Becoming Available to My Humanness

I have words and words to write. Experiences and memories to share about my exploration of Andalusia, about my walking pilgrimage from the south of France to the west coast of Spain. 

I have words and words to write. And memories to share. 

But all I really feel is here and now. Here and now in my moment of confusion. Where I’m left completely uncertain of what I should do.

I’ve finally settled down after completing this life accomplishment- The Camino de Santiago. I found a place to live. I’ve got my yoga studio. A place to test my strength at Crossfit. I’ve bought all my health food essentials and remembered how much I love cooking again. I live in an oasis, with ceiling-high bedroom doors that open out to a green terrace, and a mandala lulling me to sleep above the bed frame. I’m situated in a bustling city filled with art and creativity, where the ocean breeze tries to cool the hot summer days. I enjoy the mix of tourists coming to swallow everything Barcelona has to offer and the ease of Catalan’s going about their everyday life. Spanish fills my language and I get to challenge myself in daily exchange. I am not just traveling around anymore, I am occupying. I am living. 

With all this settling. All this occupying. All this living that is coming together. Another piece of me has been falling apart. My mother, the woman I love so deeply, so dearly, has continued to decline fighting her degenerative brain disease. Just two weeks ago I could carry on a phone conversation with her and talk for over a half hour sharing my stories, hearing about her day. And now, now, I can barely understand her. Frustrated, I wait for my father or her caregivers to translate the sounds she’s making. 

So I leave these conversations nowadays, these conversations that used to bring me light, feeling broken and defeated. Because, why, why has disease started to steal her tongue? Why, oh why, does she have to continue to decline while I am a continent away? 

And I look for answers in others. I message my father and type, “Do you need help?” I call my brother and ask, “Should I come home early?” I look to answers in others because when I go deep down within myself I am left confused. Everything here is starting to feel so right. A beautiful space. A vibrant community. A new culture. A love language. And then, death. Death, this fucker that has been taking away pieces of my mother from me for the past four years. This fucker that’s made me change my life track so many times because it knows how deeply rooted and connected I am to the one who birthed me. 

And I can say, Fuck you Death. Fuck you Disease. But I’m having such a hard time, such a confused time, being present in my life because I could never say Fuck you Mother. I could never say, you deal with this on your own. I still can’t say, let me live my life. This has been an ever-present struggle for the last years. The desire to put myself first, at a time when the woman I love most is fighting for her life. 

So I ask the answer in others, and what I get is just more confusion. Because they know, just as I know, that there is no exact answer. And it’d be different if this was the first time that I’d decided to rearrange my plans, rearrange my time abroad, for my Mom. But it’s not the first time. So part of me knows now that 3 months is just too long to be apart from someone who is losing function at a rapid rate. A part of me know this, and a part of me also knows how aligned I am with myself when I am living abroad. 

I have guilt sitting in my tummy that I’m not at home. I have fear sitting in my heart that if I go home I will have wished I had stayed here in Barcelona. 

And I’m writing all this out, instead of all those other words and revelations I came to in the past 2  and a half months, because this is what I’m feeling right now. And I’m writing this all out, because I want to be vulnerable in my feelings. I’m having a hard time being ok with being confused, but I also know that confusion is absolutely normal. I’ve got to feel and acknowledge my present state. I can’t resist the tears and the anger. As Panache Desai has shared, “Emotions are energies in motion, which means they want to move.” 

Writing, for me, allows my emotions to become motions of script. Instead of denying my confusion, I’m learning to embrace it, to include it as a part of who I am.

 I’m human, after all. We are human, after all. That’s our gift. 

So, the key for me, is becoming available to my humanness. Becoming available to my emotions. 

I’m allowing the flow of one energetic shift to the next. It ain’t easy. And I’d rather be honest about it all, than making it seem like this ship has all her sails in a row. The wind is shifting one moment to the next, one phone call home to one encounter in my neighborhood. The wind is shifting and I’m trying to let it all flow, rather than hold on to the ropes and tangle myself in a mess. 

So here I am. Confused one moment. Absolutely aligned the next. With my heart strung to my Mom one moment. With my soul tied to a life of adventure the next. 

Thanks for listening. It's made all the knots a little easier to untangle. 

