Information Writing
Design Seminar II
Have you ever stood outside of a very tall building, looked up at it, and wondered how, in all of its complexity and largeness, that it came to be? Have you ever been to a museum clad in curved glass with funny looking angled panels on the roof only to go inside and find that the light most perfectly blankets each piece of artwork in the most precise way? If you are inside now, look around you. Did you know that the space that you're in was once a preconceived idea in the creative mind of an architect? Maybe you have thought about this before but haven't had any answers. I am here to tell you that these daily interactions you have with the built space around you are a product of hundreds-maybe even thousands-of years of architects striving to create the perfect space.
In the early days of civilization, architecture was simply a way to protect the human from the disorder of the natural world. In other words, to keep the rain and the bears out. It slowly evolved into a field where art and science merge to a fuzzy place somewhere in the middle. It is scientific because it is, in its very nature, technical. It involves heavy materials being hoisted into the air and placed on top of structural elements that humans must safely inhabit. And at some point-probably as Greek architecture evolved-it became an artform. Not only was it important to the greeks that heavy stone be placed on top of large columns to maintain a safe space away from nature, it was important that the perfect proportions represent the cosmos (or heavens). Many Greek temples were sacred spaces built to honor the gods. And then when Christianity came to be, these values filtered into the Gothic and Renaissance churches. Architecture wasn't only to keep the bears out-it was an artistic cultural collaboration to embody God.
Architecture today has become even more complex in its definition than back in the day. Many of the early values of architects are still important-including proportion, truth of material, relationship to nature, the meaning of vast open space, etc. But now, we have the addition of environmental awareness, digital prefabrication, structural technologies that push the boundaries of what can be built, and a million other things. As a student of architecture and then a professional in the field, I have learned a lot about both the science and the art of architecture. And I have learned that the architectural pioneers from history, and even from today, are the ones that understand the science of architecture, and simultaneously, strive to pursue the art of architecture in every project they encounter. It's not about engineering a box or an oversized sculpture for people to hang out in; rather, it's about forming a space that connects the inhabitants with something larger.
So, what constitutes good architecture today? Well, that's a very involved question and I could continue the detailed history from ancient greek architecture all the way to now to fully explain it. But I don't want to bore you, so I will be brief. Good architecture can be done in an infinite number of ways. It is not solely the conceptual process of design nor is it the final building that represents good architecture. It is some marriage of these two things where intentions, boundaries, and values are set up in an artistic, freethinking design process that considers three-dimensional form, space, light, journey, curiosity, etc. and then combines these with the technical methods for building. Both sides of this marriage must be fully developed for good architecture to occur. A good architect will never let a mechanical duct fall below the ceiling line (unless it is intended) nor will he use a random mess of materials on the facade of a building. A good architect will even spend time on the design of a bathroom-an area that is often an afterthought. A good architect will recognize his limitations and work creatively within them. A good architect will respect the environment, the materials, the context for which the building will be placed, the client's motivations and desires, and most importantly, the inhabitants who will experience the building on a daily basis. A good architect will learn-over years of practice-to take a multitude of factors into consideration and, hopefully, will contribute to making architecture-and therefore our physical world-better.
From the early days to now, architectural shifts are largely a result of pioneers pushing the limits of the current state. Some of them include Leonardo da Vinci (yes, he was an architect), Filippo Brunelleschi, Michelangelo (yes, also an architect), Andrea Palladio, and Le Corbusier. Each challenged how architects designed with respect to space, materials, form, nature, etc. Today, it seems we have a growing number of pioneers. I wish I could tell you about them all in great detail, however, I will touch on just a few prominent ones that you may have heard about-Frank Lloyd Wright, Louis Kahn, and Frank Ghery.
In the mid to late 1800s, most buildings were decorated boxes completely separate from the organic nature on top of which they were placed-and then Frank Lloyd Wright came along. He was a catalyst to change the way architects think about space. He linked architectural space to the horizontal organic space of the natural world. So, to put it simply, he lowered ceiling heights to intensify the horizontality of nature-it literally flows into and through his buildings. He also found a way-through the Usonian Prairie Home-to bring good architecture to people who-in most cases-could not afford it. Simplicity of structure and material and a step away from unnecessary expensive decoration helped make this possible. Some of his most famous dwellings include Fallingwater, The Robie House, and the Guggenheim Museum in New York.
Louis Kahn, an architect from the mid-1900s, challenged the way architects thought about building form and truth of material. He valued honesty in how he used materials and this honesty became the decoration of the building. For example, his concrete forms at the Salk Institute in La Jolla, CA have small holes and unsmoothed edges showing the story of how the structural concrete was formed in the construction of the building. At the Salk Institute, a small stream of water travels from the center of the courtyard westward to a waterfall overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Though I hate to dumb down Louis Kahn, the master of space, material, light, and form, this stream is much like an infinity edge swimming pool. It is perceived as a continuation of the ocean. At the Kimbell Museum in Fort Worth, TX, Kahn engineered light and curved concrete in such a way that the concrete sparkles like silverish gold. He taught architects that using material merely for its aesthetic was completely dishonest to the inherent nature of the material. Rather than painting a material to make it beautiful, allow nature to inform the beauty of the material. Let concrete be compressed, let steel be in tension, let bricks stack, and leave space between materials for expansion and contraction. "'You say to a brick: 'What do you want, brick?' and brick says to you: 'I like an arch.'"1 In his simple way of understanding materials, light, and building form, Kahn is looked to as a master.
In architecture today, there is an imminent change in the process of building. You may have heard of Frank Ghery before. He is currently pushing the limit of how and what we can build. If you've ever been to Los Angeles, CA and seen the Walt Disney Concert Hall or if you've been to Seattle, WA and seen the Experience Music Project, you should know what I'm talking about. Frank Ghery's buildings are massive curving metal forms. They are what some architects call 'Blob'itecture-which is architecture that looks as though a blobby gel-like substance was blown up to a large proportion for humans to inhabit. I won't discuss the controversy over whether or not this 'blob'itecture is spatially well designed, but I will say that Ghery has sparked a revolution in what engineering can do for architecture. Before Ghery, curving and blobbing forms made of steel and glass were pretty much impossible. Determining many curving steel beams with no regularity or similarity is so complex its not worth the time or the money. So, how does Ghery-and other revolutionaries of today-do it? Well, as of now, the process is quite involved and has yet to be refined. But it basically requires a complete change of standard building processes. Typically, two-dimensional construction documents are brought on site and constructed from the ground up. Ghery's buildings must be digitally machined and constructed off-site-a process called digital prefabrication-and then taken on-site to be chunked together like a puzzle. As time goes on, prefab will become more and more feasible, and maybe one day, will become the norm. If this happens, Ghery, and a few of his counterparts, will be considered the impetus of the movement.
In considering the early days of ancient civilization, to the days of Ancient Greece and Rome, to the revolutionized built world of today, how do you think architecture affects your life? Well, architects have changed the way you interact with your physical world. Wright realized that the format of the modern, middle class lifestyle and its relationship to nature did not match the boxy ornate architecture of the day. So, he changed it. How your family interacts both on the interior and exterior of your home may be different if it weren't for him. Kahn changed the way light, form, and materials interact, and he challenged simplicity and the sublime. If it weren't for Kahn, cities may be more plastered than they already are with fake decorative details, and the beauty of concrete may not be as appreciated. If it weren't for Ghery, engineering may never have been challenged so drastically. And we may forever build from the ground up rather than with new digital prefabrication technologies. To put it simply, architecture literally shapes what your world looks like and how you feel in it. It directly (or indirectly) affects almost everything you do. So, next time that you're standing in front of a really tall building, think about the thousands of years of architects and buildings that preceded it and ultimately made that building what it is.
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February 21, 2010
Snow Day at Mellon Park
Scenic Writing
Design Seminar II
Mellon Park is three feet high in snow. The black gate encompassing it is merely black spikes rising out of an infinite white blob. On one side of the gate is the street that can't be seen under all the snow. And on our side is the valley of the park that inches its way up the hill. The hill is like an enormous ocean wave right before it's peak that has been frozen still and dusted with white powder. A few trees dot the surface of the park. They are massive versions of the black gate—foreign bodies protruding up through the blob. The snow absorbs the sound of the voices echoing over the top of the hill. Jonathan and I are like two knee-deep statues watching our dogs run rampant, stamping the vast blanket.
A black lab and two young boys—one in a blue jacket, the other in a red—race up the hill, carving out a new walking path. The dog gets distracted and runs over first to Mara, my yellow lab. She sniffs Mara's butt, and then Boo—Jonathan's red and black mutt—comes up and pokes noses with her—black nose to black nose. When the dog, "Bella," is called back, she glances over her right shoulder, hesitates, and then dashes up the hill towards her pack.
Mara's tail has sped up like a hummingbirds wings. The yellowish-white blur is spastic. Specks of snow, like dust, fly around her hind legs and the sun shimmers through them making fireworks during the day. Jonathan begins packing up snowballs and dropping them by his side. Their heaviness sinks them down—maybe ten inches—into the white powder. "I'm getting a bunch ready so I can throw one, and then when Boo comes back, I'll hit her in the face with the next." Jonathan's black hair and tan skin contrast the overwhelming white of the field of vision. As soon as Boo sees the round form of the snowball, she goes still. Her eyes are glued to Jonathan's gloves cupping the snow. His right, somewhat muscular arm cranks back. His jacket crackles as the material scrapes against itself. Boo's gaze follows; up, over to the right, and then like a dart, she's across the park. Mara follows but stops halfway. She watches Boo's nose insert itself into the snowball crater. Boo takes a few bites, swallows, and then runs back. Again, Jonathan's arm cranks back. Crackle. WAP. Before I can even see what happened, the snowball is gone. Boo's pointy nose wobbles up and down as she crunches and swallows. "Watch. It doesn't even phase her. Boo. Get it." He throws another. Again, it lands perfectly and she swallows. "Did you used to play baseball or somethin?" I ask him. "Yeah. I was a pitcher." Boo prepares herself. Crackle. WAP.
