The Final Mile

We descended on San Vicente, and it became a beautiful landing strip, a constant line of dark greens on either side of a long, extended straightaway toward Santa Monica. Even in the pouring rain, after 25 miles of constant running it was impossible not to be overcome by a deep sense of peace as I neared the finish. Then, rounding the corner onto Ocean, a feel-good band played Huey Lewis and life was beautiful as the end became inevitable. Around Montana I approached two lines of women wearing dark green t-shirts and I knew it could only be the Sojourn “Sea of Green”. I pulled back my jumper to reveal the Sojourn logo printed on the chest of my undershirt. “Whatup Team Sojourn!” I shouted, and gave high fives.

Sojourn is OPCC’s project to give battered women and their children a chance to rebuild their lives. OPCC does vital work, helping the people who need it most in a world that becomes increasingly deaf to their struggles. This was always the point: to do something good for people who need it most, in the city I love. The personal accomplishment of the physical challenge was always secondary to that. To have raised over $2,500, and to have my team in that spot at the end of my first marathon… I WAS SO PUMPED UP with Joy, Love, Gratitude, and Pride.

And then, like a Sea Lion, the Finish Line rose up into view. From the moment I laid eyes on it my gaze hardly wavered. Cheering crowds on either side of me, soggy shoes, sore legs, cold hands… all dissolved in the present as my breath became louder and my pace increased. I pumped my arms, I lengthened my strides. I cannot ever remember feeling so in control, so in command, so poised.

I passed the finish line and a girl put a medal around my neck (who knew that was going to happen?), posed for a couple photos, then made my way through the crowd toward the gear check. Whenever possible, I continued running, feeling a little bit crazy to still be running after a marathon, but knowing that I was in a hurry, that my day wasn’t over yet. Along the way, amazingly, both of my excellent parents were able to individually find me, but I knew even as I crossed the finish line a little after noon, chances were slim I could get my gear and still make it to Glendale for my 1:30 call…

I finished my first marathon in 4 hours, 10 minutes, which was faster than I ever hoped to run it, so even though I had started the race about 20 minutes later than I thought I would, and the rain and the wind did nothing to decrease my time, if traffic was slim, and I could get my stuff in the next 20 minutes or so, I could make it. Odds were against me.

But the gods were on my side. At about 12:15 I got to the gear check, and it didn’t look good, jam-packed with cold, angry, frustrated runners standing in line in the pouring rain, and there was only one volunteer who was crumbling under the stress of trying to find people’s belongings. But somehow I managed to sneak up to the front after 8 or 9 minutes and find my box. Then, miraculously the second bag I pulled up was mine. “Oh my god,” I said in shock.
“Is that yours?” the guy next to me asked.
“Oh my God!” I said again. “Bye! Bye!” I said, as I rushed back out through the crowd.
“You mean you don’t wanna stick around?” the guy asked sarcastically.
“Happy new year!” I said, ecstatically, back.

I met back up with my dad, we jog-walked seven blocks to my mom with the car on Colorado and 4th. I hopped into the backseat and rubbed BioRelief cream on my legs and ate a turkey sandwich. As we made our way towards Glendale, we passed the LA River, and for the first time in my life it actually resembled a river rather than a trickling stream of feces. I was overwhelmed with Gratitude.

The cute ASM called me, wondering where I was at 1:29. I picked up the phone like James fucking Bond and stepped into the theater, right on time.

The Last (big) Day of Training

I start at my parents' house in the Palisades. They’re out of town (sweet!), so after my run, I will hop in their cold pool, and then hit the steam bath.