Semilla Yoga Permaculture: The Connection

Before I moved to Thailand so many years ago I had decided I would first go to a yoga retreat in Cambodia. That retreat linked me up with some special souls, one of which told me about this amazing sustainable community based in the north of Thailand. So, after teaching a semester in the northeast, I decided to visit this place called New Life.

There, people are welcomed as volunteers or residents, where together they work to create a well-oiled cooperative. Mindfulness is at the center of it’s ethos and a variety of meditative rituals are offered. Along with the daily tasks of cleaning, cooking, gardening, and building, life coaching and healing sessions are given to the residents doing the real “work” to investigate their inhibitions, addictions, traumas, and self-limiting beliefs.

There I was called to serve as a volunteer for a few weeks. And there I met some solid soul connections. One such connection was Emma, a Danish girl who’d arrived as a guest and stayed on as a resident. Emma and I just had an immediate bond. She was among the people I looked to throughout my day for a smile, a hug, or maybe just some eye contact. We went on walks, bike rides, matched up for morning yoga, and saved space for each other during meals. She became “my girl”, my best friend within this intimate community.

I remember when she walked me down to the taxi before I left, and I remember the tear I shed as the driver started to accelerate away. It wasn’t long before we reconnected again in Laos- a visa run and vacation experience. There were some stand out memories, like the night we got invited to join the local police station for a dance party and dinner they were having on the street. Or the tourist visit to the aqua blue waterfall outside of the city.

Our lives took us to other sides of the world- me in the US and Thailand, her in Europe. She met the love of her life after I left New Life and they began an adventure together that brought them to Spain. They acquired a property in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada outside of a small village called Torvizcon. There, tucked in to nature, they created their own version of New Life, their own mindful home.

I followed their Instagram page for the home they coined @SemillaYogaPermaculture. I watched their space grow from afar and I assured myself I would go and visit it someday. That day came three years after it’s creation.



Emma and Tom picked me up in Órgiva, a hippie town outside of Granada. From there we drove along the curves and aside the mountain range until we passed a village and met the bridge. We parked and set off on the 25 minute trek up to their cliff-side home. Two bell tents for guest accommodation, a Tibetan yurt for themselves, open-aired kitchen, vegetable beds, ancient almond and olive trees, composting toilet, yoga deck, rescued-chicken pen, water tanks, solar power banks, terraced tree beds, a lounge area and a breathtaking view. I'm sure I'm missing the many magical pieces that make up their sustainable home, it surely was magical.

It became clear very early on that Emma's husband, Tom, and I would become close friends. He provided the space for Emma and I to catch up, but also matched her amazing presence and energy. I was surely writing about a lot that was going on in my life, but I really hadn't verbally talked through a lot of things. Tom was there to ask me thought-provoking questions and we were able to have an open dialogue about family dynamics, 'the real world', relationships, personal self-limiting beliefs and even conspiracy theories.



When the time came for the teacher training specialization course I was definitely a bit sad that I wouldn't have as many intimate conversations with my quickly-made friend. However, the Animalia Asana two-day intensive was a great opportunity to reconnect to my teaching practice and learn a variety of poses I never knew existed. It was a great exploration of different forms of breath, meditation, and even dance that can open up the animal energy within us. Although I haven't started guiding an in-studio class yet, I felt invigorated to take the next step when I return to the US and incorporate interesting animal culture into the classes. We drew animal cards and the first one I received was a snake, who embodies a state of transformation and shedding of the skin. Simply receiving this message felt very aligned with my path, and then interestingly enough a snake joined us during one of our sessions!  

Following the retreat, Emma had dropped some hints that I should stay longer. I didn't feel ready to leave and wanted more time with my friends, so I listened to her. There were more lovely meals cooked with love, an Airbnb guest who joined in on the deep conversations, photography sessions with amazing backdrops, and an overwhelming feeling of peace. I woke up to the sound of a blender, a message that my morning smoothie was prepared, and I fell asleep to the sound of a frog, a message that nature was comforting. 

At the end of my week stay, I felt like I was leaving family. Sure, Emma had always been close to my heart. But becoming such close friends with Tom, that was a surprising evolution. I was reminded while spending time with these two partners how important non-violent, loving, communication is in relationships. I was reminded what love looks like. 