I look over at Mara. She has wandered to the tree that catches the bottom of the hill. She hops from one snowcrater to the next. She stands still, pointing her gaze to her next location. Then she flies straight up in the air and lands two feet forward—snow dust blurring her to a fuzzy, yellowish-white. The snow is tail height and her head is lifted to keep her from drowning. She sets up again. Prepare. Look. Jump. On this one, her butt swings to the right and knocks her off balance. Her whole body, except her
pink nose and the crown of her head, disappears into the blob and a cloud of sparkly snow encompasses the air around her. Her butt swings back and forth as she sturdies herself. "Maraaaaaaaaa." I yell at her. Her head jerks around and stops—slightly angled to one side. A few clumps of snow balance on top of her head, between her square-shaped ears. "Come." She plunders obnoxiously through the untouched powder towards me. Some jumps clear the snow completely, keeping a foot of peace between one dot and the next. Others begin to connect the dots as a paw accidentally scrapes across the top inch layer of snow. By the time she reaches me, there are fifteen craters that have unsympathetically disrupted nature's creation.
Boo's black and red face is sparkling with snow. She's intently waiting for the next snowball to fly straight into her mouth. Mara then sturdies her feet, leans back, and plunges on top of Boo. Boo glances back quickly and re-adjusts her gaze to the snowball. Again, Mara pounces—one foot on Boo's back, the other in the snow. Her body falls to the left, and disappears into the abyss. Snow surrounds her whole body except her tail. It remains in view—straight and swinging—like a pendulum keeping to the beat of a fast-paced song. This time, she stands up strong, right behind Boo. Boo is completely still, staring at the snowball. Mara's lips curl and her nose flares. Her head bounces forward and she barks once. Her tail is now sticking straight out, no longer swinging. Boo stares at the snowball. Mara barks twice more. Each bark growing deeper. "Err. Err. eeeeeeee. Urr. Urr." She pounces on Boo again. Boo snaps back at her and then stiffly reconnects her eyes to the snowball.
"Throw one at Mara. See if she can catch it." My lips move in slow motion as the cold seeps in. Boo sits in angst. Mara barks. Jonathan prepares. Boo's black tail starts wafting the snow behind her. "Catch it Mara!" He says. As soon as she turns her head towards him, WAP. It hits the side of her nose. Her whole body jerks still and her eyes go wide. Three seconds go by and then she shakes—her collar tags clinging together, snow encircling her. Jonathan throws another, this time far off into the park valley. Boo dashes towards the snowball and Mara chases her. When Mara catches up, her front legs go down into the snow like a sphinx and her butt protrudes into the air. She barks five or six times head bobbing back and forth forcing out louder and louder barks. Boo's head goes under the surface of the snow as she searches for the snowball. She comes up rapidly chewing, snowcrumbs all around her mouth. She runs back to Jonathan; Mara still in sphinx pose. Mara's gaze follows Boos movements all the way back over to us. Jonathan prepares another snowball and throws it. Boo again darts off. Mara chases her; barking. Boo eats the snowball and runs back leaving Mara behind.
Finally, a group of sledders forms at the top of the hill. Male and female voices echo across the park. A male voice yells out. "Just pick up your feet and hold on." I see him push the other figure down the hill. The deep chunky sound of the human-weighted plastic rolling over the mound of half-packed snow resonates as the sled comes down, closer towards us. Mara's ears pop up and her gaze shifts from Boo to the noise. She runs right in front of the sled as the olive-skinned mid-20-something girl crashes into the snow. The girl squeals in laughter and Mara runs two circles around her. Mara's head leans in to lick her. The girl gets up, dusts off the snow, and trudges up the hill. Mara stays at her heels. The next guy preps the sled. "One. Two. Three. GO." The sled spins down the hill and he grips the sides of it for dear life. A gruff "Urrf." exits Mara's belly as she tries to catch him. Her feet get caught in the snow and she stumbles. The sledder falls over, his black Gortex turning gray when the snow sticks to it. A huge grin forms on his face as Mara hops around him and he pats her on the head. My gaze shifts back to Boo and Jonathan. Jonathan is laughing at Mara and the sledders. Boo is staring at the snowball in Jonathan's glove.
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Design Seminar II
Mellon Park is three feet high in snow. The black gate encompassing it is merely black spikes rising out of an infinite white blob. On one side of the gate is the street that can't be seen under all the snow. And on our side is the valley of the park that inches its way up the hill. The hill is like an enormous ocean wave right before it's peak that has been frozen still and dusted with white powder. A few trees dot the surface of the park. They are massive versions of the black gate—foreign bodies protruding up through the blob. The snow absorbs the sound of the voices echoing over the top of the hill. Jonathan and I are like two knee-deep statues watching our dogs run rampant, stamping the vast blanket.
A black lab and two young boys—one in a blue jacket, the other in a red—race up the hill, carving out a new walking path. The dog gets distracted and runs over first to Mara, my yellow lab. She sniffs Mara's butt, and then Boo—Jonathan's red and black mutt—comes up and pokes noses with her—black nose to black nose. When the dog, "Bella," is called back, she glances over her right shoulder, hesitates, and then dashes up the hill towards her pack.
Mara's tail has sped up like a hummingbirds wings. The yellowish-white blur is spastic. Specks of snow, like dust, fly around her hind legs and the sun shimmers through them making fireworks during the day. Jonathan begins packing up snowballs and dropping them by his side. Their heaviness sinks them down—maybe ten inches—into the white powder. "I'm getting a bunch ready so I can throw one, and then when Boo comes back, I'll hit her in the face with the next." Jonathan's black hair and tan skin contrast the overwhelming white of the field of vision. As soon as Boo sees the round form of the snowball, she goes still. Her eyes are glued to Jonathan's gloves cupping the snow. His right, somewhat muscular arm cranks back. His jacket crackles as the material scrapes against itself. Boo's gaze follows; up, over to the right, and then like a dart, she's across the park. Mara follows but stops halfway. She watches Boo's nose insert itself into the snowball crater. Boo takes a few bites, swallows, and then runs back. Again, Jonathan's arm cranks back. Crackle. WAP. Before I can even see what happened, the snowball is gone. Boo's pointy nose wobbles up and down as she crunches and swallows. "Watch. It doesn't even phase her. Boo. Get it." He throws another. Again, it lands perfectly and she swallows. "Did you used to play baseball or somethin?" I ask him. "Yeah. I was a pitcher." Boo prepares herself. Crackle. WAP.
I look over at Mara. She has wandered to the tree that catches the bottom of the hill. She hops from one snowcrater to the next. She stands still, pointing her gaze to her next location. Then she flies straight up in the air and lands two feet forward—snow dust blurring her to a fuzzy, yellowish-white. The snow is tail height and her head is lifted to keep her from drowning. She sets up again. Prepare. Look. Jump. On this one, her butt swings to the right and knocks her off balance. Her whole body, except her
pink nose and the crown of her head, disappears into the blob and a cloud of sparkly snow encompasses the air around her. Her butt swings back and forth as she sturdies herself. "Maraaaaaaaaa." I yell at her. Her head jerks around and stops—slightly angled to one side. A few clumps of snow balance on top of her head, between her square-shaped ears. "Come." She plunders obnoxiously through the untouched powder towards me. Some jumps clear the snow completely, keeping a foot of peace between one dot and the next. Others begin to connect the dots as a paw accidentally scrapes across the top inch layer of snow. By the time she reaches me, there are fifteen craters that have unsympathetically disrupted nature's creation.
Boo's black and red face is sparkling with snow. She's intently waiting for the next snowball to fly straight into her mouth. Mara then sturdies her feet, leans back, and plunges on top of Boo. Boo glances back quickly and re-adjusts her gaze to the snowball. Again, Mara pounces—one foot on Boo's back, the other in the snow. Her body falls to the left, and disappears into the abyss. Snow surrounds her whole body except her tail. It remains in view—straight and swinging—like a pendulum keeping to the beat of a fast-paced song. This time, she stands up strong, right behind Boo. Boo is completely still, staring at the snowball. Mara's lips curl and her nose flares. Her head bounces forward and she barks once. Her tail is now sticking straight out, no longer swinging. Boo stares at the snowball. Mara barks twice more. Each bark growing deeper. "Err. Err. eeeeeeee. Urr. Urr." She pounces on Boo again. Boo snaps back at her and then stiffly reconnects her eyes to the snowball.
