The Fierce Diva Guide to Life

Helicopter Parenting and Other Nonsense

This is our foster dog Brock. 

Yes, he really is this adorable!

With Brock's arrival, came that "new dog" kind of chaos, which only added to the inherent chaos of our household, fueled by three high octane children under the age of nine.  Brock is a Cocker Spaniel puppy.  He jumps.  He wants to play catch all day.  He teethes. On everything.  He gets into puppy mischief, yet all is forgiven quickly. When he pees on the carpet, I sigh and open up the back door to let him into the yard.  When he ate through the leg of my "good" Under Armour running pants, I shrugged my shoulders and moved the laundry basket out of his reach. Brock has transformed our hearts into bowls of Jello. 

As much as we love Brock, his time with us is finite.  As foster parents, we are the bridge between an overcrowded shelter and a dog's permanent home.  In Brock's case, he has adoption interest, and within the next three to four weeks, we will say good-bye.

 When people hear that Brock is a foster dog, this is the reaction I get again and again:

"Won't the kids be sad when he's adopted?"

Of course the kids will be sad.  They adore him.

Some people have gone as far as to say this: 

"How could you do that to your kids?"

Do what? Teach my children that we have a collective responsibility to take care of all living creatures?  Demonstrate compassion toward animals?  Show them that action saves lives?     

 As parents, especially overly involved, "helicopter parents" of the twenty first century, we feel compelled to shelter our children from pain, or situations that could potentially lead to pain,  whenever we can help it.   Guess what Divas?  Your kids are going to experience pain.   All of the "risk aversion" in the world won't make a difference.  Because, ultimately, you have very little control over the stressors they face in their day to day lives and the pain these stressors can cause.  Much less control than you care to believe, anyway. 

Restricting healthy, positive experiences in the name of risk aversion, especially experiences that can help our children grow into service oriented, compassionate human beings, only limits their development. I'm not suggesting you intentionally put a child in a situation for the sake of causing him pain.   However, as parents, we have to realistically weigh these risks, instead of jumping in front of our kids as if a freight train is heading toward them, to shield them from the possibility that they might experience a negative emotion when the foster dog finds a permanent home.

Life is hard.  Life is messy.  And very unpredictable.  We can jump in front of our kids all we want to try to spare them from negative emotions,  but the mess will find them eventually.  There is nothing we can do to prevent that.  The only thing we can do is teach our kids to navigate the mess with as much dignity and poise as possible. 

When Brock leaves us, I will have a mess to clean up here, because saying good-bye is difficult. 

However,  being afraid to love to avoid the hurt of having to say goodbye is not living. 

Loving with all your heart, even knowing that one day, you will have to say good-bye, is living like a Fierce Diva. 

Namaste,  Divas!

 © 2012 Ilene Evans 

 

The Fierce Diva Guide to Being Yourself, Outside Voice and All

It began with strings of hushed whispers in the corners of yoga studios around New Jersey.  I would run into a yoga friend I had not seen in a while, whose response would be something like,

"I don't get here much anymore.  I go to Yogi C.'s studio now."

"Yogi C. even turned my husband onto yoga!"

"Yogi C. got me into Scorpion pose last week.  I never thought I'd be able to do that."

I'm a skeptic when I hear of any teacher whose reputation creates this type of buzz.  You all know about my experience with Shiva Shakti, one of the most hailed instructors of the yoga world, whom I found to be  completely insincere.  But I was curious to see what the buzz was about.  

I walked into Yogi C's studio to find a wall-to-wall crowd and an excitement that infiltrated the space.  In the front of the room stood a young man in shorts and a tee shirt, greeting students with bear hugs and high fives and buoyant laughter.

Yogi C. taught a meticulous class. He encouraged us to work hard while reminding us to respect our limits. He relayed his reverence for yoga yet also fostered a sense of lightness and ease. He cracked jokes. He had Soundgarden on his playlist.  He imitated Chef from "South Park."  He laughed.  A lot. 

