week one yoga: booty to the mountains

New as been the theme of my life for the past couple weeks. Everyday I inevitably end up doing something new. Some days it is simply getting lost and ending up in a new part of town. As long as I can figure out north from south, I'm okay. Usually I get to have a conversation with a delightful stranger. Most the time it is nonchalant and harmless as I explain my new arrival to the city and inquire about something I have yet to find (a used bookstore), but occasionally I have to be wary about broadcasting my status, for instance announcing my recent move to the entire line at the Post Office. I have found that speaking with strangers does help me feel a little more connected to the town, or in other words: I have a voice to be recognized* in this town- and hello! Denver, you better recognize!

To fill some of my time between work and church and weekends with friends in the mountains, I have decided to seek out a yoga studio. My TNT coach recommended that I add yoga to my running training. I have always enjoyed yoga! Not a regular yogi but still a BIG fan, I have decided to approach this in the most economical matter possible (read= FREE). Using my trusty EcoMetro coupon book, I have narrowed down all the yoga studios in the area that offer a week long pass. The closest one is located in Golden which is about 15 minutes from my apartment. Let me tell you about the town of Golden. It is one sweet town. From Denver, you just drive straight toward the mountains. The Colorado School of Mines is a prestigious engineering university that is in Golden. As you drive along the highway with the mountains to the west, a giant "M" rests on the mountain, representing the Mines. I find it simply lovely that the town is nestled next to such a peaceful range. I could never tire of watching the sun set over mountains. On the clear evenings, they glow a soft, brilliant iris-blue. A drive up to Lookout Mountain, one of the mountains over Golden, during sunset (or sunrise) would be magnificent.

So here is where my search for yoga has landed me. By nature, I am uncomfortable when I am late, and yoga class is one place I did not want to arrive late. After circling a couple blocks, I give up at the brink of sweating and call the studio. I am trying to use the mountains as a reference point since I know for sure which direction is west (mountains are in the west...mountains are in the west..), but the lady on the phone isn't as compass-minded. Nevertheless, I find the entrance in a back alley close to a public parking lot. I make my way up the stairs to the second floor of the building. The studio is located in a strip center and there are many tenants in the one complex. As I come to the top of the stairs and open the door, I enter a hallway with more doors. Glancing in the first one, I see a stage and auditorium where an usher is escorting incoming theater members. Anxious to find the studio, I step toward the door but quickly sidestep left down the hallway. Rounding the corner, I find another door with the studio's name. I've made it. Inside I find a sweet, young instructor eager to introduce me to all the classes available. Just three minutes before class, I enter the small studio. Silence is observed in the studio. It's full class. But there is one place for one more mat. Thankfully it's in the second row. And between two men. Nice. The one to my left is probably a model or at least an athlete-of-year somewhere. Perfect. Did I mention our mats are about 15 inches apart? Yep, nice and comfy.

Enter instructor. "Hello everyone, I'm just going to adjust the temperature to 92 degrees for this class so it is more comfortable." Excellent. I've been in a hot yoga before and my last memory of it involved buckets of sweat coming from every crevice and non-crevice of my body. This studio is long with mirrors along the front and along one of the short sides. The opposite short side has two large windows. From here the mountains can peer through as if to monitor our practice. The focus of this class is alignment and each posture is focused on maintaining the original balance in our shoulders, spine and hips. Our instructor encourages us to keep our shoulders back and to push our booty to the mountains. Ahhh, yoga not found in Texas. The class is challenging but enjoyable. I am able to safely follow the instructor, and though flexibility is significantly lacking in my practice, I leave satisfied and tired.

After class, I head toward the stairs and almost bump into a small, mustached Johnny Cash. (Just an actor about to enter the playhouse, almost forgot about that.) Downstairs I meet Chuck, one of the newcomers to the yoga class. Sitting on his motorcycle, he is ready for a conversation. Tired, definitely sweaty, and not exactly ready for a convo-with-a-stranger, I quickly nod and continue to walk. Too late. The questions start coming and I can't help but be friendly. He's nice and innocently talkative. Somehow the conversation turns to me and why I am in yoga class. I explain honestly how I am adding it to my running routine, which in turn prompts an observant comment from Chuck, "O yes, I see that you do have thick thighs."

