Tag: yoga

Yoga By The Whale

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It’s Celebrate The Small Things Day. Something I’ve achieved each week, no matter how small. If you’re interested in doing the same thing sign up here at Vicki’s blog.  This week I want to do more than celebrate, I want to extoll–from the Latin extollere, to praise, to lift up. I want to praise because I’ve been lifted up.

Yoga in The Park

So what am I going on about? “Yoga By The Whale,” a donation-based one-hour class led by the lovely, graceful Chanel that takes place at 9:15 in the morning, seven days a week in the little grass amphitheater behind “The Whale” sculpture you see in the photo.  Now keep in mind this area is on a bluff overlooking the ocean in Laguna Beach. Accompanied by the squawk of seagulls wheeling above, and the crash of waves below, this is where we glide through our asanas.

At the end, as we settle into Savasana–a relaxing posture intended to rejuvenate body, mind, and spirit–Chanel hands out eucalyptus-dampened hand towels which we place over our faces while she walks around spraying us lightly with lavender or lemongrass scented water. Aaah.

And here’s the bonus. Chanel donates part of her proceeds to Save The Bees.

 

Big Red

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Yesterday, for Jake’s first longer-than-ten-minute afternoon walk, I took him and Fergie a quarter of the way up the big hill. And ran into Big Red, our resident rattler. Fat little bugger, only not so little, about three feet long and quite good looking as snakes go.  Lazily coiled in an erosion crevice on the side of the fire access road, he had his chin pillowed on a teenage-size dead rabbit with some fur missing and stared at us as we passed.

If it hadn’t been for the young guy sitting on his haunches a couple feet away staring at Big Red in fascination, I wouldn’t have seen him there.

“You just missed it, he had the rabbit in his mouth.”

“Oh darn,” I murmured.

It was bad enough seeing the poor dead rabbit lying there on his side like he was taking a nap, without witnessing that.  And what was with the missing fur? I didn’t want to think about it. I’m always on the lookout for rattlers, what with two hyper curious dogs. Thank goodness this one had a spectator to warn me.

One time, BF (before Fergie) with a leashless Jake leading the way up the third leg of the hill, he trotted over a greyish rattler stretched across the road. Could’ve been a stick as far as both of us were concerned until I noticed the rattles out the corner of my eye.  I shrieked and, jumping over the snake, grabbed Jake by the collar and charged up the hill dragging him. This was before the law caught up with me. Now, I’m a little more circumspect, checking around for Park Rangers before unhooking their leashes. And in case you’re thinking that maybe a leash would help me rein in both dogs upon the sighting of a snake. It won’t.

Like the time I saw what turned out to be a harmless gopher snake sunning itself on a steep side of the hill just as Fergie was about to step on it. Grabbing her muscular little body, leash and all, I pitched her sideways, like one would a rugby ball. The snake slithered away. This little stunt cost me mucho dinero in doctor and chiropractor bills and brought to light a diagnosis of spondylolisthesis—back problems that had been waiting to happen.

One thing I learned from the sighting of Big Red was that Fergie has a girl’s horror of snakes. She gave Big Red one of her classic craned-neck WTF looks, spun on her two heels and all but dragged me up the hill behind her. Good girl. Jake, on the other hand had slammed on brakes—more investigation needed. Have you ever been pulled in opposite directions by two bull terriers, who single-handedly could drag a tractor up the hill? It’s invigorating. Opens up the chest cavity, equivalent to at least twenty yoga Camel Postures, only a little more forceful.

When we came back down the hill, the snake-watcher was sitting on an embankment on the other side of the road, elbows on knees.  There was no sign of Big Red and the rabbit had moved a few feet away.

“The rattler’s behind that bush,” snake-watcher said. “So I tossed the rabbit after him.”

“Wow,” I said, wondering if he’d grabbed the poor little bunny by the back legs, or what? Never mind that he was in striking range of Big Red. What I should’ve said was, why?

Meanwhile Fergie had made a beeline for the rabbit before I realized. Jake followed suit.  Calling upon muscles that the two of them had helped develop, I planted my feet and pulled them toward me.

