another, as paths always do. And I discovered that our beloved and often difficult-to-pronounce Thursday comes from Thor's day. As in the hammer-wielding Norse god of thunder, Thor. In fact, the days Tuesday-Friday (in English) all have their roots in Norse gods. Although the origins are different, both Monday and lunes (in Spanish) take after the moon. Friday and viernes (in Spanish) honor love: Freya or Frigg--the Norse goddess of married love and fertility--and Venus--the Roman goddess of love and beauty--respectively. This may not be anything new to many of you, but it's today's cool tidbit for me.

Now that it's past 9 p.m., and I'm barely starting to feel alive to the world. I have felt horribly under the weather all day, just exhausted more than anything else. I'm not sick, but I'm not chipper either. This morning my plan was to try out a new yoga class and then I had a running date. I woke up and ate a little breakfast early enough to have an hour without feeding myself before yoga. But I just couldn't even stay upright. The bed beckoned me back to it, this is after already sleeping nearly 9 hours. I read, got up and ate some yummy red lentil soup that Serkan made, and finally went back to sleep until nearly 5 p.m. At which point, Serkan asked if I still wanted to go for a run. We got ready fast, since the sun had just set, and went for a little run together. Afterward, I practiced my own abbreviated yoga routine. Without fail this makes me feel better. I can actually feel the physical space created within me. I can breathe better and live closer to grace. (Something I've been thinking a lot about lately.)

Serkan and I don't go together often, but I like when we do. This year I need motivation! Last year, I was training for the Ushuaia (fin del mundo) marathon with a friend. It was to be my second marathon. After my first, the desire to run another never picked up. But that's because of a sad streak in my life, battles, poems, and difficulties. Of course, that bump in the road, was also what got me traveling, picking up and moving, meeting my amazing life partner and best friend, so it's not all bad.

Anyway, last year we ran up to 20 miles before we discovered the race was canceled. I was the ra-ra part of the team, snow or rain or shine, vamos! At the end both Bill, my running partner, and I were suffering from minor running injuries, and ignoring them. I think I'd even (in an unrelated incident) broken a tiny bone in my foot. We tapered our training with the knowledge that the cancellation. Then Serkan and I traveled to Turkey and through Eastern Europe for a few months.

Upon my return to Patagonia, I'd had big hopes for training. But nothing ever really materialized. I still ran quite a bit, but short runs and not nearly as regularly. Bill still calls me Coach, which is sweet. But he's the one who keeps up his training. Go you!!! Me, who knows what I need: a kick in the arse from Thor.

 

12th century tapestry representing Thor

in between Odin (Wednesday) and Frigg (Friday).

Happy Thursday!

Yoga Farm, Oleiros, Portugal

One donkey, one rooster, one dog, two goats, two teachers, three cats, three hens, apples, peaches, pears, figs, yoga, sun, forest, a whole lotta brown rice and even more love. That's been my home for about the last two weeks.

The Ashtang-Vinyasa Yoga retreat I found rests in central Portugal, in a sleepy village about 15 km from Oleiros. The setting is peaceful and the ambient hippy. The property overlooks a deep valley of farmlands and cork oak, pine and eucalyptus forests. Organically grown fruit trees and garden veggies dot the grounds. The retreat just opened this year, and they seem to be doing really well, as people from all over Europe end up there just by virtue of their web site: www.ashtanga-vinyasa-yoga.co.uk.

I tend to think of the last couple weeks as my stay on the yoga farm, as the setting is definitely farmlike, with animals and fruits and veggies growing everywhere. Willow, the gentle pranayama honking donkey, whoops out the most hilarious noises I have ever heard. Donkeys apparently are one of the few animals that make noise on inhalation and exhalation. I still can't stop myself from laughing every time he busts out into his tonkey song. Trying to stay focused and unsmiling during savasana when he starts up, is a feat in itself. The two brother and sister goats love to gnaw chairs and eat napkins. The male goat has nads as big as his head and the testosterone they produce reeks cheesily. He actually smells like goat cheese. The rooster and hens peck around the compost daily and the adult cats keep pretty much to themselves. The kitten with a deviated tail, Annie, climbs anything she can stick her claws into. Queenie, the dog, was rescued from the nearby village people who were about to kill her. Supposedly she'd been in a rage with fits of biting. She still limps due to a broken hip, which healed out of socket (and which happened before she was adopted). You wouldn't believe she ever had a mean streak by the way she coos for love and rolls over on her back to give you better access to rubbing her belly.

Days start at 8 a.m. with Sue's dynamic yoga practice. She teaches in the form of workshops, delving more into the spiritual side of yoga. Each day focuses on a different element of the practice: earth, wind, fire and water. These sessions also give more time in certain postures (along with suggestions on how to correct them) to ensure the body is properly grounded and aligned, allowing us to come into our postures with more integrity. Breakfast and tea follow around 10 a.m. and we have free time to sleep, sunbathe, sway in a hammock or read from their cool library until lunch at about 2 p.m.

After lunch, it's back to the hammock or for a walk on one of the several fireroad trails that stem off the property. Sometimes we go to Rio Zezere, about a 10-minute's drive away, to swim and watch the local fisherman watching us. Evening yoga at 6 p.m. is the full Ashtanga practice with Peter. I'd never done Ashtanga before, so it's interesting to practice a different kind of yoga. It's quite a strong class, but he constantly reminds us to listen to our bodies, be patient and ease off. Build good associations in the body and not bad ones: Don't over-force your poses or let pain or tension creep into the practice; breathe. A yummy (macrobiotic) dinner follows shortly after our night practice. We sit around the table and chat. Since I am here mostly on trade, I do a whole lotta dishes during the day as well. It's kind of like cleaning up after a small Thanksgiving, every day, twice a day.