Maybe yoga is supposed to be about myself as a lot of it teaches, but for me it is never about myself. I push and challenge myself because I can. I strive to lead a healthy life and be aware of the way I treat my body. But at the end of the day it is not my own but created for the glory of Christ. I seek to honor Him in everything I do (thick thighs or not). This week I also discovered a new kind of yoga. Holy Yoga is taught by a woman at my church. Last night I attended it for the first time with a friend. The class involves some of the traditional yoga moves along with worship music. The instructor read from the Bible at the beginning and the end. It felt like worship instead of just a workout. I also enjoyed doing it with a room full of people I knew loved Christ. It was more powerful to be a part of the church community. I'll definitely be returning.

That's all I've got for now on my yoga search. We'll see what the next coupon offers.

love,
-s



*Recognized maybe. I constantly duck by the lady camping out in front of the library collecting signatures for something political. Ugh...don't talk to me.

and to the mountains i go!

Every trip took more than sixteen hours. It was never about the drive time though, especially has a young girl. At that age it was not in my mind to question the way, route or time it took to get to Colorado. All I knew was that we had a map, a station wagon, sometimes a dog, and plenty of road. All three of us kids rode together in the middle seat because that's where we all fit and the back seat faced backwards which would make us car sick, or that was the assumption. We brought things to entertain us along the way. I had my Nancy Drew books. Julie slept. Garrett chewed sunflower seeds with Dad. Mom checked the map. At each gas station, we choose a snack and a drink. Water, the nicely labeled kind, was my pick. I never had a thing for soda. Occasionally in the mornings I would get chocolate milk. Mom never bought chocolate milk at home, but on car trips we could choose what we wanted.

The drive to Colorado was a long trek. We'd usually go through New Mexico, but occasionally we would head north through Oklahoma and Kansas. Either way, once we entered Colorado the air changed. You could actually smell the trees outside. It was as if once we explored the northern climate and found the dry air that so many more smells appeared. Traveling northward was an adventure. It was a far away place that I was privileged to vacation to every summer. Texas was always home, after all it was where we left the dogs when we left for vacation. Denver was always the last stop before the mountains. From there we would drive northwest through the canyon to Estes Park. Dad would open the windows. He would drive slower and brake more, plus there were lots of turns. Julie would get car sick, but I loved the drive. I would lean my head against the partially open window and gaze up at the steep rock walls that surrounded the road we drove on. Mom would play Amy Grant. No more maps, we were close. After coming over the last ridge, the city lights of Estes were visible from the road. I remember arriving at night most of the time after the sun had gone down. Four more turns and we were on the road that led up to my grandparents house.

The cabin was built on the mountainside among the trees. A cabin is too simple a description for my grandparents house. It is huge and has it's own driveway from the road. As a child, my grandparents house was a resort. A wrap around deck with hot tub. Two stories tall and a loft over the living room. Two fireplaces. Large windows throughout the house with no curtains to block heat or sunlight, not that either are bothersome when your residence is in the mountains. Standing in the kitchen, one can see the city from the sky and the mountain ranges that surround it. Long's Peak in the far distance serves as the masterpiece of the whole house. The house was positioned to frame the view of the great Fourteener. For me, each summer day in Estes had a mood that was dictated by the great mountain. Some days it would be bright and clear. The snow left on the peak showed the strength of the previous year's winter. There's always snow, but it varied slightly every once in a while. Some days the clouds would cling to the top and you could not see the peak. When the clouds are thick, they sink down to the tree line and the city is not visible. You can stand out on the deck and be in clouds. Once I saw a rainbow that was below me just down the hillside.

Colorado was once a distant destination reserved for the summertime. As a child, I loved every memory I made with cousins, aunts and uncles and my Mor Mor and Gramps in the mountains. Now my adventures are different. I've traveled and seen more of the world and grown up a little. The mountains found a place in my heart and now I'm grateful that I've found my way back. At 24, I call it home. Don't let my maturity fool you though, I'm still up for exploring.