“How about a GREENIE?” I cried. If you’re not the fortunate caretaker of a dog, what Henry Beston calls another nation, a Greenie, is a very tasty treat. They swung around. Seizing the opportunity I started running, they followed.

 

Pelican Yoga

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I carried myself kicking and screaming to yoga yesterday. I’m still a little wobbly after the flu, plus my back has been acting up. My squigglyiotis of the back is now manifesting as a pain in my side. Okay, I made up that name–it sounds better than the real one, spondylolisthesis. All that means is that a couple of my lower vertebrae have taken a hike toward my belly button, so as to speak. And if it weren’t for all the yoga, walking, running and hiking, I’ve been doing for the past twenty-five years or so, I’d probably be in some serious trouble. So I’m not stopping anything, even though some of the moves in my power yoga routine exacerbates the pain.  My task is to back off when I need to. Hard for me to do.

Here’s where I practice yoga (other than at home). It’s on the grounds of the swanky Montage Resort in South Laguna, on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The hour and a half classes are free, courtesy of Carl, a licensed yoga instructor, who does it for the love of yoga and whatever donations anyone is willing to contribute to his favorite charity, a Himalayan children’s school. And not associated with the Montage in any way.

There’s usually anywhere from a couple to thirty or so practioners lined up on the sidewalk, mats butting up against the lawn, even in snow and rain and storms and blazing sun. (That’s me, the shrimp, second from the left in the photo above.) Okay, no snow, but definitely blazing sun in the summer. That’s when you’ll find me chasing every bit of shade I can find.

This was a hot day, even at 8 in the morning. I found a spot hugging the side of the pergola there to the right in the first photo and focused on letting go of my obsession with perfection. Pain is a great teacher. But I’m a reluctant student. And then came time for the leg lifts, etc. done on our backs. That’s when a flock of pelicans drifted above, riding the currents, feet pulled in like landing gear.  They measure fifty inches from bill to toe, and have six-and-a-half-foot wingspans, but these numbers don’t convey the heft of their presence. As I lifted and lowered my legs up and down, I watched as they flapped several times then coasted again. I knew from studying them before that a rhythm reveals itself: effort, glide, effort, glide. I’ll get there.

My Happily Ever After

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I was just reading this blog by Heidi Munson called Dateless this New Year? Online Dating?  (okay, so New Year is past: I’m a little behind on my reading).  This is what she suggested for New Year’s Eve–or as we call it back in Zambia, Old Year’s Eve, makes sense, right?–a do-it-yourself beauty makeover, eating in with a fabulously set table, Frank Sinatra playing in the background, and that special dessert you’ve been meaning to make.  Next, a movie marathon with titles that inspire you to believe that there’s still a chance for Happily Ever After.  She goes on to suggest that you reinvent yourself online by spying on the competition and then reworking your own profile so that you don’t attract “toads,” the term she uses for unwanted prospects.  Her blog is about online dating tips and other toad evasion techniques.

The latter didn’t appeal to me at all.  No online dating for this 100-year-old single woman.  And no Frank Sinatra.  How about Bon Iver and Beirut?  That’s who I had playing on my iPod on New Year’s Eve.  I had on my yoga clothes from my yoga session followed by a hike I’d taken with my dear maniacs up the “other” hill (after my incident with The Law up the regular hill), but no beauty makeover.  It may be too late.

In the oven, I had a leg of lamb with potatoes that turn oh so crispy at the end; sauteed chopped kale and cannellini beans, mint sauce, chutney, and fresh green peas completed the dinner.  But here’s the best part. I made myself a Bloody Mary with salt around the rim of the glass along with a stalk of celery and a lime wedge: the first I’ve ever made.

A little preamble here, I’m not big on hard liquor but I had just read an article on how to make the perfect Bloody Mary and as I was craving that spicy tomato taste, that’s what it had to be.  Yow!  It was the bomb.  I had two and then amidst a cluster of lit scented candles, I ate my repast on my Thai traveling trunk that serves as a coffee table as I watched MI-5, a British import and very guilty pleasure, with Fergie and Jake’s eyes glued to my fork.  But they’re polite little Staffies, averting their eyes when I looked back at them.  Life is good.