"Throw one at Mara. See if she can catch it." My lips move in slow motion as the cold seeps in. Boo sits in angst. Mara barks. Jonathan prepares. Boo's black tail starts wafting the snow behind her. "Catch it Mara!" He says. As soon as she turns her head towards him, WAP. It hits the side of her nose. Her whole body jerks still and her eyes go wide. Three seconds go by and then she shakes—her collar tags clinging together, snow encircling her. Jonathan throws another, this time far off into the park valley. Boo dashes towards the snowball and Mara chases her. When Mara catches up, her front legs go down into the snow like a sphinx and her butt protrudes into the air. She barks five or six times head bobbing back and forth forcing out louder and louder barks. Boo's head goes under the surface of the snow as she searches for the snowball. She comes up rapidly chewing, snowcrumbs all around her mouth. She runs back to Jonathan; Mara still in sphinx pose. Mara's gaze follows Boos movements all the way back over to us. Jonathan prepares another snowball and throws it. Boo again darts off. Mara chases her; barking. Boo eats the snowball and runs back leaving Mara behind.
Finally, a group of sledders forms at the top of the hill. Male and female voices echo across the park. A male voice yells out. "Just pick up your feet and hold on." I see him push the other figure down the hill. The deep chunky sound of the human-weighted plastic rolling over the mound of half-packed snow resonates as the sled comes down, closer towards us. Mara's ears pop up and her gaze shifts from Boo to the noise. She runs right in front of the sled as the olive-skinned mid-20-something girl crashes into the snow. The girl squeals in laughter and Mara runs two circles around her. Mara's head leans in to lick her. The girl gets up, dusts off the snow, and trudges up the hill. Mara stays at her heels. The next guy preps the sled. "One. Two. Three. GO." The sled spins down the hill and he grips the sides of it for dear life. A gruff "Urrf." exits Mara's belly as she tries to catch him. Her feet get caught in the snow and she stumbles. The sledder falls over, his black Gortex turning gray when the snow sticks to it. A huge grin forms on his face as Mara hops around him and he pats her on the head. My gaze shifts back to Boo and Jonathan. Jonathan is laughing at Mara and the sledders. Boo is staring at the snowball in Jonathan's glove.
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January 27, 2010
love with a city
Self-Portrait
Design Seminar II
I absolutely could not wait to look out the window of the plane and see the 405 and 10 intersection— and the miles of traffic that signified we were above Los Angeles, California—my true home away from home. I looked miles below to the ground. It was brown with layers of cracked earth indicating steep, mountainous terrain. Every now and then I noticed a road with a car traveling on it. “We’re probably nearing Joshua Tree... and the windmills” I thought “about 140 miles to go.” I was on my first Christmas break from Graduate School at Carnegie Mellon University, and I had just spent the past eight months in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania—a place dramatically different from Los Angeles. I thought back to the last time I flew into LAX. I had just visited Pittsburgh for the first time and—during my visit—had made the decision to move there for Grad School. My stomache had cringed at the idea that it could be the last time I would fly back. But today—with unbridled excitement—here I was.
Two and a half years ago is the last time I can remember feeling this way on the plane into LA. It was my very first visit. I remember it was night in early August and I could see fireworks all around the city. I don’t know why there were fireworks, though, they quite nicely paralleled the discord in my heart as the plane neared the landing pad. My mom had travelled with me to check everything out—which meant, offer me her opinions on each apartment we toured and each job I interviewed for. We found ourselves in the middle of a small studio apartment just south of Beverly Hills when my landlord-to-be warned me. He said, “Be careful—once you move to Southern California, you’ll never leave. And if you have to leave, you’ll forever be dreaming of the sun and the ocean. Are you sure you’re ready?” Well I wasn’t sure. I looked at my mom and she gave me the “Are you okay living 3,000 miles away from home?” look. “Yes.” I stated confidently. “I am ready.” I think I was shaking as I signed the lease.
Up to this point, I had lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana my entire life. I had just graduated from Louisiana State University with a Bachelors degree in Architecture. Just ten minutes from mom and dad’s, I lived in a bungalow style house in the garden district with my six-month old yellow lab. I had a decent job at an architecture firm downtown. And besides my recent tumultuous breakup with my boyfriend of one and a half years, I didn’t really have a reason to leave except that I was bored. Bored of my running route around the LSU Lakes, bored of the tunnel vision that many people are diseased with there, and even—I can’t believe I am saying this—bored of the duck and sausage gumbo from The Chimes. “I’m gonna move to California one day” had always been one of those statements I said aloud to people but never had any intention of actually doing. But now my newly single-ness and blasē attitude towards home had me energetic for something new. So I took advantage of this ‘impulse’ and very swiftly—before it wore off—took the necessary steps to make it happen. The next thing I knew, I was standing in my to-be studio apartment just a few miles east of the Pacific—a few miles south of, well, Hollywood.
A month after my apartment and job searching visit in Los Angeles, I packed the car and made the four-day drive west from Baton Rouge. Most people would say, “It takes an average of six months to love living in Los Angeles.” I guess I’m the exception because it took me about three trips to Runyon Canyon, one trip to the Promenade in Santa Monica, and maybe a trip or two to the beach to be sure that Los Angeles was stealing my heart. The next two years would be fantastic. My dog, Mara and I, would explore every inch of the city and soak in every bit of the sun. I think I knew early on that I didn’t have much time there because I placed precedence on gorging myself in everything unique to Southern California. Beach Volleyball, Westcoast Poweryoga, Marathon Training on the Santa Monica Strand, and hiking in the mountains were only a few of my activities. Each time I went home—though I was happy to be reacquainted with family, friends, and gumbo—I felt evermore distant to the life I used to know there. Flights back to LA had a routine: the fervent search for the 405 and the sigh of relief when it was spotted. It was a routine of unabashed independence. A place where I felt connected to the outside world and freed from the chokehold of life in Baton Rouge.
About a year after I moved to Los Angeles, even though weekend life was really really good, my day job was not. Every day I literally had to tear myself away from my apartment and into my desk chair at work. The sifting through mechanical drawings for the 65,000 square foot monster house I was working on was dramatically different than creating the expressive architecture I had come to know in school. I realized very quickly how much more important money was over innovation in the professional world. And what made things even more depressing, was that there was not much I could do to change the process of induction of Junior Architects to Experienced Licensed Architects—I needed something like 300 units under supervision plus nine exams to obtain my license. This would take three to five years of mouse clicking and drawing sifting. And even after this, the day-to-day work wasn’t guaranteed to change. The architecture profession was becoming the new chokehold in my life.
My daily mantra shifted from “get paid Monday through Friday so Saturday and Sunday can happen” to “how can Sunday through Saturday be seamless?” In other words, “How can I get paid to love every second of my life?” I answered my question with: 1. Become a yoga teacher so you can get paid to yoga. 2. Get a Masters in Design so you can get paid to create. Well, right before I left California, I completed number 1—I now get paid to yoga. Number 2 will commence in May of 2011.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” My mom asked when we pulled onto the 10 freeway to head back East. “No, I’m not ready to go. Not at all.” I replied. In this moment of leaving, LA was the bandaid and I was the skin—this ripping apart was almost too painful to manage. I swallowed a few tears as we drove towards the desert. Los Angeles had taught me about myself and the world—and how to search within to find happiness without.
So here I was—almost eight months since I left—fervently searching for the 405 again. My heart thumped when I first spotted it. Then I saw Palos Verdes, the Hermosa Pier, and the Ferris Wheel in Santa Monica. The sky was blue and the smoky haze of yellow that always hovered above the city was still intact. In a few moments, I’d be released again. Back at home—back in my space of utter comfort and bliss. I knew that it had been the right decision to move away, but my landlord was right on. I would always dream of the sand and the sea, the blue sky, the traffic, and the smog. I was only here for a few days this time, but hopefully next time, I’ll be back to live.
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Design Seminar II
I absolutely could not wait to look out the window of the plane and see the 405 and 10 intersection— and the miles of traffic that signified we were above Los Angeles, California—my true home away from home. I looked miles below to the ground. It was brown with layers of cracked earth indicating steep, mountainous terrain. Every now and then I noticed a road with a car traveling on it. “We’re probably nearing Joshua Tree... and the windmills” I thought “about 140 miles to go.” I was on my first Christmas break from Graduate School at Carnegie Mellon University, and I had just spent the past eight months in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania—a place dramatically different from Los Angeles. I thought back to the last time I flew into LAX. I had just visited Pittsburgh for the first time and—during my visit—had made the decision to move there for Grad School. My stomache had cringed at the idea that it could be the last time I would fly back. But today—with unbridled excitement—here I was.
Two and a half years ago is the last time I can remember feeling this way on the plane into LA. It was my very first visit. I remember it was night in early August and I could see fireworks all around the city. I don’t know why there were fireworks, though, they quite nicely paralleled the discord in my heart as the plane neared the landing pad. My mom had travelled with me to check everything out—which meant, offer me her opinions on each apartment we toured and each job I interviewed for. We found ourselves in the middle of a small studio apartment just south of Beverly Hills when my landlord-to-be warned me. He said, “Be careful—once you move to Southern California, you’ll never leave. And if you have to leave, you’ll forever be dreaming of the sun and the ocean. Are you sure you’re ready?” Well I wasn’t sure. I looked at my mom and she gave me the “Are you okay living 3,000 miles away from home?” look. “Yes.” I stated confidently. “I am ready.” I think I was shaking as I signed the lease.
