Walking the Walk

The police office pulled up beside me and motioned to put the phone down. I stopped recording the message and tossed the phone to the passenger seat, blushing. Busted. Then he motioned for me to pull over.

 “Shit,” I mumbled under my breath as I pulled the Nissan pickup to the side of the road and waited. I’d been messaging my worker that I was on my way and to please wait. Now I’d be really late. My dad’s voice reminded me, “Well, now you’ll have a good excuse.”

“I live in Mexico now, Dad, I don’t need a good excuse to be late,” I answered him.

 The officer came to the door, offered his hand and told me what I already knew. I defended myself.

 It was just one time.

 No. I watched you send 3 voice messages.

 He was right But the first one I deleted. Does that count for anything? After all, I told him, I was going to meet a worker who was repairing my house after two robberies left me feeling super vulnerable. “and I’m frantic after all, I’ve been robbed.“ I neglected to tell him it was two weeks ago but it had taken me that long to find someone to help me put bars on the windows.

Could he come help me catch the thieves?

 “I’m not in that part of policing. license and tarjeta de circulacion porfavor.

 He looked them both over and asked me what I do. I felt weird telling him a run a yoga studio since I was not at all yogicly peaceful. I was having a busy morning, trying to fit too much into my day. Now I’d had the brakes slammed on and I was worming my way out of it, or at least trying to, with half truths. I was justified. I’d been robbed twice, I told myself. And I would love for him to come help me since I felt totally abandoned. The police? Buy cameras, get a dog (I have dogs), we’ll drive by but you’re on a dead end road. Friends? What did you expect with an empty house? Platitudes and my insecurities mounted as did the cost of not only what they had taken but any and all measures to make my place feel safer. 

 “I’m going to take your license and give you an infraction.”

 Add another 200 USD for the ticket. “Please don’t. It’s been the worst low season ever and today is payday. I really can’t pay. ” I whined while calculating the 50% discount the city offered if you pay the same day. I could do it on a credit card.

“Isn’t there some other way. I know I was wrong and I won’t do it again.”

 “Do you have another idea?” His gaze burning into me through his sunglasses, hinting at a bribe. He made some conversation to let me think about it and asked where I was from.

 I stuttered calculating how much cash I had. “I’ve been here 20 years. “

 “Yes. But where are you from?”

 “The US”

 “Isn’t it illegal to be on your phone while driving in the US?

 “Texting. I wasn’t texting. I was recording a message. That’s different.”

He waited and I thought, how much will he settle for? And how can I take money from my fanny pack without him seeing that I have a lot of cash on hand. Like I said, its payday.

 Then I remembered one of many conversations focused on ending corruption. That voice in my head quoted me saying to someone, “If we don’t participate, there won’t be corruption. It starts with all of us.”

 Damn. It starts with me and I meekly told the officer, “You are right. I was wrong. Es cierto.”

 I don’t think he was happy about it but he was surprised, perhaps even a little satisfied. I looked at the floor and felt the sweat dripping off my upper lip. I reached for a Kleenex from the dash and wiped my lip and my eyes, wondering if he’d think I was crying. Ready for the ticket, I plotted a course to rush to the house and rush back to the police station so I could get my discount.

 Out of the blue he told me, “I’ll let it go this time. But if I see you do it again, the ticket will be double.” He handed me my license and registration.

 Seriously? I barely believed it but took my things and said, “Gracias,” and waited for him to drive away. Then I smiled. Ear to ear as I drove slowly back onto the highway saying, “Thanks.” I felt good, like I’d made a breakthrough. See, it’s so easy to say something, to be righteous and tell others what to do. But to actually walk the walk takes a little courage and the willingness to pay the price. And I did it. I told the truth and faced the consequences. It would have felt ok if I’d had a ticket but it felt amazing since I didn’t.

 And, needless to say, I’ll leave my phone in my bag on the way home.

Yoga and Creativity

Yoga’s become a loaded word, right? It means so many different things to so many different people. From a workout to a way to orgasm, it’s taken on a life of it’s own. It used to be something people did in pyjamas to start their day. Now its become a multimillion dollar business that promises enlightenment through a nice tight butt. 

What the heck happened?

 We forgot. Yoga is not about distinguishing yourself from the beauties around you. It’s about bringing all that beauty into you, making it all a part of you and recognizing your neighbor in yourself. 