More than a comic book

Life is peachy. I have beautiful friends, as I was reminded of that this past weekend when I was part of a wonderful celebration. One of my most lovely and faithful friends was married last weekend. She asked me to be in her bridal party, and I spent the weekend around some close friends. Be thankful for your friends! Beautiful friends are committed and faithful in encouragement. They are consistent and excited about the victories in my life. Allow me to be a bit boastful- I have an abundance of beautiful friends, despite how geographically scattered they may be.

I made the move to Colorado over one month ago. Already I am learning more about myself. When I was speaking with a friend about the excitement and fear of this new part of my life, he compared this time as standing on the edge of a precipice. At first thought, this image is terrifying. What can come next but a fall? It is the top of a ridge, a tall mountain or a steep slope. At the bottom could be a valley or a river full of boulders and sharp rocks. Scary and unknown. Or scary because it is unknown. This is also a beautiful step. It's a phase or a season. And that is thrilling.

This season is a chapter in my book. Every chapter is crucial to the storyline. A missing chapter would leave the story lacking and incomplete. It would make certain details and characters empty. Perhaps the book would not even make sense. The reader may be confused and question the integrity of the novel, even the authorship. Not every chapter can contain the "inciting incident" yet each piece is key to the completion of the story. Whether my book is a novel, a thriller, a comic book or just a short story, every line is worth reading. In the end, it's not meant to be biography but a first-hand account of a life glorifying our Creator.

So this is it- month one of residency in Colorado complete. Some highlights of June include: a trip and tasting at Coors Brewery in Golden and Celestial Seasonings (the tea company!) in Boulder and a lovely freshman tour of the campus at Colorado State University in Fort Collins. I met a couple of friends in Estes Park to take a night hike up Twin Sisters on the Fourth of July. We had planned to make it to the top to watch the fireworks, but it was too cloudy to see below the mountain. It was all worth it though because time with good friends in the mountains is always enjoyable. Exploring Denver has led to a couple of wrong turns which led to the discovery of interesting neighborhoods which led to getting lost a number of times. I've become well acquainted with my pop-up map of Denver! The city is fairly basic and has fewer highways and only one toll road (DFW, take note!). Another practical thing is how the streets are named. Some one was wise and decided it would be simple to number the streets: 1st, 2nd, 3rd, etc. Genius! It's helpful and for the most part, I know when I'm going north/ south rather than east/ west. It is slightly overwhelming though when your destination is 54th street and you live at 1st, but so far my reliable Civic has embraced the hilly terrain and put up distances. For the record, the drive from Denver to Estes has been better received by both car and driver.

Adventuring well and still introducing myself as a Texan,

-s

The Luck of a Texan

I have known the great land of Texas since I was four years old. I've proudly called it my home and shared in all its luxuries: the heat, humidity, huge sunsets, miles of open land, dust, boots, cowboy hats and a rich, proud history. Bordering Mexico and the Gulf, Texas was a coveted land that many peoples and countries fought for. I find pride in knowing the history of Texas and what the men and women of this land fought for. Many came to the land to live, work, farm and raise their families. They chose the south, they chose Texas.



The history of a place gives its inhabitants a story to tell, perhaps even memories, and a sense of belonging. Stories create attachment and ownership. They tie one family to another and honor the past. Knowing where you came from makes you no longer a stranger but a resident and citizen. Texas is large and proud. We are the second largest in land size and population. Our major industries are cattle and oil, both which are quite lucrative. Bordered by four states, one country and the Gulf of Mexico, Texan culture is a big part of the Southern United States. Six flags have flown over the land, representing the six different entities that ruled the area. We like our fried food, but we love our football. And the place would not be the same if it weren't for country music and its famous natives like Pat Green, Robert Earl Keen and Clint Black. Texas is big. Texas is loud. Texas is red, white and blue. It is bold and serious. Don't Mess with Texas.

This is what I'll miss about Texas. I've known it for so long. I've grown to love Texans- their big hearts, their big hats, their big trucks...everything is bigger in Texas.