Mile 1: Down old Maroney Lane, I feel my hips and notice that the first half-mile is always so awkward. Even after running four days a week for the past 13 weeks, running still feels so strangely foreign in the beginning… A guy on a bike in an orange top suddenly shouts at me. “Mr. O!” It’s Chuck Trout, a dad of one of the kids I tutor. His son Charlie says he’s a toy tester, like in Big. I always see him at Sunset on his SUP board, and he catches every. single. wave. It’s a good omen.
Mile 2: Down Temescal Canyon to the beach. Good pace established… I better have a good pace, I realize. I’ve never properly timed myself, and just found out this week that I have to run this marathon in under five hours or I probably won’t make my call for the matinee of Eccentricities of a Nightingale, at A Noise Within, in Glendale, on race day. I remember my goal for today’s run: 20 miles in 3 hours 49 minutes. At that pace, I will run the marathon in exactly five hours, hop in my car, and speed to Glendale to make my 1:30pm call time. Yeah, I know it’s a little crazy.
Mile 3: The wind is strong here at the beach, but thankfully it’s at my back. Coming home is going to be interesting though.
Mile 4: Beauty. Patches of clouds drifting in the breeze. Golden weeds swaying alongside the bike path. Windcaps littering the Ocean.
Mile 5: I make it to the Santa Monica Pier in 45 minutes. Unbelievable. I feel strong. I am going to shatter 3:49. I reset my goal, knowing I might not reach it. 3 hours.
Mile 6: Ain’t life grand? I pass the IFC’s Spirit Awards tent, a crowd of people hoping to get a glimpse of some stars on the red carpet. As I pass the tent, I’m pretty sure I see the big black guy with the afro from The Office and Pineapple Express.
Mile 7: Venice Beach in an hour. Pride swelling. I run to the end of the fishing pier. The winds are strong and it feels like the pier gets higher as you run further into the ocean.
Mile 8: Almost run into a 13-year-old on a bike, “Whoa shit, dude!” I say as I squeeze by. “Sorry!” the kid says… Speedway Avenue has many amazing murals. One of them has a bunch of eyeballs scattered amongst a bunch of adages stenciled onto a red wall. They say things like “Remember who you are”, and “Goodness is the only investment that always pays off”.
Mile 9: Along the dirt path at Ballona Lagoon. Tons of egrets standing idly in the water. “Our Banks Are Alive!” a sign reads.
Mile 10: Holy shit, Marina Del Rey Pier in 1:30. 3 hours in sight, but not much breathing room. Twinge of hunger, but feeling good. I see a guy on a SUP board in an orange top paddling through the Marina. Chuck?
Mile 11: Strong pace, back along the lagoon. I pass a guy walking on the path. “Well you’re certainly on the run!” he says. “That’s it, 20 miles today,” I reply as I pass him. “6 more and you’ll be at the marathon!” he shouts. “I’m on my way!” I shout back.
Mile 12: I can already feel the wind here on Speedway, this is going to be a challenge. I pass the sound of a distorted electric guitar. It can only be Harry Perry, the Rollerblading Guitar God of Venice Beach.
Mile 13: The wind.
Mile 14: The fucking wind. Mind starting to wander. Pace slowing up. Thinking about how I will word my final appeal email in support of OPCC, who I’m running this race for. I think about all the people I know who haven’t given to this amazing cause. Friends, associates, family members. Some of them don’t see the urgency, haven’t yet seen the value in the work I’m doing. How can I get their attention?
Mile 15: Back at the Santa Monica Pier. 5 more miles. In the tunnel under the pier, a break from the wind. A wave of peace washes over me. I steel myself.
Mile 16: I am on a rollercoaster. I am tired. My hands are cold. There is sand in my shoes. I pass a homeless man, one of many I have passed on this run. This one is black, ragged, with no shoes. His toes are horribly callused. I nearly burst into tears.
Mile 17: I pass the new Banksy piece on PCH. It appears to be a giant old abandoned water tank. Upon it Banksy has inscribed the words “THIS LOOKS A BIT LIKE AN ELEPHANT” in block letters. I ponder the piece.
Mile 18: I ponder death, I am so tired. I look at my watch. 2:45. Disappointment, as doing this run in 3 hours is nearly out of reach. I refocus. “You got this, come on!” I say aloud to myself.
Mile 19: Last two miles. I stop at the red light at the corner of PCH and Temescal and empty the sand out of my shoes. Happiness to be off the bike path and out of the wind, but the relief is minimal, running up long, steep Temescal Canyon Road. By the time I reach Sunset, I’m at
Mile 20: 3:03, and just hanging on, trying to put one foot in front of the other. Finally, back up Maroney Lane, I run up to my parent’s walkway, and put my hands on my knees in the middle of the street. I let out several groans. 3:13. Not bad, but I can barely walk up to the front door.