I have returned weekly to Yogi C.'s studio ever since.  What makes Yogi C. such a great teacher? First of all, he delivers a thorough, challenging class, and he always has new information to share.  He teaches with respect for the traditions of yoga, and at the same time, he brings himself to the teachings, big personality and all.  As a yoga teacher myself, who has struggled to find my voice in the front of a class, this is what I appreciate about Yogi C. the most. 

I graduated from yoga teacher training in a crisis.  I loved yoga, but also felt I wasn't "yogic" enough to be an instructor.  My outside voice would be unacceptable, along with my Doc Martens and liquid eyeliner.  Whenever I walked into a studio to teach, I put on my Fake Zen Face, left my steel toe boots at home, and struggled to remember to speak softly.  This was yoga.  I had to be serious. 

Pretending to be someone else takes its toll.  When we stuff our true nature into a box and try to squeeze ourselves into a mold of what we think we're supposed to be, the result is catastrophic.  We yell at our husbands.  We cry for no reason.  We eat vegan chocolate chips straight from the package, curled up in a fetal position on the couch.  It as if we are no longer inhabiting our own bodies.  We are certainly no longer Fierce Divas.      

Through Yogi C.'s influence, I have given myself permission to bring "me"  to my students.  If my outside voice slips out, so be it.  I've even added some Pearl Jam to my playlist.  

The message about my experience with Yogi C. applies to all of us, and not just those who teach yoga.  "Be yourself" may be cliché advice, but perhaps this is because it is the advice we most need to hear.  I have spent a large part of my life contorting myself to meet someone else's standard, and maybe you have as well.  This behavior has plagued me through relationships, motherhood, and my tenure in Corporate America.  I have hidden behind the rules of dating to captivate men, my "company gal" persona for job security, and sensible shoes to make friends with the other mommies on the playground.   Those disguises have sucked the life out of me as much as my Fake Zen Face does while teaching yoga. Yes, there is a code of conduct we need to follow to get by in this world and to cultivate healthy relationships, but within this framework, we need to be true to ourselves.  And believe it or not, others may enjoy your company even more when you are.  Doc Martens, outside voice, and all. 

Namaste, Divas!

©2012 Ilene Evans 

 

The Mommy Wars and Other Nonsense

Last week, a political strategist on a cable news network made a remark about the wife of presidential  candidate that has thrown the "Mommy Wars" back into the spotlight.  While I have no comment on the incident itself or the politics surrounding it, I have a lot to say about these so called "Mommy Wars," specifically, the debate over working versus staying at home.

If you haven't noticed, Divas, these "Mommy Wars" are a luxury of the middle class.   These wars were created by women who had the choice whether or not to stay home or stay in their career. 

Do you think the working poor sit around and debate over whether or not mothers with small children should be working?  Of course not, Divas. For the women in this demographic, their job, if they are lucky enough to have one,  is a necessity to survival. 

Do you think single mothers are sitting around debating whether or not they should be working?  Probably not, since in most cases, trying to get by on child support alone, would mean living beneath the poverty line.

I worked full time for six years after having children. I was hailed as the devil by mothers in certain circles. 

"Perhaps her children would not be quite so aggressive if they did not go to daycare...A mother belongs at home...She thinks she's such a big shot on that blackberry all the time...."

I was subjected to listening to women rattle off all of the sacrifices they made to stay home to raise their children and  how those us who went to work were selfish by putting the material trappings of our second income, or our careers, above the welfare of our children.

I have heard the other side to this criticism as well.  The moms at my office often commented how stay at home mothers had no idea what is was like to juggle kids along with a career.  They remarked how those moms had "nothing to do all day" except agonize over the trite decisions of which brand of organic baby food to buy, or choosing a theme for their son's third birthday party.   "Like we have time for that," the working mother would remark smugly, hurrying off to her next meeting.

People who judge other people for their choices are typically insecure in the choices they have made for themselves.     

The bottom line is that neither choice is easy.  Giving 8 - 10 hours to a work day and a commute leaves you very little time for your children, or for yourself for that matter. You miss school concerts and soccer games for meetings and business trips.  Or, you miss the meetings and business trips and stop getting promotions.  If you do not earn enough to hire domestic help (which you may not, since all of your money is going to the exorbitant expense of daycare), you put the kids to bed and scrub floors and wash dishes in between finishing a work project late into the night. 