I was also provided with some relief about my Camino that was coming in the week ahead. My reasons for doing the Camino could change. And I didn't have to get so frustrated that for right now I was doing the Camino to cure my broken heart and to get over a past lover. Because that wouldn't always be the reason I was doing it. It would change. I would change. And there was no reason to rush my healing. 

I left Semilla in the morning dusk. I breathed in all the beauty that their land had to offer. I soaked in the scent of the yellow flowers. I appreciated the running river. I thanked nature just as I thanked these beautiful partners for welcoming me into their home. There was no doubt I would be connecting with these two hearts again in the future. And there was no doubt that Semilla lived up to it's beauty that I'd been following for years. 

Madrid: The Purge

I had these plans to drop off my luggage at my friend’s mom’s house and dash off to the South of Spain.

But, plans can easily be changed. 

I arrived to the Madrid airport with a large lump in my throat and unbearable back pain. The older I’ve gotten, the more I truly believe that disease within the body is just that dis-ease. I could feel some lasting sorrow from leaving my mother in the US for 3 months. I held back tears in Charleston when the thought entered my head that when I return she could be worse along the progression of her illness, or, even worse, she could be gone. I knew that what was manifesting as a pain in my low back was my grief in leaving and fear of what could happen while I’m gone.

I also could feel some part of me feeling like I hadn’t completely voiced myself in this breakup to certain characters I’d blocked. I had words to say to the mom who didn’t believe me, to the sister who had no idea what went down, and I wondered about the girl that came before me and if she had a similar story to mine. I had kept telling myself that I wasn’t allowed to talk to these people. I knew that what was manifesting as a sore throat was my denial of voicing what I wanted to say.

So I arrived to Madrid feeling sick and not the energized self that I imagined would dash off to the next adventure. I had the choice to persist on and fight the pain, or to absorb the pain and confront it. I decided to listen to my body and my internal struggle, so I unpacked my bags for a few days and settled in.

There came a moment when we were out for lunch. Somewhere between the paella and the fruit creme dessert where I felt some relief about being away from my mom. I was here, at a table with a mother of my best friend, someone I had always wanted to meet. I was here. And I realized to be here I needed to let go of being there. I breathed in some relief, and by days end, surrounded with a family I would have never gotten to meet if I hadn’t left the US, I let go of the grief.

I woke up the next day with a relieved back, but a persistent sore throat. I had the whole day and place to myself as the rest of the family was off at a funeral. It had rained heavy all night and into the morning, matching this cleanse I felt so dire to my soul. I woke up clear with what I needed to write and who I needed to write to. So, I said all the things I’d been wanting to say but swallowed deep down. I carried on the rest of the day a little lighter, and felt my throat opening up a bit. I’d expressed what I wanted to say and I wasn’t going to hold on to the need of a response. So I cuddled with the dogs and made friends with the horses. I went on a barefoot walk up the mountain and felt like nature was hugging me with all its beauty. The wild lavender scent and the fresh air rolling through.

It all felt like exactly where I was supposed to be, and having this day to myself really sunk in the beauty of what my time in Spain was to be. I decided I’d take a trek the following day as a trial walk for the 500 mile Camino de Santiago I’d be starting on in 2 weeks time.

A home-cooked meal rounded out this beautiful day. A day that felt like I was really coming home to myself, to me. And the more my throat loosened and the less pain I felt swallowing.

I woke up the next day ready for my 20km walk through the mountain range of Miraflores. And I got a message I wasn’t expecting. I got a gift from this girl I never thought I’d talk to, a girl who went through the same exact thing as I did with the same exact man just before me. I let the hurt rise to tears, I let the inner critic question, “why hadn’t you reached out sooner?”, I let all the emotions ebb and flow. And with this new formed connection, talking to someone who’d been through the storm and survived, blossomed even, I was overcome with relief. It wasn’t just me. I knew I hadn’t lied about our story but having someone else confirm it just made me feel more at peace about it all. Yeah, it sucked, I could have reached out years earlier and he would have been exposed. But here I was, talking with the girl I wasn’t ever supposed to talk to, and feeling at peace that I was not alone. And that we were here for each other. 

I went on that trial walk with thoughts swirling in my head. I cried. I laughed. I screamed. I let my mind flutter to the past. I got lost and then found the trail again. I got caught in a storm and persisted on through the thunder and the downpour. And by the end, I’d turned the to-be 20km walk into something more like 30.