My first love, my loyal friend, I'll miss you dearly. I've had just the luck to know you like I do.

For you:

The Luck of a Texan

We have the wide blue skies with the heavy hot sun whose longevity is infamous.

And the colors of our spring have long dried and drowned with the sweeping of summer.

And each corner and curve is filled with the invading heat, yet with this weighty season upon us, we find a respite here:

For it is the luck of a Texan

to be under a tall shade tree

and to breathe in the breeze of the evening

and to know that the drops of sweat that form on the skin of our brows

come from a pulse in our hearts

that is loud and vibrant and resounding.

It is the luck of a Texan to endure,

but not only for a season

but for the day and the night,

and the minutes, and seconds,

and forever through this vast land.

But more, it is the luck of a Texan

to be close to the hearts of Texans

here in this glorious homeland known by many—

but claimed only by the lucky.

Two hands better than one?

Someday I'd like to be ambidextrous. I'd like to know what it's like to throw your elbow way to the left just to get your arm on the table and in position to write. And I wonder what it is like to make backwards check marks. And what percentage of left handers were bothered by being singled out in class to sit in the left-handed desk? Perhaps they enjoyed being different, or maybe they didn't care at all and just saw it as a necessity? And how many of us would have been left handed if a strong-willed elementary teacher had not corrected the natural tendency?

Is it at all bothersome to be in the minority? Or is it unique, possibly empowering, to know that you are mostly "opposite most everyone else"? Would my balance be better if I could do things with my left hand as well as my right? Would I be more attentive to my body movements? I envied the left handers on the volleyball court. They had the advantage because they attacked the ball from a different direction. Their whole approach and swing was different. I was never tall enough to block a hitter on the net, but I definitely learned to spot them from the back row to anticipate their hit.

Including our current president, nine past US presidents were left-handed. But were any of them ambidextrous? I'm curious. Surely those in the minority have the advantage to learn right-handedness and become proficient faster since it seems the world has catered to right handers. This just means it would take that much more discipline to learn lefthandedness.

when it all comes down to this

This is my big step of faith. I have never in my life had to trust in God so much as I do now. I have always wanted to be in God's will and tried to trust him in all things, but never before have I had to rely on Him as much as I am now.

It would be easy for me to stay in my job and be comfortable with the things that I have right now. It would be easy for me to wish that things would change. It would be easy to live a mediocre life. But I do not believe this is how I was called to live. I believe in a great God who calls us to a full life in Him. He calls us to live in faith (Hebrews 10:19-23). I want the kind of faith that Abraham had when he left his homeland and listened to God to take him to the place he would receive his inheritance.

I'm going to have to trust God every step of the way. I'm stepping out on my own and depending completely on Him. I'm moving to Colorado to go back to school. I'm going to study what I've always loved and live in a place that I've always loved. I'm going to spend as much time outside, most likely in the mountains. For the first time since I was 4, I will be living in the same state as my grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins.

I'm not sure why it took me until now to decide to go, but I'm going. I'm not sure what the future holds for me. I'm not even sure what tomorrow has, but I want it. I want the joy and hope that comes from Him. We are certain of NOTHING in this life. We are guaranteed NOTHING. It is by absolute grace and mercy that we are alive.

When I first decided to move to Colorado and pursue another degree, I felt like I was taking on an adventure. In a way, I am. I am making my own decisions and taking each day as it comes. I am grateful for what I have and I do not want to waste it. I feel called to something greater than I am able to know right now. I'm not sure what it is- but I have hope. I began to think that this new decision in my life would be a way for me to grow up and discover who I am. I began to pray that God would show me who I am in Him. Then...it occurred to me that this plan may not be about myself. My prayer now is that I may be able to know Him deeper. I pray that my faith may increase. I pray that I would draw into Him and truly treasure the people He puts in my life. I pray that my talents and skills and education would glorify Him. I pray that I may never lose track of Him as my Creator.

Thank you for reading my blogs. More than anything, I would appreciate your prayers. This is a giant step for me, and I am anxious excited about everything that is to come. I'll keep writing with notes on the transition!
Much love,
S

(You) write it down!