 We’ve forgotten that it’s not about doing the pose better. It’s about feeling better in the pose. We stopped reminding ourselves and each other that t’s not about getting your heart rate up as you race through a practice. It’s about feeling relaxed and steady in a demanding practice so that you can be relaxed and steady as you move into the more demanding postures of your life.

 So yoga is about you and the collective us. When we allow the insecurities that follow us around in our personal world to drop away as we practice, we discover an openness of spirit that brings us into our divinity. Sounds like a lot right?

But it’s not really. It’s merely who you are and who you are meant to be. And when you can take even a few moments, even a yoga class to realize that, you touch your creative center and the ideas start to flow.

 Next time you sit down on your mat, let your life off the mat fade. Arrive fully. Stay present and let your practice help you discover a connection to yourself that takes you to that creative spirit inside.

 The very willingness to let go of the barriers around the universal experience of being present will open your mind to new, exciting creative ideas. Slowly, we’ll stop judging ourselves so harshly, release stored tension, trauma and negativity, and move into our creative genius and capability. That’s the practice. Through movement, presence and stillness, we allow ourselves to open the vastness of our subconscious creative mind. The ideas that have been waiting to blossom, can freely open and flower. 

So does yoga help you become a creative spirit? I say yes. Hell yes. Yoga allows you to be you.

20 Years Down the Road

In June I celebrated 20 years in Tulum. Crazy right? How’d I do that in a culture that is so mobile, so young, so ever changing.

It was never my plan, never in my wildest dreams (and I’ve had some pretty wild dreams) did I see myself staying here. But it’s been those wild dreams and making them come true that kept me coming back.

“You must have seen lots of changes,” people say when I tell them I arrived in 2004.

“It's been like living in quicksand,” I’ll tell them frankly and remember the dirt road to the now Hotel Zone, how I knew every person in town, yes town not city. I’ll think about the blue crabs that used to flood the streets and my yard on the full moon that have now become so scarce. And I remember watching turtles lay eggs and then hatch on deserted stretches of beach. I push the memories of development, narcos and murders from my mind since that’s not good for business and only tell them, “yes, lots of changes.”

 Others ask incredulously, “You’ve been here all that time? Summertime too?”

I nod, “Pretty much.” I look back on some amazing road trips to escape the hurricanes and the long days of summer when I lived with no electricity. I’d sleep with a towel under me and when it got too brutal, run across the road to the sea and jump in. More afraid of a person than sharks, I’d run back home refreshed and sleep til sunrise. As I got more courageous, I even slept on the beach under the blanket of stars with the beach dog who slept by me.

 And then I look around at what Tulum is today and I ask myself why I’ve stayed too.

Well, first, Tulum is magic. Don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t. If they do, take them biking to the beach for sunrise or on a boat into the biosphere or on a walk through town to buy trinkets from a 5 year old or a cold pressed juice from an Australian or to dance in the park on a Tuesday night with a mermaid.

There’s still magic here.

Second, the animals here are crazy amazing. Mine all came to me of their own accord and I’ve loved rescuing them. Animals are so much easier than humans. I leave that to my yoga classes. These recovering strays give me love and a satisfaction that’s been hard to replicate in my same species relationships.

Third, I’ve put down shallow roots here. I’ve an amazing yoga studio that I built here called Tribal Tulum. I practice in that world class space each day, feeling the wood floors, the natural air and light, the crazy dream catching curtains I inherited from my Mom. And I get to teach yoga here and work with other teachers who have so much to offer. The studio is my dharma, as much as writing or swimming or patting my dogs and cats. So when I walk in and then share it with like minded people, the magic amplifies and keeps me close.

Four, I meet so many cool people. It’s inspiring watching other people make their dreams come true. Some fail. Many succeed. But they all make it a great place to try. I love when I ride my bike around town and notice that there’s a new food stall, amazing hand made jewelry, repurposed clothing or artisanal tamales that someone has put their heart and soul into.

Five, I transform worthy people’s lives. That sounds a bit arrogant, full of hubris perhap. But its true. So i’ll say it. In the 20 years I’ve been here, I’ve inspired people in so many ways. I’m not sure I could have done that in my former career as an environmental engineer. Since my non-profit for women with breast cancer to the architect of my Robinson Crusoe Jungle Beach Houses, through my days as a migrant yoga teacher, the manager of a boutique hotel, and now as a business owner and yoga retreat hostess, I get to open people’s eyes to magic and miracles just by encouraging them to notice.