Up to this point, I had lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana my entire life. I had just graduated from Louisiana State University with a Bachelors degree in Architecture. Just ten minutes from mom and dad’s, I lived in a bungalow style house in the garden district with my six-month old yellow lab. I had a decent job at an architecture firm downtown. And besides my recent tumultuous breakup with my boyfriend of one and a half years, I didn’t really have a reason to leave except that I was bored. Bored of my running route around the LSU Lakes, bored of the tunnel vision that many people are diseased with there, and even—I can’t believe I am saying this—bored of the duck and sausage gumbo from The Chimes. “I’m gonna move to California one day” had always been one of those statements I said aloud to people but never had any intention of actually doing. But now my newly single-ness and blasē attitude towards home had me energetic for something new. So I took advantage of this ‘impulse’ and very swiftly—before it wore off—took the necessary steps to make it happen. The next thing I knew, I was standing in my to-be studio apartment just a few miles east of the Pacific—a few miles south of, well, Hollywood.
A month after my apartment and job searching visit in Los Angeles, I packed the car and made the four-day drive west from Baton Rouge. Most people would say, “It takes an average of six months to love living in Los Angeles.” I guess I’m the exception because it took me about three trips to Runyon Canyon, one trip to the Promenade in Santa Monica, and maybe a trip or two to the beach to be sure that Los Angeles was stealing my heart. The next two years would be fantastic. My dog, Mara and I, would explore every inch of the city and soak in every bit of the sun. I think I knew early on that I didn’t have much time there because I placed precedence on gorging myself in everything unique to Southern California. Beach Volleyball, Westcoast Poweryoga, Marathon Training on the Santa Monica Strand, and hiking in the mountains were only a few of my activities. Each time I went home—though I was happy to be reacquainted with family, friends, and gumbo—I felt evermore distant to the life I used to know there. Flights back to LA had a routine: the fervent search for the 405 and the sigh of relief when it was spotted. It was a routine of unabashed independence. A place where I felt connected to the outside world and freed from the chokehold of life in Baton Rouge.
About a year after I moved to Los Angeles, even though weekend life was really really good, my day job was not. Every day I literally had to tear myself away from my apartment and into my desk chair at work. The sifting through mechanical drawings for the 65,000 square foot monster house I was working on was dramatically different than creating the expressive architecture I had come to know in school. I realized very quickly how much more important money was over innovation in the professional world. And what made things even more depressing, was that there was not much I could do to change the process of induction of Junior Architects to Experienced Licensed Architects—I needed something like 300 units under supervision plus nine exams to obtain my license. This would take three to five years of mouse clicking and drawing sifting. And even after this, the day-to-day work wasn’t guaranteed to change. The architecture profession was becoming the new chokehold in my life.
My daily mantra shifted from “get paid Monday through Friday so Saturday and Sunday can happen” to “how can Sunday through Saturday be seamless?” In other words, “How can I get paid to love every second of my life?” I answered my question with: 1. Become a yoga teacher so you can get paid to yoga. 2. Get a Masters in Design so you can get paid to create. Well, right before I left California, I completed number 1—I now get paid to yoga. Number 2 will commence in May of 2011.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” My mom asked when we pulled onto the 10 freeway to head back East. “No, I’m not ready to go. Not at all.” I replied. In this moment of leaving, LA was the bandaid and I was the skin—this ripping apart was almost too painful to manage. I swallowed a few tears as we drove towards the desert. Los Angeles had taught me about myself and the world—and how to search within to find happiness without.
So here I was—almost eight months since I left—fervently searching for the 405 again. My heart thumped when I first spotted it. Then I saw Palos Verdes, the Hermosa Pier, and the Ferris Wheel in Santa Monica. The sky was blue and the smoky haze of yellow that always hovered above the city was still intact. In a few moments, I’d be released again. Back at home—back in my space of utter comfort and bliss. I knew that it had been the right decision to move away, but my landlord was right on. I would always dream of the sand and the sea, the blue sky, the traffic, and the smog. I was only here for a few days this time, but hopefully next time, I’ll be back to live.
Click Here to Read More..
December 19, 2009
My friends.
I have 809 friends on facebook (I know - that's a totally cliche thing to say). But of those 809, there may be about 20 people that I am actually truly friends with. And of those 20, there may be about 10 that I actually truly talk to often. And of those 10, there may be about 5 that are actually truly close friends. Some of you may object to this statement because I always say, "my best friend from ____" or "my best friend from ____." But really, in my day-to-day life, I don't have many friends at all. Just a few people that I actually share life with. Of course there are those that I talk to once a year and can just dive right back in like no time has passed. But in reality, my numbers are very low. And as I get older, the numbers just get lower.... I guess that is just how life goes. All this is okay with me though because the friends that I have are some of the most amazing people I know. Right now I'm in California visiting my old lifestyle. I don't have many friends here either. I have a lot of acquaintances - A LOT. In a place where 'me me me' is the mentality and there's no time for anybody or anything, I still have a select few here who - at the drop of a hat - will go out of their way for me. And I am feeling so blessed. Especially as I sit here in Hermosa Beach at my friend Graeme's apartment waiting for my friend Eileen to arrive so we can go spend the day on the beach. And as I think about the past few days and how I flooded Graeme's garage when I used his broken washing machine and he graciously brushed it off like it was no thing. We just dried it up and went for beer and sushi. And then I think about the fact that Eileen rescheduled her life this weekend just to be with me. So I just want to give a shout out to the amazing friends that I do have - including those not here with me in California. Yall are truly amazing. You teach me how I can be a better person and a better friend.
I'm off to the beach :) Click Here to Read More..
I'm off to the beach :) Click Here to Read More..
December 9, 2009
Visualizing the Information Space...
of HarmenLiemburg.nl
Here's my final studio project that I've been slaving over for the past week.
Check it.
Click Here to Read More..
Here's my final studio project that I've been slaving over for the past week.
Check it.
Visualizing the Information Space... from Sarah Calandro on Vimeo.
Click Here to Read More..
December 1, 2009
How Yoga Teacher Training, Edward Cullen, and Raw Chicken Changed My Life
In the land of yoga, Yoga Teacher Training marks a major life transition. People go through teacher training for multiple reasons. Some people want a complete career change. Some a new side income. Some want to deepen their yoga practice. And then others just want to meet interesting folk and practice yoga with them. I wanted to become a yoga teacher not only for the obvious - I loved yoga and wanted to share the love with others. But I also wanted relief from my profession as an architect, I wanted something new to direct my passion towards, and - though I would have never admitted it then - I was young and single and, well, always up for meeting new interesting people (in particular, the somewhat attractive male types of people). I repeat, I would have never admitted this then.
One night in the fall of 2008 after one of his vigorous vinyasa flow classes, Tamal Dodge announced that he would be holding a 200-hour yoga teacher training in the spring. Now, not only was Tamal my favorite yoga instructor, but he knew a lot about yoga - he had grown up on an Ashram in Hawaii and was basically immersed in yoga his entire life. Also, at $1,095, he had the most affordable training program on the market - I hadn’t seen anything less than $3,000 anywhere - and this was not just California teacher training costs. It seemed like $3,000 was the standard across the entire world. This was perfect - I gave Tamal a $200 down payment the very next day.
I waited in angst for the next six months. It was that time in life where anything and everything was possible - I wanted to do it all, and I wanted to do it right then. Full of stress and busy-ness, I went through nine graduate school applications, one marathon, one boyfriend (and then breakup), and about a hundred architecture detail drawings before I was onto my next task - the most satisfying of all: Yoga Teacher Training. I arrived at 806 Broadway in Santa Monica, California around 12:30 pm for my first day of yoga school. I was like a child on the first day of Kindergarten - I was wearing my new Lululemon yoga skirt atop black spandex pants, a tank top, and of course, my yoga mat slung over my shoulder. The mystery of the next nine weeks amped my excitement. I knew this was going to be life changing.
Thirty others, already wearing their prayer beads and flipping through their new Bhagavad Gitas, looked up at me when I walked through the door. The variety was like no other. Chelsey and Graham - a couple who had fallen in love practicing yoga together. Mary Anne - an academic type with a Phish fetish. Katie - a bubbly-girl from Pittsburgh with a Boston Terrier named Petey. Arana (aah-rah-nah), who fits more properly - with his savage look - amongst a battalion of Maori warriors preparing for battle rather than a group of yogis preparing for yoga. Jeff Van Ness - mmm Jeffrey - the blue-eyed, dark-haired, cuban hottie from South Florida. Jennifer - the boisterous laugh-er who was really into selling weight loss products. Haley - the beautiful Asian girl with a throaty, alluring voice (I’m sure the guys will flock to her yoga classes). And then there was Vincent - the actor/model from Las Vegas who ate raw chicken on a daily basis and - little did I know then - would sweep me off my feet just a few weeks later.
________
Months before, I had made the decision to take teacher training very seriously. Not only because of the amount of money I was spending, but because this was the only chance I had in this moment, in this place, to learn the things I was here to learn. Take it all in, Sarah. I told myself. You’re in Southern California, surrounded by famous yoga teachers all within a mile radius and for the next nine weeks, you have Tamal at your fingertips to teach you everything he knows. This may never happen again.
The first couple weeks went as expected. Fridays we broke down poses, Saturdays we attended Tamal’s flow class at the Poweryoga studio in Santa Monica, and Sundays we had spirituality classes with Kathy - who apparently had been studying world religions for the better part of her life. The students were all getting to know each other and, thus far, my diligence was keeping me focused.
