On detox and eastern healing.

Two days ago, I had my first experience of a method of holistic healing, which would be best described as 'Japanese Kinesiology.' Well, it could have been reiki, it could have been theta-healing.... seriously, I'm just not sure.

Anyway, I felt a bit queasy as I pulled up to the house. Yes, I was getting a treatment from [Who?] who treats from home in a plain old house in the middle of suburbia. It's a bit like when you have the option of shopping at Sportsgirl, but next door is a warehouse boutique with lots of similar, cheaper made clothes for half the price. What do you do? You always, always walk into Sportsgirl. Screw having to talk to angry asian shopgirls who are inevitably manipulating you to buy their cheaply made inferior items.

So where was I? It was meant to be street number 105. The 0 was missing. It was a dishevelled little paint-peeled house, it was getting dark, and I had no idea who was going to greet me at the door. I was getting visions of Dexter. But you know, a version of Dexter that the audience is not meant to sympathise with.

I knocked on the door and saw thankfully that there was an expensive flatscreen TV visible through the glass french doors. It made me feel a little comforted that this guy wasn't just after my money [or worse]. And then, he appeared, almost floating towards the doorway to greet me. Shige. A little Japanese man of some illusive age (you never know how old asians are; they always look so damn young). His face was round, and he smiled a sweet, gentle smile, sporting a couple of missing teeth. He had honest eyes. I liked him immediately.

He brought me into his little medical office. I saw posters of the spinal cord on the wall and I saw a Certificate of Naturopathy sitting in a frame. In very strong broken english, he said to me, "I am help you. You are only person who cause your problem. Something inside is problem. I help you find way to fix problem. Healing comes from within."

I looked into his eyes and thought, well, I'm not sure of any of his credentials, but I guess I've gotta trust him.

He asked to look at my hands. I looked at him doubtfully at the stage. My hands are fine, I was thinking. He started to look at which of my arms was longer. Strangely, I could see quite clearly that one arm was longer. Oh. That's interesting. Maybe we're on to something here. My arms are asymmetrical. I'm screwed.

Then he asked me to stand up and lean to one side. And the the other. "Mmm. okeeyy. Mmm." and then asked me to lay down on his chiropractic table. I was tense and worried. Please don't take advantage of me, I was thinking. And then i felt guilty for even thinking it. Why is it that all men are immediately judged to be rapists?

While I was lying on my front, he conducted some strange treatments. I felt objects being laid on my shoulders and back. I felt something fluttering around my head. He placed pressure on my lower back and moved me from side to side. It certainly didn't feel like a normal medical appointment. I was waiting for him to click me back into place and say, "you're fine now, off you go."

But of course, that couldn't be the case. Truth is, I've felt unwell for a really long time. At first I just thought it was part of getting older - you know, the older you get, the more pains and problems you feel. It's natural. You can't expect your body to always be youthful. But after a while i started to get suspicious of the amount of caffeine i needed to stay awake and alert. And the fact that I couldn't do/eat anything without gruelling abdomen symptoms. And it kept going from there, throughout my body; pains, infections, fogginess, lack of motivation, anxiety, and probably depression.

Shige's voice rang inside my head: "You are only person who can fix problem. Problem is within."

The final part of the procedure was detox acupuncture. Long story short: boy, can I tell you, have i been detoxed. I have spent the last 24 hours doubled over, sore, nervy, headachey, stomachey, brain-foggy, and quite frankly, stupid. Even as i write this, i feel abnormally stupid.

But i need to trust in Shige's words. "You cannot feel better without feeling worse first. Your body will know what to do."

So I guess I just need to ride it out. Physically and emotionally. I feel like an addict coming off some hard edged drugs. But as Shige says, "You do detox; you fix your lifestyle too. All will heal soon. And stop doing yoga. You are doing it wrong."

Ah, shit, seriously? Ok Shige.

Tree-Pose and Brain-Twitter.

It’s a funny thing, Yoga.

There’s Downward Dog, Tree Pose, and Trikonasana… There’s the Cobra, Virasana, and Reverse Warrior… But amongst all these awkward, highly exposing bodily maneuvres, there’s this great art of ‘meditation’.