Pens. One of my most favorite gifts I've received is an Acme pen from my brother for my college graduation. He actually gave me a catalog and let me choose the one I wanted. It was a hard decision. I am a slightly indecisive person as it is, and making the decision on a writing tool that has been designed by professional artists was a task for me! The range of styles, themes and designs is extraordinary. The quality of the pens is exquisite. After perusing the catalog, and then studying the catalog, and then reading about the designers, I chose the pen "Colori" by Marcel Wanders. He has his own studio in Amsterdam and does work for many big name clients including British Airways, Droog Design, Flos, Habitat, Mandarina Duck, Rosenthal, Swatch and Virgin Atlantic Airways. I was impressed with his design, and the bright colors are, for lack of a better word, "artsy". And I love it!

Writing. It is expression, craft and design coming through in words. It's not just communication, but it is art. It's creativity in words- many, few, concise, verboise, repetitive, broken, made-up, foreign, linked, or jumbled. This is why I love words. And yes, I LOVE words. Words come from people. People are unique and convey themselves through their language. Language is more than just verbal or written words, but it is also in the tone, inflection, or gestures. Ahh...but I like the words on paper, specifically the ones by hand.

So this is where pen meets paper. Handwriting is fascinating to me. It seems to be linked to personality. Have you ever found a note and tried to figure out who wrote it based on the handwriting? Or maybe you've tried to read someone's handwriting that was really messy? Were they in a hurry when they wrote it or do they actually have sloppy penmanship? And how were they taught to write? Did some people have better elementary teachers who wrote on the board neater than others? One of my favorite things to learn in elementary school (besides art class) was cursive. I was so anxious to learn all the letters in cursive. I remember being jealous that my teacher could read and write in cursive! I thought it was exciting when I learned the captial and lowercase cursive letters. My dad would encourage me to keep up my cursive writing all the way through high school. Some teachers didn't care if we wrote in cursive or print; they just wanted it to be legible. Cursive penmanship is faster and easier when you are writing a lot. It is easier to take notes or write a letter in cursive because you don't have to pick up your pen as much and you can continue your thoughts with more fluidity.

Signature. A person's signed name has always been important in contracts, bills, certificates, letters and other documents. It is an official and undisputed way of authorizing a document. It is an personal yet professional way of stating, "This is me and I agree!" Nobody really teaches a signature. I would say it is kind of a scrawl that you develop as you discover how you like to see your name written. Sure, you may practice and perfect it so that it does not actually look like just a scrawl, but ultimately it's your mark. It becomes recognizable and memorable.

When President Obama signed the recent health care bill (H.R. 3590 Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act) into law this week, he used 22 pens. That's 22 different pens to write his name. So he wrote ten letters: B-a-r-a-k O-b-a-m-a. Can you imagine trying to write a signature with that many pens? He couldn't even use one pen per letter, but he had to make parts of letters for each pen. (He practiced.) This has been a tradition for presidents since Franklin Roosevelt. They give the pens to people who have worked on the bill being signed into law. A couple of the pens are also placed in the archives. So I wonder...do they leave the ink in the pens to be preserved? If so, why? I do not see the significance in that if it will not be used again. I say keep the same pen and use it over and over again for each bill signed into law. Wouldn't that be more historical? How cool would it be if he signed with the same pen Franklin Roosevelt used to sign bills in 1930s-40s? There's my vote. Hmmm...if they ever come up on eBay, let me know.

I can think faster with a keyboard under my fingers. I can think more freely with a pencil in my hand. I work more creatively with a marker in my hand. But, I believe I can compose much better with an ink pen between my fingers. There is something about the permanence of a pen. It's the smooth roller ball on paper encouraging me to "be brilliant!" I can choose a simple Paper mate for speed over accuracy or I can summon a Uni-ball for precision and quality. I do realize it is a little contradicting to promote handwriting through an online blog, but that is the way the world likes to communicate these days. Although chances are that if you are reading this online, you have, at one point, received a handwritten note from me. At least I hope so, as that is my favorite way to communicate. Enjoy words, and if you're bored, write me some!