________
This past Christmas, my mom bought me Twilight, by Stephanie Meier. I thought it was hilarious and stupid that a mother would purchase a teen science fiction novel about vampires for her 25-year old daughter. You see, the Twilight series was a recent fad amongst teens - and apparently also amongst their mothers - about the trials and tribulations of humans and werewolves and vampires and love. And Edward Cullen - the perfection of the male being in the form of a vampire - was the source of the obsession. I was not interested. “No thanks mom. I’ll stick to my books about yoga and healthy eating.” She said, “Sarah, you have no idea. You have to read this book.”
Well, during yoga teacher training, I just so happened to be in the mid-section of the book. Edward was woo-ing Bella and simultaneously, winning my heart. I realized that any man incapable of running at the speed of light, glittering in the sun, ripping apart wild animals with his bare hands, and properly fulfilling a woman’s every need with his soft, perfect skin, his burning gaze, and his insatiable desire to sweep his lady off her feet and carry her to the moon, was no longer for me.
The most recent guy I had dated was Justin. I met Justin at a bar one night in Venice. He got my number. He took me on a date. He kissed me. He said, “We should do this again sometime.” It was very sweet. I liked Justin. Then he didn’t call me for a few weeks and when he finally did - Valentine’s Day to be exact - it was like, for him, no time had passed. Typical. I knew he wasn’t really into me, but because I was bored and single, he was incredibly good-looking, and it was Valentine’s Day, what the heck? We went out. We drank beer. We ate late-night pizza. We had a lot of fun. But could Justin climb atop mile-high trees with me on his back (like Edward)? No. Did Justin eat raw meat with his bare hands? Nah. And, most importantly, did Justin get hypnotized by my very presence? Hell no. This book my mom gave me was setting my standards a bit too high.
________
It was the third week into Yoga Teacher Training, one week after my night of banter with Justin, and a few days after I had injured myself so badly in Shiva Rea’s crazy dance trance yoga class that I could hardly move. Multiple rapid eagle-armed warriors had somehow strained my chest muscle causing inflammation in my lungs. I could hardly breathe that week, much less, do yoga.
I stumbled into yoga class half-texting with Justin and half-focusing on my shortness of breath. I took my seat. When I noticed Vincent sitting beside me, I laughed and said, “I thought about you all week.” He looked at me with an excited grin and I burst his bubble when I continued, “Raw chicken is disgusting.” The week before, I had asked him about his insulated lunch box that he brought to class with him every day. It was filled with jars of liquid-y green and yellow goo that he would drink randomly throughout class. It sparked my interest so I asked him about it. I learned that he was a raw-atarian. But he was not a vegetarian raw-atarian. He was a meat-atarian raw-atarian. He ate raw chicken, beef, fish, eggs; the whole lot. He would also eat raw vegetables and fruits, raw milk, raw butter - and of course, all of this raw-ness had to be the most chemically clean of all organic foods. He did not drink alcohol. He covered his body in homemade pure coconut cream every night - sometimes in place of showering. He only grocery shopped at Whole Foods and the farmer’s market and on any given afternoon, you may find him shirtless, trapezing on the acrobatic swings at Venice Beach. To say the least, yoga teacher training was becoming really interesting. We did not only have a diverse group, but a border-line wacky one at that. I loved it.
That night turned out to be partner massage night to practice simple techniques for our future students. This was perfect for my strained chest - no yoga. “Sarah, do you wanna be my partner?” Vincent asked me. He then flashed a seductive smile my way. Uh oh. For lack of appropriateness, I won’t go into detail, but let me just say, I have never been so gracefully massaged by such a strong man.
By the end of class, Vincent had made it his goal in life to heal my broken chest. By Saturday afternoon, he had my number, by Saturday night he was heavy into research, and by Sunday, we had a shopping date at Whole Foods to heal my chest the raw way.
When I got home after the grocery store date, I realized what was happening to me. No Sarah. No. No. No. You cannot get distracted in yoga teacher training. Don’t do it. I googled his name on the internet. He is sooo Hollywood. Sooo not my type. Photos of him with his perfectly sculpted body, his Italian coconut creamy skin, and his innocent gold eyes stared back at me. I was beginning to feel like I was the main character in a movie. I tried to swallow the giddi-ness rising in my chest because A - I don’t date models. I am not into Hollywood fame. B - If you were to ask my mother the #1 most repulsive thing to me, it would be raw chicken. And C - Yoga Teacher Training is too important to me to get wrapped up in an idealistic love story. I will not allow myself to fall for Vincent.
A week of flirtatious texting led to a night out for raw ice cream and ended with a light kiss on my back porch. Vincent gazed into my eyes and when he said, “Whoa. Now I’m dizzy.” I realized I had met the embodiment of Edward Cullen.
________
There is a discussion in yoga teacher training about the ethics and morals of teaching yoga. One of the very important - and simultaneously most controversial and risqué - is the topic of teachers dating students. Should you? Or should you not? According to Tamal, “Don’t do it.” He would argue that when certain lines are crossed, yoga can very quickly become sexual and therefore lead a person away from the true practice. We are teachers and we are supposed to be true to our practice in all walks of life. And anyway, there’s too much drama and awkwardness that can come along with it. He described a situation that he knew firsthand. A female yoga teacher friend of his had been dating one of her students and they ended up, after a short period, having an explosive breakup. He continued attending her classes and the tension became so apparent - and he violent - that the studio had to ask him to no longer practice there. You can imagine how this reflected on the teacher and on the studio.
In my distracted falling-in-love-with-Vincent state, I couldn’t help but apply this discussion directly to my situation. I still wanted to take yoga training seriously. I questioned if it was a good thing that I began training with this great focus on bringing yoga to the world and only found myself in a blissed out haze of drooling-gushy-loviness. “Vincent, we can’t sit next to each other in class. And, you can’t look at me either.” I explained to him one day before class.
The thing is, since our ice cream date, which then led to our first kiss, Vincent and I spent every moment together outside of his time at school and my time at work. He would drop me off at work in the mornings and then meet me at my apartment in the afternoons. We did yoga together and lied around on the couch together - I even allowed him to consume raw chicken with my utensils in my apartment. This was a huge breakthrough. Some days I would find him in my living room playing with my yellow lab - he would be upturned walking around on his hands while Mara would be jumping around him in barking confusion. My friends called him Wonder Man. Where did this guy come from? I didn’t understand why he liked me so much. I didn’t understand why he wanted to spend time with me. His agile beauty made me feel quite average.
Even though the ethical moral dating debate does not apply to yoga teachers dating yoga teachers, I felt like, in some way, this did. To me, teacher training was a professional environment full of people serious about learning yoga. I did not want there to be any relationship drama originating from Vincent and I disrupting that balance. I thought that he and I could continue on in secret until training commenced. Then if we were ready, we could enter into the public yoga realm with our coupledom. Vincent thought my rationale was off the wall, but he respected it nonetheless. He still did an amazing job of flashing me heart-melting smiles across the room and sneaking in intimate moments during break. A few weeks passed and I was pretty sure that no one in class knew about us. In some way, the secret made things more exciting.
________
Just two weeks before the end of Yoga Teacher Training I took a trip to Raleigh, NC to visit the graduate school of design at NC State University - one of my grad school options. Vincent was beginning to express nervousness about me moving but I reassured him that UCLA was still an option. I just had to keep NC State in mind. When I returned from Raleigh, Vincent continued his random acts of romance. He picked me up from the airport and brought me to Playa del Rey to watch the sunset over the ocean. He was beginning to make it clear to me that he wanted to bring our relationship to another level. I wasn’t completely sure if I was ready - even after all the wooing going on. There was something that kept me feeling insecure about him - he seemed like a lucid dream to me. But I had fallen so wrecklessly for him that my insecurities were buried deep within.
________
Two nights later, at the end of class, Vincent walked over to Haley. Remember? The Asian beauty? He flipped open his phone, smiled at her, and asked her for her phone number. He did not try to hide anything from me. He was not being sneaky. My ears and face and eyes and neck and heart began to burn. There is no way. He would not do this to me. They are just friends. Sarah. Calm down. The next few hours were a whirlwind. We rode home together and he knew I was upset about something. I refused to let him know how I felt. I refused to be the jealous girl - refused. Over and over again he repeated, “What’s wrong Sarah? What’s wrong with you, Sarah?” It was like he knew exactly why I was upset and he wanted me to say it.
Somewhere in the midst of it all, the conversation opened up and he began to talk. He told me he had never really liked me that much and he needed to end things before it was too late. He was sorry for confusing me but, “We will never work out.” The words echoed. We will never work out. Panic. Worry. Reality set in.
Sorry for confusing me? Confusing me? I was drugged. I think the proliferation of word vomit that exited my mouth for the next hour probably didn’t do too much good. But still I held true, no discussion of Haley. No discussion of jealousy. The conversation continued in complete tension. From what I understood, somewhere between the time yoga class had started and ended that night, Vincent decided that I was no longer interesting and Haley was the next best thing (of course this is not what he said, but it was definitely the underlying truth). I had experienced a few bad breakups up to this point, but never had I experienced something so gut-wrenching. The only foreshadowing I was given in the duration of dating him was my subconscious insecurity telling me to stay away. Of course I ignored it.
________
For the next 12 hours, I dreaded eating. I dreaded moving. I dreaded speaking. I dreaded yoga. And more than anything, I dreaded going to yoga training. I dreaded the unavoidable possibility of bursting into tears in front of the thirty other happy zen folk I had come to know. I dreaded feeling like a crazy nutbag of emotions in front of them all. My heart was shredded. I hated him. I hated myself. I hated yoga. I hated everything. And I felt like the fool.