 Something that I haven’t quite mastered yet.

I know I haven’t mastered it, because all the meditation and “higher-self” books I’ve been reading keep telling me that to achieve full heightened awareness, “one must disengage from all thoughts”. All? I didn’t think human beings were capable of such a thing. Me especially. Aren’t we designed for complex problem solving and higher thinking? Isn’t that what sets us apart from apes?

After a great session of Iengar yoga, where my whole body is feeling intensely sore, I lie back as the lights are dimmed for “Savasana,” and I try this meditation thing once again. Back to it, honey. Learn to disengage. And I try all the tricks that I’ve been taught: imagining sifting through a sky full of clouds, conscious breathing through a light tunnel in my belly…. or quite simply… just not thinking. Eventually, I’m back where I started. My stupid little brain-world.

I’d like to shut off this brain-world at most times of the day, actually. It’s quite an inefficient part of myself. It often stops me from getting a good night’s sleep, or working to full capacity. 

There my little brain tweets the most ridiculous thoughts. And when I say “tweets”, we’re probably not too far off the Twitter variety. Meaningless crap. Or just plain fantasy daydreaming.

And all this reading to “improve my self” has taught me to live in the “now”. That’s also kind of hard when I’m constantly thinking of the past, or the future. Now? You want me to think of ‘right now’? I’m not sure that me laying on my back in a crowded hall is too interesting. However, my plans for the weekend, or the thought of holidays far far away one day, seem rather enticing, don’t you think?

And there’s the other thing: there are a whole lot of women in my class. And one guy. Who is fairly old and quite possibly only in attendance for the eye-candy. And it leads me thinking - is this “thinking” thing a female problem? And here I am, thinking again. Are women subjected to tortuous thoughts for their entire lives, whilst men are quite happy in their desolate mind-caverns?

I’ve been told it’s true; I’ve even read it in books. I have been assured that men really do have a no-thinking zone in their minds. So when they are asked, “What are you thinking,” and they say, “I dunno, nothing?” they are apparently speaking the truth. Whilst we are incredibly busy trying to find an answer to all our deep and meaningful questions about life, our male counterparts are just…. watching the footy. Or drinking beer.

So I’ve come to realise that the severe lack of men in my yoga class is because men don’t need yoga to switch off their Brain-Twitter. Because they have none. Men can get over their problems in an instant, by simply not thinking about it ever again. Which leads us women to become entirely confused and frustrated and makes us obsess over it again and again until our minds are full of pointless updates that make us angry, passive-aggressive and in intense need of saving from ourselves.

It would be so much easier to be a man. You get to go to yoga simply to perve on women. And you don’t even need to worry about it.

So here I am again, back at my first dilemma. I cannot switch off my little brain, and I have some obviously unresolved injustice issues. And so, I’m wondering if I am a Yoga failure…. or if slowly by slowly, I am gaining a little more awareness of the “self”, after all.

Isn’t recognition the first step to improvement? I think yes. And if Downward Dog leads me any closer to spiritual greatness, then let’s get those hamstrings stretching. Ugggh…. pain.

On repression and men: 101

I went out for coffee with a good male friend of mine the other day. We took our seats in the café and proceeded with a fantastic conversation about the latest holidays we’d embarked upon, the music festival that was coming up, and anecdotes about nights out with our friends. But inevitably I had to broach the question, “So what happened with your girlfriend?” And after a sigh, he embarked upon a quite simple explanation: “It was just too complicated for me.”

And I am brought back to the conclusion I usually make about all guys: they are so scared of feelings. Real feelings. Figuring things out. Deep stuff.

Don’t get me wrong, a huge reason I love having male friendships is because of the ease at which we can talk about the fun stuff. There’s no trashy gossip: just untainted conversation and plentiful funny stories that keep me giggling and relaxed.  Not to mention the added bonus that I feel pleasantly confident that they are not going to tear me to shreds the minute they get home. In fact, they probably won’t even give our coffee date another second thought for a few months until they suddenly realise they haven’t seen me in a while.