On so many occasions, I can take their hand, point to something, tell them a bit about it and watch their jaws drop. It could be something about themselves in a yoga class, or something about Mayan mysticism or something about nature, my crazy domestic animals or our natural resources like electricity and water. But those tidbits of information make people see the magic in themselves as they see it in Tulum. That buzz has kept me here for 20 years.

So whether you’re coming here for a vacation, to test the waters of Mexican living or to retreat with us into yoga and meditation and realize your full potential for happiness, watch out. You may just find yourself coming back, time and time again. And then 20 years might pass and, like me, you’ll be so grateful for the magic life has shared.

Thinking of St. Pat

“You’re just another fockin’ Yank then, aren’t you?”

 After hours, curtains closed, air thick with cigarette smoke in a small village pub north of Galway, he continued. “I mean, it’s not like you even know your ancestors here or anything. Look at ye, nearly 30 and it’s the first time you’ve been back.”

 “I guess you’re right.” I told him, hoping it would end the conversation.

 Admittedly, I didn’t know Irish history well. Sure, I knew the Irish heroes like Michael Connelly and all about bloody Sunday, mostly thanks to the band U2. Yes, I was another Yank. But one with Irish heritage. That made it different. I moved to the bar before he could say more.

 My friend Helen had invited me to join her family in Galway for Christmas. I could be with people I loved. “C’mon,” she coaxed over the phone, “It’ll be great crack and you should come to Ireland regardless.” I’d been working abroad but had neglected to consider the isolation and homesickness, especially over the holidays. Things weren’t going as I’d planned in Germany and she was right. It would be the first trip to my ancestral home.

 My parents never spoke much about our roots. In fact, my father always said, “I am so happy my grandparents caught that boat.” And that was it. We never discussed who was left behind or why they all left. At the time, the U.S. was the land of opportunity. Ireland was suffering and in the midst of civil war, or “troubles” as people diminutively called a war that officially lasted nearly 30 years. 

 No one talked much about the past, regardless of how they had suffered as immigrants and struggled to make a new life in the US. Perhaps it was how they could forget the difficulties and heartache. Like my Aunt Mary who at 10 years old took over on the farm when her mother died in childbirth. My mother shrugged to explain how a 10 year old could take over the family business. “You’d be surprised what you can do when you have to. She was smart.” Those words have echoed in my mind on so many occasions. But in my 40’s, not at 10.  There were so many tragedies that we rarely talked about “home”. That may have cut too deep.

 But in community, we talked about Ireland. At Sunday mass there were collections for Irish Charities. The priest would ask us to support families back “home”. We celebrated Irish saints, especially St. Patrick. In my borough of Boston, West Roxbury, we were “Lace Curtain Irish” - well enough off to have a single family home. We were always reminded that we should give a hand to those less fortunate. “Don’t forget where you’re from,” the priest would counsel and caution, “Don’t get full of yourself. You can easily fall back.” When JFK was elected president we believed we were the backbone of the country: strong, educated, conscious Irish Americans. When he was assassinated, the priests words echoed in all of our minds. “They’ll help you to the curb if you’re laying in the road,” my dad had told us, “But God forbid you climb up onto the sidewalk.”

 So when nearly 40 years later I decided to write about an Irish American heroine in my first novel, Eco Woman: The Transformation, I was excited but nervous. The moment I named her Maeve for Maeve the Brave, queen of the Connacht in the Ulster Cycle of Irish Mythology, I somehow felt connected. Maeve, in Irish spelled Méibh, was a strong willed, ambitious and promiscuous queen who fought with her men. Some say she’s the manifestation of the sovereign goddess. Who wouldn’t love her? I had only just visited the north of Ireland while writing the novel and when Helen showed me her burial site high on a stone cairn on the summit of Knocknarea in County Sligo, I knew she was my heroine. She was amazing. She was my ancestor, the one who’d travelled in the coffin ships to find a new land. The one who’d survived hunger and discrimination and had risen to find a place in the white house.  