As I finally found a way back to my Spanish mom’s house, not ‘the way’ I’d left, but ‘a way’ all the same, I was overwhelmed with lightness. Yes, I was sore. Yes, I was sure my stubborn self shouldn’t have stretched that hike so far. Yes, the rain and the miles had done their work in washing me over with feelings and ultimately, calm. 

I didn’t just say to myself that I was an independent badass, I truly began to feel it. I felt it in my bones, like everything was unfolding for me. My throat loosened up even more and as I walked through the gate, eyeing the white stallions, I swallowed my peace with no pain or attachment. I felt washed over with ultimate freedom.

Free.

I was finally Free again.

To the Yogi who Thinks She Owns the Studio

To the yogi who thinks she owns the studio, thank you for disrupting my peace. 

Every time I share a class with you, I get hot and bothered. 

You always arrive late, it’s not a one-time thing that happens because of traffic or some kind of emergency. If it was, you’d arrive late once in a while. You arrive late every single day. 

Before I start my yoga practice, your late arrival creates a verbal cue in my brain “rude”. So before I even start my yoga, you have made me think “rude”. 

You always throw your things down. In such a quiet and sacred space your disregard for cacophony is cringe-worthy. 

Before I start my yoga practice, your sound disrupts my meditation and I flicker open just to roll my eyes at you. So before I even start my yoga, you have made me judge you. 

You always flow front and center. No matter if you arrive late, you’ll have the whole class move their mats so you can flow on your favorite piece of hardwood. 

Before I start my yoga practice, your egoism makes me react with a snobby scoff. So before I even start my yoga, you have made me ridicule you. 

To the yogi who thinks she owns the studio. Thank you for disrupting my peace. 

Every time I share a class with you, I get hot and bothered. 

Instead of leaving all the shit beside my mat that I don’t want to carry with me through the practice, I am actually piling more shit on the mat. 

So you fill my space with “rude”, “judgement”, and “ridicule”. 

And it’s much more challenging than every other class I take without you. Because you fill me with rage before my practice even begins. So those hardships and tests that I usually face halfway through my practice are staring me down as we begin with sun salutations. 

Every time I share a class with you, I get hot and bothered. And halfway through the class I get hot and unbothered. 

But just before I think I’ve had enough of you messing with my energy, just as I’m diving into pigeon to release all that pent up energy stored in my hips, you disrupt the room again as I hear you packing up your things. 

Every single time before savasana, waves of “rude”, “judgement”, and “ridicule” come washing over me. 

What is usually the most peaceful part of my practice, the moment where I get to lay like a corpse and just be, gets stolen from me as you decide savasana is never worth staying for. 

So I lay with “rude”, “judgement”, and “ridicule”. I tighten up with ahimsa and frustration. 

To the yogi who thinks she owns the studio, you make me face my greatest obstacles in this hot box, on these 68 inches of mat. 

And for that I thank you. 

One day, you’ll be my release from it all. 

And I Cry Writing This to You

A large *boom* sound reverberates through the house. My heart immediately drops to my stomach. I run downstairs and I hear her cry. My mom has fallen- again. My dad stands there, upset at himself, and shaking his head as he was just outside the room. 

It’s a progressive disease and it’s becoming more routine.

Unfortunately this is not a scene I see a few times a year. And that feeling of my heart dropping has actually gotten worse. 

My mother sits on the floor, trying to re-adjust her legs so she can stand up properly. She pleads ‘No, no, no,” as I reach from under her armpits and lift her up. She wants to just rush back to what she was doing before. But I look her in the eyes and I give her a huge embrace. And the way she clings on to me, it breaks my heart ever more. 

I try to tell her to sit down so we can orientate how this all happened. My dad and I ask, “Where did you fall”, “What were your feet like”, “Were you holding on to something?” Like these questions even matter. My mom has no clue what happened. She became unbalanced, she blacked out and she fell onto the floor. 

Those are the facts. And the fact is, we can’t do anything about it. 

And that’s the most unsettling part: when the people who you love are suffering and you can do absolutely nothing about it. Ok, that’s not totally true. There are many things I can do. But I can’t cure her disease, and that’s what breaks my heart the most. I can’t cure my mother and bring her back to her old self. 