But when things get more meaningful, you can see the unease in their eyes; and on the flipside, women are like predators, inching forward in their booth to swarm upon their male prey. Because, quite simply, girls are just so much better at feelings than boys.

Sometimes, my sense of emotion can get rather intense and overwhelming, and I need a bit of guy-friend time to give me perspective and put all the silly stuff in the trash where they belong. But honestly, I like the fact that I can spend time pondering a complicated subject and finding some sense of internal rest at the end of my crusade. 

Usually, my thoughts turn into meaningful actions somehow. I can push things back into the place they are meant to be. And – like magic - my feelings eventually return to their normal feel-good state. I like the tide and pull of where my feelings take me. The feeling creates new pathways and draws me into love, creation, hope, magic. And I learnt a long time ago that falling into sadness for too long is a recipe for disaster and pointlessness. My happiness is resolute. It is a part of me. But I sure as hell will let myself feel the pain of a bad moment when I’m physically and emotionally supposed to. It’s life.

Men on the other hand will literally shut down. I’ve seen it time and time again. A whole face can change in a moment. Men in general are in constant feel-good mode and anything that obscures that sense of fantasy-reality will be ignored or avoided. I am just generalising of course, but I am perceptive enough to know that when a guy has that stone-cold-avert-eyes-clench-jaw-look, it usually means that they are banishing every sense of emotion out of their system. Striking a heartfelt chord is not something they like to admit to. But fooling around, however, is perfectly acceptable.

What happens when true feelings reach breaking point though? What happens months, years down the track when those thoughts that haven’t been resolved blow up with Freudian catastrophe?

It makes me wonder how on earth men and women are ever to live happily together. And how clichéd but true: opposites attract.

But maybe that’s the point. Perhaps this is just the way things are meant to be.

On kidhood and adulthood.

I am running.

Running like a maniac through the dim hallways of the late-night cinema, I pass doors with neon lights and posters of celebrities that try to snap me up with their smiles. My pretty little black sandals are my soft-trodden wings. I am running as fast as I can so that I can get back to my comfy cinema seat… so that I can watch Natalie Portman (the current love of my life) as she breaks her love barrier in No Strings Attached (awesome flick by the way).

 And as I break through the “Extremescreen” cinema doors, clutching my ticket with sweaty hands, the dark theatre engulfs me once more; I slow down to a stroll. Time to be an adult now. I am brought back to full awareness as I realise that people will now be watching me as I enter to take my seat.

I smooth my hair back. I adjust my walking style. I carry my face differently; slightly upturned, an air of indifference. I smooth my clothes into place. And there. I have entered the scrutiny of society once more: I have learnt to play the game like a true movie heroine.

The sad part is, as I take my red cushiony seat (and cross my legs demurely like a lady) I am reminded of what it felt like to be a child again. And I realised that I’ve been trying to play this adult “society” game from the moment I turned 16 or 17…. And how sad it is that I have to try really hard nowadays to pick up where I left off. The real me. The tomboyish, nerdy, don’t give a shit how I look or how I sound, I’m just gonna be me…. Me. And that actually is my favourite me.

The best memories of being young were the days I would roam free on my bike. My dad handmade my bike. Bet ya didn’t know that? My clever little old man constructed my bike with parts of old bikes that he collected from the tip. That’s why my bike had an aqua frame but pink handlebars. That’s why the bell never stayed upright. That’s probably why my brakes were insanely dodgy. But it was my bike…. And it got me everywhere I needed to go.

There was a hill, a peak in my daily cruise to the shops, where I would hike my legs up up up, and then fly down that broad black road like an absolute crazy nutcase kid. I’d even do the head down thing to get more speed. And I never wore my helmet. It’s like the little signs of rebellion were already set into place (and it totally explains why I always refuse to drive at the speed limit nowadays…. Meh).

And I would squeak into place at the bike rack and swagger into the air-con doors, barefooted, no worries. No lock on the bike. Who the hell would want to steal that bike anyway? That was the best thing about it: security was a non-issue.

And I think back on that old version of myself, and I kinda miss the attitude I used to have. I was never embarrassed or scared of anything.