If you are living on one middle class income while staying at home, your partner most likely works long hours, or he may even work a second job, leaving you as the 24/7 parent.   This can be lonely,  and lacking in that occasional "break" from kids and housework that everyone needs.

For some moms, this choice to work or stay at home may not be much of a "choice" after all.  I know moms who had to give up careers because the cost of daycare outweighed their earnings, or a boss would not give them family friendly flexibility or part time hours.  I also know moms who wanted to stay home but had to keep working for the health benefits, or to help support an elderly parent.    Before you judge, Divas, remember, life is not as black and white as it seems.       

Instead of criticizing the moms on the other side of the fence, why not have compassion for them?  Because both choices, whether it be working or staying at home, are riddled with complications.  When we learn to navigate the complications in our own lives with poise and become more accepting of the differences of those around us, we have truly become Fierce Divas.           

Namaste, Divas!

©2012 Ilene Evans 

 

The Fierce Diva Guide to Ride

You pile into the family minivan.  You drive, so that your husband, buried in work and reluctant to come, can check email.  Your perpetually bored pre-teen spends the ride texting friends.  Your eight year-old watches a movie on the van's DVD player, while the youngest sits in her car seat and colors, while every now and then, giving the family dog a pat on the head.  You arrive at the park. You set up lunch and drinks on a blanket while the two younger kids play frisbee with the dog.  Your husband puts down the phone and joins in the game.  Magically, so does the pre-teen.  There is laughing, fist bumping, and a group hug before everyone returns to the blanket for lunch.   On the trip home, your kids are huddled in the back seat, napping on each other's shoulders.   Your husband drives.  He squeezes your hand.  The afternoon was a success.  And that brand new fully loaded minivan was the catalyst.

Although this is more likely what happened:  You arrive at the park and the younger kids begin their frisbee toss with the dog.  You forgot to pack beer, which enrages your husband.  He stomps off to check work email, but not before getting clipped in the head with the frisbee.  Your oldest has retreated to the van, because family picnics are stupid.   The mayonnaise you used for the sandwiches is rancid, leaving the family with nothing to eat except apples.  The dog runs away in pursuit of a rabbit.  It starts to rain.  You return home with three wet, hungry kids in the back, one muddy dog, and a husband who gives you the cold shoulder.  

Ah, the magic of car commercials. They try to make us believe that a minivan can bring a family together, or that a sports car can make you sexy, or that a luxury car begets success.  Advertising agencies get paid millions of dollars to persuade you into feeling like something is missing from your life because you don't own Product X.   

For most of us, a car is a necessity. However, it is important for you to realize that beyond a car's ability to get you from Point A to Point B, it has no other value.  It will not make you taller, thinner, give you bigger boobs, help secure a work promotion, or increase your husband's libido.  Despite what ad agencies want you to believe, the right car will not bring happiness. But you already know that, since a Fierce Diva understands that happiness is not dependent upon our external circumstances.

When your car gets up there in miles and loses its reliability, it's probably time to look into buying a new one, or perhaps I should say, a new one to you, since I would hope you would consider a used car as an option.  Before you settle on buying a particular car, it's important to crunch some numbers and figure out your car budget.   

Remember, Divas, there is a mighty line between being able to afford a car versus being able to make the monthly payments.  You can only afford a car if:  

• The monthly payments, including gas, maintenance, and insurance, do not interfere with your ability to pay other bills  
• The payments will not disrupt your contributions to your retirement account and college savings for your child
• You will not have to dip into the emergency fund that covers 6 months of living expenses to make the down payment on the car

Once you have your budget, it's time to find your car.  Promise me, Divas, to make your decision to buy based on reputable product reviews and maintenance records (if it's a used vehicle) versus the feeling you get when you watch the commercial.    When you can believe in yourself behind the wheel of a six  year old sedan as much as when you are behind the wheel of a fully loaded brand new minivan, you know you have truly become a Fierce Diva. 

 

 Namaste, Divas!

