I don't know

SO much.

Or, there is SO much to try/read/learn/practice/know. It's incredible, really. Lately, I've been thinking about how many of the things I've enjoyed doing in my life: singing, writing, yoga (heck, GOLF, even!) require lots of practice, study, and self-inquiry. I'm kind of a junkie.

I'm reading a book (finally) recommended to me by a fellow yogini, and it is just great. It is practical, historical, and key to moving my practice and teaching to the next level. I'm pretty sure I'm not one of those yogis whose hallmark will be doing lots of WOW! poses -- that's just not me. Though who knows, practice and all is coming -- but I digress. Rather, I like the idea of introducing students to and using in my own yoga practice on and off the mat the depth and breadth of riches that yoga has to offer. There is history, culture, poetry, anatomy, music and more to be explored. It is, in fact, what makes yoga such a colorful, wonderful thing.

Sometimes I feel lucky to not have the strongest, most flexible practice. Not being an athletic juggernaut on the mat in part allowed me to be open to the other elements of yoga: it's philosophy, language, music, ritual and more. And each time I pick up a new text about it, I am reminded just how much of a beginner I am, of how little I know. It's so freeing to approach life this way -- just being in the moment, empty and open to all that is.

Some Children Are Left Behind

I had a delightful surprise comment to a post a few days ago, from someone who knows one of my poems.  It was published in a small literary journal written for and by teachers called The Teacher's Voice.  You can find out more about it here.  If you've ever wondered if it really is important to read to your children or speak with them, know that it is.  Model the use and beauty of language whenever and however you can; my experience as a high school English teacher showed me that this can't be underestimated.  One of my happiest moments as a mom (and writer and English teacher) was when my daughter first carried a book to me to read to her.  I almost fainted.  Anyway, here is the poem:

Fill In

The blanks are too numerous

and some can't be filled in.

I don't know if I can teach 

you this language, now, so late.

I don't know if I can teach you

that this is a middle without

a beginning that makes sense.

I can't fill the place of those

who left you here, like this --

I can't tell you everything

you missed while you weren't here.