I spent the next two weeks of class swallowing lumps of tears as I watched Vincent and Haley wallow all over each other during class - yes, there was even a kiss or two. I had set myself up. Arana, Jeff, Jennifer, Katie, and everyone else had no idea about us. To them, Vincent and Haley sprouted a sweet love during teacher training. I shouldn’t even have to describe the feelings boiling inside me - this universal heartbrokenness.
________
When I think back now to Yoga Teacher Training, I have a multitude of feelings. In yoga training, most people learn about yoga from learned masters of yoga while forming relationships with some of the most interesting people they’ve ever met. And then they turn out into the world to spread the love. It turns out to be, for most, one of the best times in their life.
For me, yoga training was a good time (atleast for the first seven weeks) and it did - and probably will continue to - open doors in my life. On the surface, I learned the obvious - the bandhas, breathing, spirituality, and the perfect alignment of every posture. I also learned a few things that aren’t on most yoga training curriculums - prince charming vampires do not exist, men that are too good to be true probably aren’t so good, and, fyi, follow your instinct when it comes to dating meat-atarian raw-atarian actors. Not only are they well-trained in the art of acting, but they probably have salmonella swiming around in their mouths.
The most valuable thing I learned, though, is application of yoga to life. If there was a workbook to practice maintaining calm amidst chaos, this heartbreaking love story would be a perfect problem. To respond to this experience, I had a decision to make. The past year had been about achieving goals driven by emotions. I could continue on in this (stressed out) way, or, I could take the yogic path. I could live in each day as it came and not allow external things - such as heartbrokenness - to affect my overall happiness. Instead of reverting to old tactics of lying helplessly in a pile of tears on the floor of my living room and gorging myself with sugar, I decided to instill in my life a true yoga practice. I really don’t think I would take yoga so seriously now without the enlightening realizations made then. I’m not sure how life would be now without that experience, but I do know this: I am much happier than I was before yoga training. Because of it, I have a tactile insight to what yoga is, should be, and can be in the life of the practitioner. I find each class that I teach (and attend) to mold me a little more. I’m pretty sure Yoga Teacher Training changed my life.
Besides Jeffrey Van Ness and Tamal Dodge, all other names have been changed for anonymity.
Click Here to Read More..
One night in the fall of 2008 after one of his vigorous vinyasa flow classes, Tamal Dodge announced that he would be holding a 200-hour yoga teacher training in the spring. Now, not only was Tamal my favorite yoga instructor, but he knew a lot about yoga - he had grown up on an Ashram in Hawaii and was basically immersed in yoga his entire life. Also, at $1,095, he had the most affordable training program on the market - I hadn’t seen anything less than $3,000 anywhere - and this was not just California teacher training costs. It seemed like $3,000 was the standard across the entire world. This was perfect - I gave Tamal a $200 down payment the very next day.
I waited in angst for the next six months. It was that time in life where anything and everything was possible - I wanted to do it all, and I wanted to do it right then. Full of stress and busy-ness, I went through nine graduate school applications, one marathon, one boyfriend (and then breakup), and about a hundred architecture detail drawings before I was onto my next task - the most satisfying of all: Yoga Teacher Training. I arrived at 806 Broadway in Santa Monica, California around 12:30 pm for my first day of yoga school. I was like a child on the first day of Kindergarten - I was wearing my new Lululemon yoga skirt atop black spandex pants, a tank top, and of course, my yoga mat slung over my shoulder. The mystery of the next nine weeks amped my excitement. I knew this was going to be life changing.
Thirty others, already wearing their prayer beads and flipping through their new Bhagavad Gitas, looked up at me when I walked through the door. The variety was like no other. Chelsey and Graham - a couple who had fallen in love practicing yoga together. Mary Anne - an academic type with a Phish fetish. Katie - a bubbly-girl from Pittsburgh with a Boston Terrier named Petey. Arana (aah-rah-nah), who fits more properly - with his savage look - amongst a battalion of Maori warriors preparing for battle rather than a group of yogis preparing for yoga. Jeff Van Ness - mmm Jeffrey - the blue-eyed, dark-haired, cuban hottie from South Florida. Jennifer - the boisterous laugh-er who was really into selling weight loss products. Haley - the beautiful Asian girl with a throaty, alluring voice (I’m sure the guys will flock to her yoga classes). And then there was Vincent - the actor/model from Las Vegas who ate raw chicken on a daily basis and - little did I know then - would sweep me off my feet just a few weeks later.
________
Months before, I had made the decision to take teacher training very seriously. Not only because of the amount of money I was spending, but because this was the only chance I had in this moment, in this place, to learn the things I was here to learn. Take it all in, Sarah. I told myself. You’re in Southern California, surrounded by famous yoga teachers all within a mile radius and for the next nine weeks, you have Tamal at your fingertips to teach you everything he knows. This may never happen again.
The first couple weeks went as expected. Fridays we broke down poses, Saturdays we attended Tamal’s flow class at the Poweryoga studio in Santa Monica, and Sundays we had spirituality classes with Kathy - who apparently had been studying world religions for the better part of her life. The students were all getting to know each other and, thus far, my diligence was keeping me focused.
________
This past Christmas, my mom bought me Twilight, by Stephanie Meier. I thought it was hilarious and stupid that a mother would purchase a teen science fiction novel about vampires for her 25-year old daughter. You see, the Twilight series was a recent fad amongst teens - and apparently also amongst their mothers - about the trials and tribulations of humans and werewolves and vampires and love. And Edward Cullen - the perfection of the male being in the form of a vampire - was the source of the obsession. I was not interested. “No thanks mom. I’ll stick to my books about yoga and healthy eating.” She said, “Sarah, you have no idea. You have to read this book.”
Well, during yoga teacher training, I just so happened to be in the mid-section of the book. Edward was woo-ing Bella and simultaneously, winning my heart. I realized that any man incapable of running at the speed of light, glittering in the sun, ripping apart wild animals with his bare hands, and properly fulfilling a woman’s every need with his soft, perfect skin, his burning gaze, and his insatiable desire to sweep his lady off her feet and carry her to the moon, was no longer for me.
The most recent guy I had dated was Justin. I met Justin at a bar one night in Venice. He got my number. He took me on a date. He kissed me. He said, “We should do this again sometime.” It was very sweet. I liked Justin. Then he didn’t call me for a few weeks and when he finally did - Valentine’s Day to be exact - it was like, for him, no time had passed. Typical. I knew he wasn’t really into me, but because I was bored and single, he was incredibly good-looking, and it was Valentine’s Day, what the heck? We went out. We drank beer. We ate late-night pizza. We had a lot of fun. But could Justin climb atop mile-high trees with me on his back (like Edward)? No. Did Justin eat raw meat with his bare hands? Nah. And, most importantly, did Justin get hypnotized by my very presence? Hell no. This book my mom gave me was setting my standards a bit too high.
________
It was the third week into Yoga Teacher Training, one week after my night of banter with Justin, and a few days after I had injured myself so badly in Shiva Rea’s crazy dance trance yoga class that I could hardly move. Multiple rapid eagle-armed warriors had somehow strained my chest muscle causing inflammation in my lungs. I could hardly breathe that week, much less, do yoga.
I stumbled into yoga class half-texting with Justin and half-focusing on my shortness of breath. I took my seat. When I noticed Vincent sitting beside me, I laughed and said, “I thought about you all week.” He looked at me with an excited grin and I burst his bubble when I continued, “Raw chicken is disgusting.” The week before, I had asked him about his insulated lunch box that he brought to class with him every day. It was filled with jars of liquid-y green and yellow goo that he would drink randomly throughout class. It sparked my interest so I asked him about it. I learned that he was a raw-atarian. But he was not a vegetarian raw-atarian. He was a meat-atarian raw-atarian. He ate raw chicken, beef, fish, eggs; the whole lot. He would also eat raw vegetables and fruits, raw milk, raw butter - and of course, all of this raw-ness had to be the most chemically clean of all organic foods. He did not drink alcohol. He covered his body in homemade pure coconut cream every night - sometimes in place of showering. He only grocery shopped at Whole Foods and the farmer’s market and on any given afternoon, you may find him shirtless, trapezing on the acrobatic swings at Venice Beach. To say the least, yoga teacher training was becoming really interesting. We did not only have a diverse group, but a border-line wacky one at that. I loved it.
That night turned out to be partner massage night to practice simple techniques for our future students. This was perfect for my strained chest - no yoga. “Sarah, do you wanna be my partner?” Vincent asked me. He then flashed a seductive smile my way. Uh oh. For lack of appropriateness, I won’t go into detail, but let me just say, I have never been so gracefully massaged by such a strong man.
By the end of class, Vincent had made it his goal in life to heal my broken chest. By Saturday afternoon, he had my number, by Saturday night he was heavy into research, and by Sunday, we had a shopping date at Whole Foods to heal my chest the raw way.
When I got home after the grocery store date, I realized what was happening to me. No Sarah. No. No. No. You cannot get distracted in yoga teacher training. Don’t do it. I googled his name on the internet. He is sooo Hollywood. Sooo not my type. Photos of him with his perfectly sculpted body, his Italian coconut creamy skin, and his innocent gold eyes stared back at me. I was beginning to feel like I was the main character in a movie. I tried to swallow the giddi-ness rising in my chest because A - I don’t date models. I am not into Hollywood fame. B - If you were to ask my mother the #1 most repulsive thing to me, it would be raw chicken. And C - Yoga Teacher Training is too important to me to get wrapped up in an idealistic love story. I will not allow myself to fall for Vincent.