I long for the day my mom tells me she’s not dizzy anymore. I long for the moment I don’t have to tell my mother to speak up when she’s whispering without noticing. I long for hearing my mothers laugh, her real laugh, not the laugh her body dispels in an emotional confusion when she feels sad.  

What I really long for here and now is for you to help me bring awareness to this disease. I long for your help in raising the funds necessary for appropriate research about this disease that has crippled my mother and so many other lives. 

The disease is called PSP- Progressive Supranuclear Palsy.

It’s a rare degenerative brain disease which only about 3-6 in every 100,000 people have. This makes it much less common and much less researched than Parkinson’s disease. PSP impacts balance, eye control, speech, and cognitive abilities. 

Three years ago my mom was diagnosed.

I remember receiving the text message from her: “I have PSP. It’s a brain disease.” It was the same heart drop I get nowadays. I was in Indonesia traveling when I received the text. Then I spent time in Thailand teaching before I came home. I wanted anything to pretend it wasn’t happening. To pretend she wasn’t sick. And, truthfully, it was much easier to deal with from abroad. 

But now I live at home for the majority of the year. It’s a necessity. And I’ve taken the role as caregiver to my mother. So many times I curse the world for how messed up it is. I shouldn’t have to dress my mother. I shouldn’t have to help her down the stairs. But the cursing doesn’t help. And the whole ‘woe is me’ routine is wasteful. 

Now, I’ve got something I can do. I can share my story. I can raise awareness about PSP. I can beg you to please help donate to this cause. Please, let’s cure this disease. And let’s heal so many lives for the future. 

Please, I beg you. 

Here is a link to donate to the CurePSP Awareness Walk on March 18th in Marco Island, Florida. Please come join me and my family as we walk in support of my mother. If you can’t join us, please consider donating to this very important cause. 

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/curepsp-awareness-and-memorial-walk-registration-27153605164

Donations Instructions:

·         Click the green register button

·         Select individual

·         Select amount to donate, and select checkout

·         Type in your information

·         Under “Other Information” please note Donating in Honor of Mrs. Luce

Why No One Else Gets It

Why don’t you just teach in America, they say? 

There are little nuggets here just like there. You’ll get paid more, they say. They are cute here just like there. 

Why don’t you just adjust, they say? 

Well, you just don’t get it, I say. 

You haven’t walked to class where kids run at you, clinging on you full force, with such excitement to see you. 

You haven’t heard 50 kids uproar in unison, “Good Morning Teacher.”

Yes, there are kids in America. But they aren’t the same. They see teachers like you everyday. They don’t wait expectingly to have that white girl grace their class two times a week. They don’t appreciate you as much. 

Why don’t you appreciate the luxuries here, they say?

Well, you haven’t felt the luxury of simplicity, I say. 

You haven’t lived somewhere with more motorcycles than cars, where a family of five can fit on two wheels. 

You haven’t understood that meals should cost $1. 

Yes, there are people who lavishly live in America. But they aren’t the same. They look at $30 and think ‘wow, this won’t last me all day’. They don’t look to save and extend what little they have, they take loans and pay with credit. They don’t just get by, they are always craving more. 

Why don’t you want the American Dream, they say? 

Well, you haven’t lived abroad, I say. 

You haven’t traveled across the world to find strangers more friendly than your neighbors. 

You haven’t been humbled by another culture’s ability to spread kindness instead of hatred. 

Yes, there are dreams in America. But they aren’t the same. They focus on excess. They don’t think about wealth in terms of well-being but rather in terms of money. They don’t see the beauty in the present. 

Well, you just don’t get it, they say. 

And that’s exactly it. The longer I’m home in America, the more I don’t understand this life. The longer I’m home in America, the more I want to go away. 

Why don’t you just go back, they say?

Well, it’s not that easy, I say. 

Six Weeks In Indonesia: The Bali Experience

When I was younger and I thought of Indonesia, I thought Bali. I thought fancy beachfront property and yoga resorts. I thought Eat, Pray, Love.

Now, at age 25, I know Indonesia is much more than Bali. Bali is just one of Indonesia’s thousands of islands.