Still groaning, I make my way into the icy pool. When… does this… get better?

The steam bath, praise god! I am warm. I am safe. Finally, bliss.

Strength

We have to start looking at this addiction to strength in this country.

What is this constant desire to feel powerful? Why is it always so necessary to understand our influence? Why does that often feel so good?

It manifests itself in the way we look, the cars we drive, the people we sleep with, the homes we own, the job we maintain. We even feel this need for power when we practice yoga. It manifests itself in our handstands, our fancy arm balances, our desire to pour sweat. Bryan talks about how they say that the best possible exercise is moderately walking a few times a week. Moderately walking? Are you kidding? Who the hell needs handstands?

I feel it now, training for my first marathon. For what? I say, "1, I want to help people, and I'm running for Ocean Park Community Center. 2, I am the fittest I've ever been in my life and I'm curious about my boundaries, and D, Kieran said, so offhand, "Yeah, I haven't told you have I? I just ran a marathon in Barcelona." I didn't even know he was training.

I want to feel powerful as much as anyone else. Of course I do. I'm testing myself in the most basic way I know how to, and that's physically. I've never been a runner. What am I doing?

Well... running makes me feel strong. When I make it meditative, it becomes a challenge of how quiet I can keep my brain as my surroundings become more and more confronting, and as I succeed in that challenge to stay calm, I am then be able to manifest that peace in my everyday life.

However, at the cost of this new kind of meditation, I've become slightly disheartened in my yoga practice, as I don't have the energy to commit to sweaty vinyasa classes anymore, my first yogic passion. I'm also disheartened, this holiday season, by the news, by steroids, by obesity, by American CEO's, by our leaders. This need for size, for influence. This constant need for power!

It may not be such a bad thing, after all, it's not like the world needs more weak, lazy people, right? I'm just asking, is all this power, all this strength, all this influence and responsibility bringing us joy? And do we want to keep feeding it in our yoga practices? Not me right now. I'm looking at yin.

Anaswara said,

"The more you intellectualize this practice, the less effective it becomes."

And she's right.

Yoga and Politics

Like most people, I generally disagree with my father about politics. When we argue it brings out the worst in both of us, him insisting that I am inexperienced and naïve, me insisting he’s just angry and bitter. Generally our debates get us nowhere, but we continue to go head to head, trusting our political leaders when they say that apathy is not the answer, that we have to keep the dialogue going, and that eventually we will unite once more and reach the peak of our collective powers.

And I try to remind myself of this message as I find myself exhausted by the hype of the American Election. I keep coming back to the belief that without elections we are not free, that they are a necessary battle of intellect, that the process is deeply good.

On one hand politics, and especially elections, influence everyone. On the other hand they change nothing permanently. The idea of a new healthcare system, for example, was broadly supported on both sides of the aisle, but when an idea finally passed, many people complained that either it didn’t accomplish enough and should be abolished, or was completely wrong-headed in principle and should be abolished. In other words we’re still fighting about what has been branded by many as “Obamacare”, and we’re going to continue to fight about it for a long time. There’s so much opposition it’s hard to see our country really giving it a chance. The healthcare debate is a war of ideals, and like other wars where both sides cling to their ideals, this might never end.

This constant political warfare results in the faces of our political leaders being much unlike the faces you would want to make in pigeon pose; their brows tense like Obama’s, their teeth sharp like Blair’s, their bellies bulging like Gingrich. Politicians are often more akin to salesmen, putting on a show of compassion rather than truly extending it.

People who claim to be experts on politics, too, appear deeply unhappy. Look at Rush Limbaugh, who shouts manifestos at his listeners at the top of his lungs six hours a day. Look at David Gergen, a true centrist who is constantly concerned and disappointed. Look at Paul Begala, a Democratic strategist who smiles arrogantly as he holds firm to party lines.