 

©2012 Ilene Evans 

 

Fierce Fashion

As a Fierce Diva, I have committed myself to a strict social code of conduct, which goes something like this:

• Treat everyone as if they are a good friend, including strangers.
• Give people the benefit of the doubt, even in situations where I feel threatened.
• Have compassion for others, especially those who have hurt me.  
• Never leave the house in sweatpants that have writing across the ass. Ever.

If you are a post collegiate hanging out at the beach house for the weekend, go ahead and wear your writing-across-the-ass sweatpants.  That's what they're for.  Knock yourself out, and wear the ones with the writing emblazoned in rhinestone or sequins. But as a Diva of a certain age, the look falls flat.  I appear as if I'm trying to reincarnate my twenty-five year old self.  And twenty-five was a LONG time ago. 

Believe, me, Divas.  I'm no fashionista.   As a coed, my flamboyance factor was off the charts, as I showed up for anything from a rock concert to a science test  in a bustier, crinoline skirt, and spike heeled boots.  Then, there was my dalliance with goth, followed by a decade long attachment to grunge, complete with ripped Levi's and my beloved Doc Martens.  In the postpartum years, of feeling fat and tired, my wardrobe consisted of five pairs of baggy black yoga pants, worn everywhere, including holiday dinners.   

I have grown to appreciate the importance of dressing in a way that matches my personality and supports my lifestyle, but that allows me to dress with dignity.  When it comes to Fierce Diva fashion, I am not suggesting you follow specific rules or trends.  It's about dressing with self respect, and in a way that allows you to live the life you love.  

Dress your Age

• Only a sixteen year old can get away with a half shirt.  No exceptions.
• No matter how fierce your body is, it's time to stop shopping in the junior department.
• You already know how I feel about the writing-across-the-ass sweatpants.

Dress with dignity

• Your pajamas don't belong at the mall or the grocery store or anywhere else outside the house.  I'm just saying.
• An outfit with material cut out of the torso, hips, or sides of the thighs, is lacking in dignity.  Although you might be able to get away with this on the red carpet or at a club in Seaside Heights, New Jersey, where everyone else dresses that way.
• If your outfit resembles something worn by Snooki, pregnant or not, you have absolutely no chance at dignity.

Dress to live the life you love

• Do wearing pants that are so tight,  you have to zip them while lying down across your bed, help you live the life you love?
•  Ice skate heels:  how can you live the life you love when it hurts to walk?
• Only buy clothing you can afford! Going into debt for a new wardrobe will not help you live the life you love! Remember, Fierce Divas never spend beyond their means.

What does Fierce Fashion boil down to?  It begins in your head, Divas, like everything else.  It starts with balancing the fluctuations of the mind, which you can do through meditation.  Once you work on controlling your thoughts, you will be much better equipped for that moment in every Diva's life when she needs to ask herself that one important question: Can I still pull off wearing the writing-across-the-ass sweatpants in public?

When you can answer the question without effort, and with 100% certainty, you know you have truly become a Fierce Diva.

Namaste, Divas!   

©2012 Ilene Evans 

 

Destiny, Jail Cells, and Finding Your Voice

I probably would have enjoyed the dinner, had I not been eating in a Greenwich, Connecticut jail cell.  The take-out from the Italian restaurant across the street from the police station may have been the best meal I had in weeks, after spending my summer with Vick, whose kitchen cabinets contained no more than Frosted Flakes, Marlboro Reds, and grain alcohol. 

Vick liked excitement.  He needed it, to be precise.  He'd wake me from my sleep to announce we were taking a road trip, and next thing I would know, we were speeding down I95 toward  Florida at two in the morning, without a plan, a place to stay, or enough money to put gas in the car.  But Vick would find a way to get by.  Between his John Wayne swagger and that crooked grin, patrons at the highway rest stop would practically fight over who got to pay for Vick's next tank of gas.  On the afternoon of our arrest, Vick was chasing another thrill, insisting that we swim under a waterfall situated on private property in Greenwich.   There were "No Trespassing" signs everywhere, yet my warnings to Vick were useless.   