___________________________

When we started our trip, when I landed in the Denpasar airport, I was a bit angry at how westernized and developed this island was. The first time I visited Indonesia, back in October in Sumatra, my airport experience was so different. I felt culture shock. There, I was out of place, naked wearing shorts in a Muslim country. So this time around, when I was better prepared, I rolled my eyes at the ignorant women wearing backless shirts and mini skirts with too high heels. I didn’t feel like I was walking into Indonesia. I felt like I was walking into Hawaii. I guess I’d failed to realize how Hollywood Bali has become.

My idea of travel extends far beyond relaxation with sea, sun, and sand. I want to feel something. I crave the shock. I don’t like walking down a street with a stream of other tourists passing shops designed to absorb tourism dollars with stockpiles of Buddha statues. So, our first days in the popular destination of Ubud, with its famous rice terraces and monkey temple, did not amuse me. Sure, I was interested in the whole health food movement. But I wasn’t wowed by a viewpoint lined by cafes where handfuls of travelers took the same photo in front of the green backdrop. And I wasn’t wowed by the exploitation of monkeys in the forest where tourists paid to hold a banana so they could get a notorious photo of a primate on their shoulder.

So, realizing this place didn’t match our vibe, we quickly moved on. We found our type of destination that really felt like home-a little surfer town called Canggu. I’d been introduced to the place by word of mouth from friends I met while volunteering in Thailand. With their wisdom, our whole Bali experience changed for the better.

I was able to reconnect with one of the girls, who was still traveling with her boyfriend, at a neat hostel with a responsible tourism focus. Here, at Farmer’s Yard, it was like we had roommates.  The growing garden extended into a great common space and a kitchen equipped with rap battles and instrumental beats. As a base for daytrips to Immigration for our visa extension and another coastal town, we’d really started to find our groove in our Indonesia trip. We spent the days exploring by motorbike and relaxing in the company of newfound friends. We were invited to the neighbors wedding. We chilled out and appreciated the waves, watching our friends ride while the sun was setting.

And then we were introduced to an island off the mainland. An island I want to scream on the top of the rooftops because it’s so amazing. But I know it should be kept secret, hidden from the commercialization and development the rest of Bali feels. I’ve heard it’s what Bali was like 60 years ago, before tourism hit like a wrecking ball. All I can say is that it was true paradise.

We arrived without accommodation, purposefully, knowing that our friends had slept on the beach. When we got to the beautiful bay, with the sun setting and our tummies rumbling, we had a little unease that there was no restaurant. But we were offered coconuts and cup a noodle soup, and soon invited to sleep under a hut. The son and father started moving a table for us to lie on, cushioned with a yoga mat. And when they realized it was a little short, they grabbed another table to make it just right.  

The hospitality and kindness was off the charts. Later that night, the son was admiring my many bracelets and pointed at one saying, “Mine?” I knew the language barrier was making his statement come off much stronger than he meant. And for a split second, I selfishly thought there was no way I was giving up one of my prized possessions. But then I thought about how willing they were to provide us a place to stay, and how I needed to return the favor, even if that meant letting go of one of my memories I carry on my wrist. So I handed it over with a smile. And was glad to see later in the week that he wore it with pride, showing it off to friends.

Although when I relayed this story to my brother he called me a hobo, I promise you we only slept this way one night. The rest of the days we joined the efforts of a bird conservation group on the island. In exchange for a couple hours of manual labor in the morning, we received many discounts from accommodation to ferry to rentals. The best part was a limitless supply of aloe to remedy our sun kissed skin!

In this beautiful place we spent the days motor biking up and around the picturesque island, with no high rises in sight. The coast was lined with seaweed farms and the streets were drying racks for their crop. We were directed by village women to hidden treks and secluded coves. We snorkeled coral reefs and climbed up a floating rock. We passed by a ceremony where the locals cheered us on like celebrities. We finished the nights off listening to the guitar, and experiencing the lunar eclipse which legend said was a faceless monster eating the moon. It was a truly unique experience on an island with only a handful of westerners.

                                                         _________________________

We ended our trip in Bali, back in Canggu where we were welcomed with familiar faces as if we had headed home. So maybe the trip didn’t start off how I imagined. But I think it all happened just right, because I was meant to have a realization about the type of travel that tickles my soul. I was meant to realize that even in an overdeveloped, tourist saturated destination, off the beaten track treasures can be found. However big of a stigma Bali has become, there’s still a true gem of Bali somewhere in there.