I would ride to school with all the boys, and race them down the backstreets. Nothing made me happier than beating a group of pussy guys at their own game. Because back in those days, I was not one who said no to a challenge. Often people would see me racing all the boys during sprint training in P.E., or kicking a footy at lunchtime. Even as I write these words, I’m thinking, what the hell happened to me? Just the other week I went for a run and tripped over. Seriously, fell flat on my face and scraped up my knees and shoulder (and cried). Shit, the old me would’ve laughed it off and kept running. No, wait. The old me would not have fallen over in the first place, you clumsy girly loser.

Of course, my friends still remember the old me, and often laugh when people dare me to do something “ohhhh no, don’t dare Rose to do it, she’ll seriously do it!!” and it’s all a bit of a joke now. But oh, it’s been so long since I’ve really felt the spiritual freedom of not being limited to machines, makeup and GHDs.

Small things make me feel alive again. Going on the swings with my nephews. Falling back on the grass at the local park, and not caring who is watching. Peeing in the ocean. Going on little-kid rides at the Royal Show (which is pretty easy when you’re my height). Eating ice-cream. If you see me eating ice-cream, you’ll understand why.

Sometimes I think that there must be a lot of people missing out on the good things. If you’re ever feeling old, just try it out, I dare ya. Next time you’re at the movies, sidle out for a short toilet break. And just as you break out through the doors, sprint your way down the hallway, flying. And if someone passes your way and stares at you with upturned eyebrows, give them a wink and a smile.

It might just be the wake-up call that they need.

On the struggle against depression.

Sinking into that low, that desolate cave where I can't pull myself out, I wonder, I wonder. I mostly wonder how someone like myself can get so low. I can't fight the mindlessness of this feeling. Darkness overcomes me and I can't pin-point it. No, that's a lie. There's always a small reason. I feel so overwhelmed by my life that I can't fight the anger that crashes over me. I am angry. I am depleted. I am washed away from myself. I feel like someone else is taking over.

The monster resides.

I remember a few years ago, I was on a camp. I was standing outside at two in the morning, in the middle of a forest. And I looked up at the sky and I saw the stars, the moon, the pretty picture clouds hanging over me, and I breathed in. Deeply. My whole soul breathed those clouds in and I felt complete, knowing that those clouds were nurturing my heart. I remembered thinking, "nothing else matters". And I felt truly alive again.

That's me. The "me" in the forest is the real me.

But I hate this monster who keeps taking me over.

Last night I had to fight it, fight it, scowl it away with every breath of my being. I was so depleted. I wanted to be invisible and not feel the pain anymore. I wanted to go on fantasy holidays and never return. I was going to write a post, but it would've sounded too damn depressing.

And then I went to yoga. It took all my willpower to go. And as I lay on that floor in the starting "rest" position, I fought off the anger that kept trickling over my throat, constricting my air supply. I fought it, I fought it. I tried to hide the furrow in my brow. I tried. After a while, my breathing felt less ragged, more composed.

I moved into the next few yoga stretches, and I hurt. I wanted to scream. I wanted to walk out.

After another twenty minutes, I was completely focused on my body. The strength in my thighs. The weight pushing against my shoulders. The beautiful curve of my leg as I extended upwards. My hands reaching forward in grace.

I felt it, I felt it. My body coming alive. My soul reappearing. It seems that my soul is so interwoven with my body. My physicality, my sense of being. It makes me feel alive, it makes me feel strong, composed, in control.

I realised that I only feel this angry monster overtaking me when I lose control. But when I regain control of my body, I regain control of who I am. My happiness.

This is why I can never label myself as a sad person. My whole heart is gracious and happy. My innermost being loves the beauty and intricacies of life. But when the monster reappears, I fall far away from myself. And sometimes I find it very hard to return.

I contemplate how hard it must be for someone who doesn't feel as innately happy as me, to regain control over their feelings.

When I am in yoga, sometimes I feel as some people would feel in church. Relief. A sense of God.

I feel something powerful within myself. I think I have God within me. When I feel myself in full control of a pose, strong and free and capable and powerful, I feel that a spirit resides in me, whispering the way. "This is me."

And the monster dies. I am free.