A week of flirtatious texting led to a night out for raw ice cream and ended with a light kiss on my back porch. Vincent gazed into my eyes and when he said, “Whoa. Now I’m dizzy.” I realized I had met the embodiment of Edward Cullen.
________
There is a discussion in yoga teacher training about the ethics and morals of teaching yoga. One of the very important - and simultaneously most controversial and risqué - is the topic of teachers dating students. Should you? Or should you not? According to Tamal, “Don’t do it.” He would argue that when certain lines are crossed, yoga can very quickly become sexual and therefore lead a person away from the true practice. We are teachers and we are supposed to be true to our practice in all walks of life. And anyway, there’s too much drama and awkwardness that can come along with it. He described a situation that he knew firsthand. A female yoga teacher friend of his had been dating one of her students and they ended up, after a short period, having an explosive breakup. He continued attending her classes and the tension became so apparent - and he violent - that the studio had to ask him to no longer practice there. You can imagine how this reflected on the teacher and on the studio.
In my distracted falling-in-love-with-Vincent state, I couldn’t help but apply this discussion directly to my situation. I still wanted to take yoga training seriously. I questioned if it was a good thing that I began training with this great focus on bringing yoga to the world and only found myself in a blissed out haze of drooling-gushy-loviness. “Vincent, we can’t sit next to each other in class. And, you can’t look at me either.” I explained to him one day before class.
The thing is, since our ice cream date, which then led to our first kiss, Vincent and I spent every moment together outside of his time at school and my time at work. He would drop me off at work in the mornings and then meet me at my apartment in the afternoons. We did yoga together and lied around on the couch together - I even allowed him to consume raw chicken with my utensils in my apartment. This was a huge breakthrough. Some days I would find him in my living room playing with my yellow lab - he would be upturned walking around on his hands while Mara would be jumping around him in barking confusion. My friends called him Wonder Man. Where did this guy come from? I didn’t understand why he liked me so much. I didn’t understand why he wanted to spend time with me. His agile beauty made me feel quite average.
Even though the ethical moral dating debate does not apply to yoga teachers dating yoga teachers, I felt like, in some way, this did. To me, teacher training was a professional environment full of people serious about learning yoga. I did not want there to be any relationship drama originating from Vincent and I disrupting that balance. I thought that he and I could continue on in secret until training commenced. Then if we were ready, we could enter into the public yoga realm with our coupledom. Vincent thought my rationale was off the wall, but he respected it nonetheless. He still did an amazing job of flashing me heart-melting smiles across the room and sneaking in intimate moments during break. A few weeks passed and I was pretty sure that no one in class knew about us. In some way, the secret made things more exciting.
________
Just two weeks before the end of Yoga Teacher Training I took a trip to Raleigh, NC to visit the graduate school of design at NC State University - one of my grad school options. Vincent was beginning to express nervousness about me moving but I reassured him that UCLA was still an option. I just had to keep NC State in mind. When I returned from Raleigh, Vincent continued his random acts of romance. He picked me up from the airport and brought me to Playa del Rey to watch the sunset over the ocean. He was beginning to make it clear to me that he wanted to bring our relationship to another level. I wasn’t completely sure if I was ready - even after all the wooing going on. There was something that kept me feeling insecure about him - he seemed like a lucid dream to me. But I had fallen so wrecklessly for him that my insecurities were buried deep within.
________
Two nights later, at the end of class, Vincent walked over to Haley. Remember? The Asian beauty? He flipped open his phone, smiled at her, and asked her for her phone number. He did not try to hide anything from me. He was not being sneaky. My ears and face and eyes and neck and heart began to burn. There is no way. He would not do this to me. They are just friends. Sarah. Calm down. The next few hours were a whirlwind. We rode home together and he knew I was upset about something. I refused to let him know how I felt. I refused to be the jealous girl - refused. Over and over again he repeated, “What’s wrong Sarah? What’s wrong with you, Sarah?” It was like he knew exactly why I was upset and he wanted me to say it.
Somewhere in the midst of it all, the conversation opened up and he began to talk. He told me he had never really liked me that much and he needed to end things before it was too late. He was sorry for confusing me but, “We will never work out.” The words echoed. We will never work out. Panic. Worry. Reality set in.
Sorry for confusing me? Confusing me? I was drugged. I think the proliferation of word vomit that exited my mouth for the next hour probably didn’t do too much good. But still I held true, no discussion of Haley. No discussion of jealousy. The conversation continued in complete tension. From what I understood, somewhere between the time yoga class had started and ended that night, Vincent decided that I was no longer interesting and Haley was the next best thing (of course this is not what he said, but it was definitely the underlying truth). I had experienced a few bad breakups up to this point, but never had I experienced something so gut-wrenching. The only foreshadowing I was given in the duration of dating him was my subconscious insecurity telling me to stay away. Of course I ignored it.
________
For the next 12 hours, I dreaded eating. I dreaded moving. I dreaded speaking. I dreaded yoga. And more than anything, I dreaded going to yoga training. I dreaded the unavoidable possibility of bursting into tears in front of the thirty other happy zen folk I had come to know. I dreaded feeling like a crazy nutbag of emotions in front of them all. My heart was shredded. I hated him. I hated myself. I hated yoga. I hated everything. And I felt like the fool.
I spent the next two weeks of class swallowing lumps of tears as I watched Vincent and Haley wallow all over each other during class - yes, there was even a kiss or two. I had set myself up. Arana, Jeff, Jennifer, Katie, and everyone else had no idea about us. To them, Vincent and Haley sprouted a sweet love during teacher training. I shouldn’t even have to describe the feelings boiling inside me - this universal heartbrokenness.
________
When I think back now to Yoga Teacher Training, I have a multitude of feelings. In yoga training, most people learn about yoga from learned masters of yoga while forming relationships with some of the most interesting people they’ve ever met. And then they turn out into the world to spread the love. It turns out to be, for most, one of the best times in their life.
For me, yoga training was a good time (atleast for the first seven weeks) and it did - and probably will continue to - open doors in my life. On the surface, I learned the obvious - the bandhas, breathing, spirituality, and the perfect alignment of every posture. I also learned a few things that aren’t on most yoga training curriculums - prince charming vampires do not exist, men that are too good to be true probably aren’t so good, and, fyi, follow your instinct when it comes to dating meat-atarian raw-atarian actors. Not only are they well-trained in the art of acting, but they probably have salmonella swiming around in their mouths.
The most valuable thing I learned, though, is application of yoga to life. If there was a workbook to practice maintaining calm amidst chaos, this heartbreaking love story would be a perfect problem. To respond to this experience, I had a decision to make. The past year had been about achieving goals driven by emotions. I could continue on in this (stressed out) way, or, I could take the yogic path. I could live in each day as it came and not allow external things - such as heartbrokenness - to affect my overall happiness. Instead of reverting to old tactics of lying helplessly in a pile of tears on the floor of my living room and gorging myself with sugar, I decided to instill in my life a true yoga practice. I really don’t think I would take yoga so seriously now without the enlightening realizations made then. I’m not sure how life would be now without that experience, but I do know this: I am much happier than I was before yoga training. Because of it, I have a tactile insight to what yoga is, should be, and can be in the life of the practitioner. I find each class that I teach (and attend) to mold me a little more. I’m pretty sure Yoga Teacher Training changed my life.
Besides Jeffrey Van Ness and Tamal Dodge, all other names have been changed for anonymity.
Click Here to Read More..
November 30, 2009
How My Yoga Neighbor Teaches Me Yoga
This is a story I posted a few months back of a situation I encountered in yoga class one day. I have re-worked and it is much better flowing and more clear. Please send your comments!
Yoga class (unspoken) etiquette rule #1: Do not enter the yogic space of your next-door yoga neighbor. Your presence is not welcome. Thank You.
After three agonizing days of a sketching intensive in my summer design fundamentals course at Carnegie Mellon University, I had an intense craving for a vigorous yoga class. I had just moved to Pittsburgh from Los Angeles, the yoga capital of the US. While in LA, yoga had developed into a platform for my sanity. The focus on the droplet of salty sweat trickling from my brow to my cheek to my lips; the intense Ujjayi breath stinging the insides of my nose and throat, energizing my entire body; the ease of meditative bliss after 75 minutes of intensity - all contributed to my dependence on this trendy, spiritual path.
It was a lukewarm Tuesday in Pittsburgh. My body was tired and my mind was racing. I trudged up the stairs of the Amazing Yoga Shadyside studio juggling my block, yogamat, towel, and water-bottle. I dropped everything down in my usual spot - middle center, between two people - and went to sign in. Everything was normal. The instructors sat in the front gossiping subtlely as they waited for 5:45 p.m. The smell of the incense burned through the air as the heat magnified its smoky aroma. I handed my ten-class punch card to the desk-receptionist and turned back towards my space.
A curly redhead had placed her mat down next to mine and because I was preoccupied setting my intention for class, I disregarded her over-sized neon-blue beach towel breaking rule #1 of good yoga etiquette - it touched every adjacent mat, including mine. Deepening my inhalations I spread my Yogitoes towel onto my mat and collapsed into Child’s pose. The bustle of people slowed down and the instructor took attention.
Suryanamaskar A.
[inhale] Arms reach high.
[exhale] Fold.
[inhale] Halfway lift.