Go to a campaign office. It’s meant to be place to generate hope and motivate volunteers, but mostly it’s cubicles filled with tired young people squinting at cold white screens.

Go to a Tea Party. Watch the attack ads. Watch our Press Secretary get torn to shreds by reporters.

Politics is ugly. In so many ways, it is un-yogic. It lacks compassion, wisdom, and truth.

But I’m addicted. And it’s not quite the same as my addiction to Facebook, because I’m convinced that politics can make powerful changes for good, however rare, however fleeting. Elections give us the opportunity to decide as a country where we are, and where we ought to go. They give certain yogis the opportunity to demonstrate that we can be as intellectually sound as those who disagree with us, and in fact we can do it with more compassion. While most yogis would prefer to go with the flow, I feel that that sentiment will take us only so far, that unless we occasionally stand up for what we believe, we will eventually find ourselves in a yoga class led by a drill sergeant, mindlessly doing poses for the sake of pride and power, ignoring our true feelings, lost in the noise.

Dear New Student,

I'm truly grateful that you've decided to give yoga a chance. By reading this blog you're allowing me to play a part in the development of what I hope will become a crucial part of your life, the development of your yoga practice. You've probably already discovered some of yoga's physical benefits. Immediately after your first sweaty vinyasa class you probably understood that there wasn't a more complete or basic exercise method out there if you wanted to increase flexibility and strength. These benefits were probably somewhat expected though.

The breath gave itself as an extra bonus. The importance of breathing probably never seemed so important to you until you started doing what the teacher was suggesting you do, which was to breath deeply, and pay attention to it. And when you did that for a bit, all of a sudden you felt something you really didn't expect; you actually felt happier, more whole.

This was hard to understand. You had just started getting used to the idea that happiness was something that could not be generated, that came to you by fate or by chance, and you just had to wait for those lucky moments when it arrived at your doorstep like Elijah, and savor it as long as it stayed. But yoga proved otherwise. Every time you left class you somehow felt better, even when the class wasn't exactly what you expected it to be.

It made you realize that when it comes to yoga, you are your greatest teacher. You understand now that there are lots of people who can offer amazing insight to your practice and maybe even to your life, but they can do that precisely because they recognize that only you truly know what you are going through, and therefore only you can truly understand your needs.

So in yoga you can feel free to be yourself. This practice is for you, and this practice is yours alone if you decide to make it so. We, the tutors, are here to suggest a framework based on our experience if you'd like to try adopting it for a short while, but please feel free to improvise around it according to whatever it is that you're feeling, and whatever it is that would make you feel good.

Namaste,

Hank

Newfound Simplicity

When I was just finishing up my teacher training with Jay Co, I confessed to some of my fellow students that I really didn't know what I wanted to do with my life; that whenever I was asked "What do you do?", I had a complicated answer, and I was starting to feel a little lost.

That's still true. When asked what it is that I do, I still don't have a solid answer. Generally I say it depends on the day. Today, I taught yoga, and then I tutored, and then I ate sushi with my dad. Tomorrow, I will play golf if it's not raining and teach guitar in the afternoon. I will never be one of these people who are able to say, "I am an actor," unless or course I'm acting in something, or "I am a yoga teacher," unless of course I taught a yoga class that day. My life, like most people's, is spread out, and I have to be OK with that, because it's where I am.

Palo said, "Have you ever thought about it in terms of what the world is asking you to do, rather than what to do with your life?" and I confessed I hadn't, and he said, "The best question to ask is not what it is you should do, but what is the universe asking you to do, in other words... how best can I serve?" And I was particularly taken by this notion because somehow it took all the pressure off me. It made me think with my gut rather than my brain, and answer the question honestly. Kids and Art were the two words that kept coming to mind, and this newfound simplicity made me feel better.

I think yoga is kind of like making art. It's creative, in that you create structure, atmosphere, and rhythm. Like art, it's uncompetitive and meditative. The classes I teach are flowing more naturally all the time now, and as a yoga instructor I feel more and more like an artist, honing in on the vitality of the craft. I'm starting to believe that yogi and artist are one in the same, always discovering, always strengthening, never satisfied, always content.