 And although I knew our ancestors were from the south of Ireland, not the north, I chose her anyway: Maeve the brave. Regardless of my fears of cultural appropriation and calling out from family and friends, I made her as big as Queen Maeve, buried upright and facing her enemies.

 When the publisher told me Eco Woman was out, I took a deep breath in. If I’d been laying in the road and had been helped to the curb, Eco Woman was my way onto the sidewalk. Here I was, getting a little full of myself. I stood tall, ready for the critics, ready for the fight. I had published books before and it’s not all parties and positive reviews. The negative ones hurt. I still had people who didn’t talk to me from my memoir, published 7 years ago - immigrants hold onto perceived slights. I still had to work on the shame that I described in that book and few people had held my hand to say, “It’s ok.” Immigrants don’t talk about the hardships, you see. They get on with things.

 So, yes. I am just another Yank. But I have Irish heritage and that gives me permission to dig into it, to revel in where I’m from, to overcome the prejudice, the criticism, the sense of not belonging and to discover my ancestors. In that discovery, we will find our heroines and heroes. And we’ll find that the similarities among all our cultures point to the fact that we’re all from the same place. Our roots are not shallow. They run deep and point us to a collective heritage that could be unifying if we let it. Climb up onto the sidewalk and find your Eco Woman.

Ruining It

“You’re ruining things for us you know,” my friend told me as I paid my worker and thanked him, reminding him I’d see him the next day. We still had work to do and I very much needed his help.

I was living alone in my beach hideaway at the time.  And although I can do just about everything, there are things where I need help like carpentry, heavy lifting and cement work.

Rafa and I were making a wall with recycled glass bottles I’d collected: long elegant wine bottles,, stout and fat tonic water bottles that made a great foundation and some relatively square tequila bottles that provided support in the mid-section as we rose the wall higher. My liquor shopping had become as much about shape as content.

“What do you mean?” I asked my friend, puzzled.

“You’re ruining it, paying so much,” he said. “He’d work for way less.”

I laughed, asked him if he were serious and then said, “It’s barely enough to get by as it is.”

He shrugged and say, “Most get by with less. And they’ll all want more if you keep that up. You and the rest of the gringos.”

I decided not to engage, not to defend my ideals or my countrymen. Instead I opened a bottle of wine with a smile, poured us both an Italian glass full, handed him one and said, “Here’s to paying enough.” I paused, wondering if my philosophy might lose me another friend but decided to continue regardless. “If helping others have a better life is how I ‘ruin’ it, so be it,” I declared.

He sipped the mediocre wine and commented, “You Yogis.”

Ritual and the Black Cat

With a look that says my efforts are futile, Frodo , the oversized black and white cat who’s adopted me, refuses to move from between the pillows as I make my bed.  “What’s the point?” he seems to ask. “You’ll only undo it later.”

 I smile and scratch his belly until he rolls from the pillows, stretches and walks away as if to say, “Your bad.”

 I make the bed.

 I always make the bed.

It’s a thing for me. Like the pranayama, tapping and short meditation I do beforehand with the cat curled up behind my back. It’s comforting to have him there. Then I light a candle, say thank-you to the universe, make coffee and the time it takes to make the bed is a perfect timer for when it will be ready.

 Ritual completed, I sit at the computer, warm beverage in hand and write. Everything for the next hour is perfect, especially when the ideas arrive. My ritual sets the table and opens the door for them. Generally they arrive early, as I’m scooping coffee into the French press or trying to count breaths in meditation. I never shoo them away. I ask them to wait until I finish preparing. They are welcome houseguests, undemanding and patient. And as we converse and share moments as the sun rises, I delight in the knowledge that this moment is mine with my laptop, the sunrise and the soft purr of the black and white cat by my side.

 What’s your ritual? What makes your ideas arrive? What allows you to share a moment with you? What would make you get out of bed to light a candle against the  dark and watch the sunrise?

Try making the bed.

Travel Toward Peace

A recent insta post about the late Anthony Bordain, the amazing travel and food guru, made the point how important it is to travel; how it makes the world a better place. I so agree. It’s way more difficult to drop a bomb on a country you’ve met. Knowing places gives them a face that’s not the devil.