After meeting lots of other people who have been practicing yoga all over the world, it makes me feel more even thankful for my yoga beginnings than I already felt. Luckily, I have a great yoga prof, Susana, in Puerto Natales, who has always focused on the spiritual side of yoga, and not just taught it as some exercise you do at the gym. She has always encouraged us to be present and tried to make sure we do what we can while maintaining proper form, that we don't compare ourselves with our peers (or even with ourselves on previous days). Apparently it is not the norm to teach yoga holistically, as a way of life. And it is a whole lot more common to egofy the practice, turning it into an exercise or flexibility competition. Which it is not. Anyway, my yoga farm days rekindled my yoga, energized and relaxed me just in time to meet up with Serkan again in Istanbul.

The last couple of years...

I'm back to thinking about the last couple of years. The idea of being ready to put down roots. But where? I'm back to thinking about the past couple years and their what-fors? I like having strange conversations with people who ask me eversosweetly WTF are you doing? I have pocketfuls of sweet replies. I don't tend toward the generic, but often sincerity'll just get you into trouble. However, I do sometimes think about real answers to whys after the fact.

I'm thinking about the past couple years... I've met wonderful people; climbed mountains; reached 6,000 meters with soroche; licked icebergs and walked on glaciers; swam with pink Amazonian dolphins and milky Black Sea jellyfish; huddled in overflowing overnight toiletless buses alongside chickens, sacks of potatoes and huge Andean families; viewed other galaxies from a telescope in the clearest desert nights and thought we are so small; froze to my bones, tent-trapped in a blizzard for four days, without wishing I was elsewhere; been stuck in undesirable places waiting out national protests; been knocked on my ass by the Patagonia wind, over and over; landed a many-hatted job editing a travel mag at the end of the world; learned a new language and new softwares; let go emo-baggage; sat in meditative silence for 10 days (yet still somehow manage to overreact to trivialities); realized that being is a lifelong practice; experienced too many firsts to list; found love, someone to share all the many firsts to come; found yoga and the red chair swing that hangs from a scrub oak in Portugal where I sit right now.

Lisbon and lost luggage

I arrived to Lisbon today. The day started at 3.30am with a short, expensive ride to Schipol Airport. Just me and my great big many-galloned backpack. Archteryx, blue, some black, patches on the lid. Each detail has its own special sku number at the airport. If I had it right now, I would take out a stick of incense and light it. But it still hasn't arrived. I should have known it was no good when I was told to lug it to the odd-sized baggage area before 5 a.m. Nobody was there, so I waited. A Dutch family also had some odd-sized baggage to drop, we walked around and found a manned drop.

It will get on the flight, right?
Yes, of course, no problem.

After waiting two hours at belt #9 for odd-sized items in the Lisbon airport, I describe my pack to the overly busy lost luggage office. I fill out an official lost luggage report, and I am on my way to the city center. I have no load, so I figure instead of queueing up for the taxi and paying some outrageous fare, I would just bus and metro it. I get directions and make it fine. I have even planned ahead this time, and not only do I have a place to go, I have the address and phone number of the hostel handy.

I walk up and down Avenida Altamirante Reis. It's hot, I am still in heavy travel jeans, and I lumber through the sketchy hood shouldering the most uncomfortable laptop bag I have ever met. I cannot for the life of me find the place. I pass by where it is supposed to be a couple of times and find a public phone. (Thank goodness there are public phones here.) I call. They say yeah, that is the number, you have to walk down the street more, closer to where the avenue turns into a smaller street. OK. Another hour. I am starting to feel whiney and desperate. Nobody knows the hostel, though everyone wants to help, tries to help. Normally I wouldn't be so attached to a hostel I couldn't find, I would just let it go and look for another one. But I gave the airport this invisible hostel's address, and it's where they are going to deliver my pack, if my pack ever arrives.

Eventually I hail a cab and ask if he knows where the place is. He doesn't really, but I get in anyway, because I figure we can cover more ground by auto and maybe he can call them on his cell to get better directions, in Portuguese. It turns out to be exactly where I thought it was the first time, you know, an hour or so ago when I called and they said I should keep walking downhill. The driver is horrified and says how muito perigoso this neighborhood is. I already know it's pretty dangerous, because I had been walking around the same area for hours already. You don't have any friends here? You are here all by yourself? Why? Are you looking for adventure? This is no place for you to stay. You could stay at my house. I am just driving the taxi all day anyway, and it's only seven km from the airport.

So that's where I am now. Haha, just kidding.

Really, I ended up in Portugal for reasons of yoga, rural farmlands, and dishwashing galore. I'm not looking for adventure, rather for peace, solitude. In having someplace quiet to go, I am, in fact, trying to escape travel for a bit. Traveling's hard. So often nothing works out the way it's supposed to, the way you plan it to. Just. Like. Life. This is starting to sound like a Black Sheep article. It's just that when you're out there on the road, it's only natural that you and life come within grimace distance of each other more often. How we divide ourselves from our lives is a whole other story altogether.