[exhale] Chaturanga.
[inhale] Upward-facing Dog.
[exhale] Downward-facing Dog.
I melted into non-thinking. The soothing oceanic waves of breath through the classroom; the choreographed lightness of the chaturanga jumpback; the throaty vibrations of sound exiting the instructors lips - all reinforced successful meditation.
[inhale] Step the left foot forward. Warrior I.
[exhale] Open the arms. Warrior II.
[inhale] Lift the right leg up. Ardha Chandrasana.
“Yes! Half-Moon.” I thought. Ardha Chandrasana is a balancing pose capable of disclosing years of tension while allowing the heart and spine to open and be free. When achieved in all its glory, Half-Moon feels phenomenal. However, the focus must remain on a perfectly still object while the breath is deep and the abdominal muscles are tightly engaged. Elated, I began the search for my Drishti. Typically I locate a well-formed lump in the drywall. I balance. Stare. Engage. Breathe. Then I step my gaze up until it has reached the ceiling. Once there I find a hole in the acoustic paneling to stare at, and then my arms and legs can soar into Half-Moon. Today of course, Rule-Breaking-Yogi - you know, the curly redhead - wobbled back and forth obstructing the view to all drywall lump Drishtis. Not being unusual to teeter in Half-Moon, I tried to ignore her and brought my gaze straight to the ceiling. I hardly reached my Half-Moon climax when my foot obnoxiously crashed down with a loud thud. Oops.
[exhale] Release the right foot next to left.
[inhale] Switch sides. Ardha Chandrasana.
To my left was a strong Half-Mooner. She obviously practiced yoga often, so I had no worries this time around. My left leg rose. Lump #1. Lump #2. Hips stack. Lump #3. Inhale. Exhale. Abdominals tight. Inhale. Exhale. I had almost taken my gaze to the ceiling effortlessly when I noticed steamy, humid air blowing onto my back. Oscillating-Redhead had her mouth wide open and she panted every last bit of her hot, sticky breath over the line into my yogic space. Rule #1 broken again. “Breathe through your nose,” I wanted to say. The sound of my foot crashing again disrupted my thoughts. Usually, I don’t notice a single person in the room when I practice, but today was especially a challenge. Out of desperation, my mantra changed from the usual “Ham-sa” to “She does not exist.” I chanted this over and over again. She does not exist. She does not exist. Class continued on and despite the breathy gasping next door, I managed to return to the present.
Ahimsa - one of the five Yamas of Patanjali’s eight-fold path - means non-violence. It can pertain to anything from eating strictly plant-based foods to denying negative thoughts towards another. Sometimes Ahimsa is effortless - like abstaining from swatting a fly or kicking someone. However, in certain annoying situations, Ahimsa-deficiency is highly likely.
Class finally reached its pinnacle and I was exhausted. My hair, shirt, pants, face, towel, block, watch, and everything else within a one-inch radius of my mat was doused in secretion soup. For today, my clarity of mind was not going any deeper.
[exhale] Float the hips back. Child’s pose.
Aaaaah. The room sighed in utter relaxation and then, of course, the stillness was broken with a loud whisper. “What a tough class.” It came from the mat to my right (from Redhead / Oscillating Half-Moon / Hot-Breath - pick a name). Humorously annoyed, I thought, “Who would have thought after all the puffing and panting, she would be so worn out?” I caught myself: “Okay Sarah. Positive thoughts. Ahimsa.”
[inhale] Come to standing
[exhale] Lower down. Crow.
I prepared for another of my favorite poses. As I steadily lowered my hands to the floor, Hot-Breath plotted her final disruption. She sucked on her water-bottle waiting for the stars to align in perfect synchronization. And then as she finished her last gulp, an intestinal water-y belch exited her mouth and went straight for my Ujjayi inhale. “Sorry!” She loudly whispered as she looked up at me, mortified. I chuckled and as I floated into Crow I whispered, “It’s okay.” And it was. Click Here to Read More..
Yoga class (unspoken) etiquette rule #1: Do not enter the yogic space of your next-door yoga neighbor. Your presence is not welcome. Thank You.
After three agonizing days of a sketching intensive in my summer design fundamentals course at Carnegie Mellon University, I had an intense craving for a vigorous yoga class. I had just moved to Pittsburgh from Los Angeles, the yoga capital of the US. While in LA, yoga had developed into a platform for my sanity. The focus on the droplet of salty sweat trickling from my brow to my cheek to my lips; the intense Ujjayi breath stinging the insides of my nose and throat, energizing my entire body; the ease of meditative bliss after 75 minutes of intensity - all contributed to my dependence on this trendy, spiritual path.
It was a lukewarm Tuesday in Pittsburgh. My body was tired and my mind was racing. I trudged up the stairs of the Amazing Yoga Shadyside studio juggling my block, yogamat, towel, and water-bottle. I dropped everything down in my usual spot - middle center, between two people - and went to sign in. Everything was normal. The instructors sat in the front gossiping subtlely as they waited for 5:45 p.m. The smell of the incense burned through the air as the heat magnified its smoky aroma. I handed my ten-class punch card to the desk-receptionist and turned back towards my space.
A curly redhead had placed her mat down next to mine and because I was preoccupied setting my intention for class, I disregarded her over-sized neon-blue beach towel breaking rule #1 of good yoga etiquette - it touched every adjacent mat, including mine. Deepening my inhalations I spread my Yogitoes towel onto my mat and collapsed into Child’s pose. The bustle of people slowed down and the instructor took attention.
Suryanamaskar A.
[inhale] Arms reach high.
[exhale] Fold.
[inhale] Halfway lift.
[exhale] Chaturanga.
[inhale] Upward-facing Dog.
[exhale] Downward-facing Dog.
I melted into non-thinking. The soothing oceanic waves of breath through the classroom; the choreographed lightness of the chaturanga jumpback; the throaty vibrations of sound exiting the instructors lips - all reinforced successful meditation.
[inhale] Step the left foot forward. Warrior I.
[exhale] Open the arms. Warrior II.
[inhale] Lift the right leg up. Ardha Chandrasana.
“Yes! Half-Moon.” I thought. Ardha Chandrasana is a balancing pose capable of disclosing years of tension while allowing the heart and spine to open and be free. When achieved in all its glory, Half-Moon feels phenomenal. However, the focus must remain on a perfectly still object while the breath is deep and the abdominal muscles are tightly engaged. Elated, I began the search for my Drishti. Typically I locate a well-formed lump in the drywall. I balance. Stare. Engage. Breathe. Then I step my gaze up until it has reached the ceiling. Once there I find a hole in the acoustic paneling to stare at, and then my arms and legs can soar into Half-Moon. Today of course, Rule-Breaking-Yogi - you know, the curly redhead - wobbled back and forth obstructing the view to all drywall lump Drishtis. Not being unusual to teeter in Half-Moon, I tried to ignore her and brought my gaze straight to the ceiling. I hardly reached my Half-Moon climax when my foot obnoxiously crashed down with a loud thud. Oops.
[exhale] Release the right foot next to left.
[inhale] Switch sides. Ardha Chandrasana.
To my left was a strong Half-Mooner. She obviously practiced yoga often, so I had no worries this time around. My left leg rose. Lump #1. Lump #2. Hips stack. Lump #3. Inhale. Exhale. Abdominals tight. Inhale. Exhale. I had almost taken my gaze to the ceiling effortlessly when I noticed steamy, humid air blowing onto my back. Oscillating-Redhead had her mouth wide open and she panted every last bit of her hot, sticky breath over the line into my yogic space. Rule #1 broken again. “Breathe through your nose,” I wanted to say. The sound of my foot crashing again disrupted my thoughts. Usually, I don’t notice a single person in the room when I practice, but today was especially a challenge. Out of desperation, my mantra changed from the usual “Ham-sa” to “She does not exist.” I chanted this over and over again. She does not exist. She does not exist. Class continued on and despite the breathy gasping next door, I managed to return to the present.
Ahimsa - one of the five Yamas of Patanjali’s eight-fold path - means non-violence. It can pertain to anything from eating strictly plant-based foods to denying negative thoughts towards another. Sometimes Ahimsa is effortless - like abstaining from swatting a fly or kicking someone. However, in certain annoying situations, Ahimsa-deficiency is highly likely.
Class finally reached its pinnacle and I was exhausted. My hair, shirt, pants, face, towel, block, watch, and everything else within a one-inch radius of my mat was doused in secretion soup. For today, my clarity of mind was not going any deeper.
[exhale] Float the hips back. Child’s pose.
Aaaaah. The room sighed in utter relaxation and then, of course, the stillness was broken with a loud whisper. “What a tough class.” It came from the mat to my right (from Redhead / Oscillating Half-Moon / Hot-Breath - pick a name). Humorously annoyed, I thought, “Who would have thought after all the puffing and panting, she would be so worn out?” I caught myself: “Okay Sarah. Positive thoughts. Ahimsa.”
[inhale] Come to standing
[exhale] Lower down. Crow.
I prepared for another of my favorite poses. As I steadily lowered my hands to the floor, Hot-Breath plotted her final disruption. She sucked on her water-bottle waiting for the stars to align in perfect synchronization. And then as she finished her last gulp, an intestinal water-y belch exited her mouth and went straight for my Ujjayi inhale. “Sorry!” She loudly whispered as she looked up at me, mortified. I chuckled and as I floated into Crow I whispered, “It’s okay.” And it was. Click Here to Read More..
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