 Under the photo of Anthony in an oversized armchair on a remote beach, a comment read, “Yeah, easy for a privileged white boy.” I had to accept, it was easier for Anthony than it might be for most. But bottom line, Mr. Bordain opened the world for his audience and made incredible connections through appreciation of food and gratitude for it.

 That got me thinking. Without so much consideration for privilege, could travel be finding a new nook and saying hello? Wouldn’t that help us connect? Couldn’t we “travel” within our own neighborhoods?

On another level, couldn’t travel also be connecting with ourselves, sitting with the breath and moving inside the universe that is the human body – physical, energetic and emotional? Wouldn’t that be an amazing way to explore peace for yourself, within yourself. Then you’ll spread peace into the world with every step you take.

 Humor me. Set a timer and sit for 6 minutes. Notice the breath moving within you. Be amazed at how everything works. When the timer goes off, saunter to a local restaurant or grocery store. Take your time. Look around. Get to know your neighbor. Genuinely meet a new person, even if it’s only eye contact, a short hello or a smile. Share the peace and wonder you, minutes before, felt within yourself. This way we can cultivate peace right where we are, starting within.

 We all recognize that we need peace more than ever. This practice will remind you that peace begins within each one of us. We each make it happen.

 Lets.

 Happiest of Holiday Seasons

Be Of Service

Give away all your possessions, live in the slums and minister to the poor.

 Noooooo, not that.

 Well, if you’re up for it, if that’s what’s calling you, go for it.

 But most of us don’t have that dharma, that wouldn’t make us happy. In fact it may make us miserable and that doesn’t serve anyone. However, there are simple acts we can do that make our world a better place. Things like smiling at a person when they pass you in the street. Planting a garden so you create some green, even if it’s a few pots on your dining table. There are so many little things we can do like helping someone who can’t climb a stair. Even texting a friend to say hello and ask, “need anything?”. These make the world a kinder place. And when the world is a kinder place, we can be kinder in it.

Once cultivated, these small habits grow. You may find yourself volunteering at a dog shelter or nursery school. You may start coaching a sports team or handing water out at a road race.

And it actually starts by asking the question, what serves me? You receive as well as give. For example, if practicing yoga makes you happy, invite a friend to class with you. If saving money serves you, put some aside for your favorite charity. If loving on animals is your jam, volunteer at a local rescue or adoption center. If holding a hand serves you, volunteer at a nursing home, hospital or nursery school.

We are part of this living organism we call Earth. The more we serve each other, the more we serve ourselves.

Be Creative

Can being creative save the planet?

How do you think we came up with a product that absorbs micro-plastics from water? Or one that collects the petroleum discharge from tires as you drive? Its creative ideas that can make the world a better place. And you don’t have to be a scientist. What about the people who filled plastic bottles with sand to make bricks to build their homes? What about planting roof gardens to reduce ambient heating? Or fences and windows made with recycled glass bottles? That’s all about thinking outside the box

We are creative beings. The more you stimulate that part of your brain, whether in how you make a smoothie or solve a mathematical equation, the more creative you become. We get good at what we practice. So close the recipe book. Sit under a tree and wonder. Figure out what to you could actually do with those old yogurt containers. Paint a wall a new color and add a curved line. Add a colorful scarf or tie to that business suit.

Get wild.

Have some fun.

Let your creative self come to the forefront of whatever you do and see if it doesn’t make your world a better place.

Practice Gratitude

Thanks for Reading

 Doesn’t that feel good? For me and for you, it does. You see, gratitude saves us in so many ways, lifting us up emotionally and allowing us to become aware of and appreciate what we have. When you are grateful, you generally feel better. You shift the paradigm.

Doubtful? Try this: when you waken, before anything else, say thank you for another day. Speak to god, the day itself, your higher power, the universe, to whomever you pray. But say it, out loud if you can and whether you’re looking forward to it or not.

 Then, when you place your feet softly on the floor, say thanks for the support. Then say thanks for your feet. Brushing your teeth, thanks for them. Washing your face, thanks for the skin. Thanks for the wrinkles that remind us of smiles and of wisdom gained. Drinking a glass of water before all else, (you do that right? First thing?) say thanks for the water because with it we have everything and without it, we have nothing. Say thanks for the birds and the flowers and even say thanks for the problems, its how we figure things out.

Say thank you for all of it and see if you don’t feel better, happier.

It’s a gift to be alive.

Let’s be grateful.