I preoccupied myself with the al dente pasta, in a thick red tomato sauce while waiting for Vick's friend to show up with the money to pay our fine.  The food was a welcome distraction after spending most of the three-hour stay in my cell crying, with Vick in the adjoining cell, getting more and more annoyed.   My crying made him feel guilty, I supposed.  He swore we wouldn't get caught, and we did.   The "simple trespass"  charge would have little, if any impact on my life, yet the arrest was another example on how I couldn't speak up for myself around Vick.

Did I break up with Vick once we were sprung?  Of course not, Divas.  I had as many excuses to hang onto Vick as I had to hang onto bad jobs, toxic friends, and self defeating habits.   I had an entire script as to why I needed to stay with Vick, and in my head, it all made sense! Beautiful, intense, misunderstood, hot headed, Vick.  I was the one who could see through his hotheadedness. And  I was the only one who understood him.  At times, our path felt rocky, but we were destined to be together!

If I only had a nickel for every beautiful, intense, misunderstood, hotheaded man whom I felt destined to be with.

Vick is another example of one of the agreements I had with myself, this one, regarding how I deserved to be treated by men.  Vick treated me the way I asked to be treated,  at least unconsciously.  He helped prove my deep seated  beliefs that I was undeserving of love, respect, or security.  I was terrified to speak up for myself with Vick, because what if I challenged him to the point of him leaving me? That simply could not happen.  I needed him to reinforce those agreements I had with myself.  Besides, if we broke up, that would ruin my script, or at least put a huge monkey wrench in the "destiny" part.

I am a Diva who believes in love and compassion for all mankind and in giving selflessly,  without expectation.  However, I also believe that within this framework, we must take care of ourselves, an integral part of which, is learning how to speak up.  

In what areas do you have a difficult time speaking up for yourselves, and what has this cost you? A raise?  A friendship?  Or like me, has this landed you in jail?  Mediate on it.  Keep a journal and write things down.  Don't make excuses for why you don't speak up for yourself.  Just look at the situations as objectively as possible, as if it were a friend engaging in these behaviors instead of you.  What advice would you give to your friend? And why? Now, try giving this same advice to yourself. 

I do not want to oversimplify the process I am describing.  It may take months, years, or a lifetime.  Change is difficult and it takes persistence, but you can do it, Divas.  You're worth it.  Tell me how it goes, and I promise, I have your back every step of the way.  xo

Namaste, Divas!

©2012 Ilene Evans 

 

The Fierce Diva Guide to Quitting Bad Jobs and Breaking Contracts

Rudy plunks two Jack and Cokes in front of me and whistles through his teeth, which are stained from nicotine.  Before I can grab the drinks and run, he pushes his mouth to my ear. "God, I love the way you look in those pants.  Although I'd like to see how you look without them."    There is a twang in his voice from somewhere south.  He's short, skinny, and at least ten years younger than he looks.

I pull away from him and load the cocktails onto a tray in silence, as I resigned long ago to ignore the comments instead of fight them. 

I rush the drinks to Table Six and then run back to the kitchen to check on an order of buffalo wings, which are being held hostage by a vindictive line cook.  It's eleven o'clock on a Saturday night at Tommy's, I have seventeen checks in my apron, mostly for tables with guys who have hopped over from the strip club next door.  I've had my ass pinched eleven times,  been called "bitch" by two separate customers, and caught a group of underage girls snorting coke in the bathroom.  In the narrow corridor outside the kitchen, I pass Paul, the middle-aged floor manager, dressed in an outfit Tom Jones would wear for a concert. He stares up at the ceiling with his back against the wall. 

"Baby, I may need to lie down."  I smell the VO and water on his breath while he speaks, as he sways from side to side. 

"I'll help you get upstairs,"  I offer, but barely get the words out before one of the tables inside starts shouting, "Where's our friggin' waitress!"

Three hours later, I walk through the deserted streets of Georgetown to my tiny apartment. I take the cash out of my apron, place it in a drawer, and collapse onto my bed.  I want a cigarette, but I'm trying to  quit.  Again.  I head to the kitchen and rummage around the garbage to salvage a smoke from the half empty pack I had tossed the day before.  I find a butt that's partially intact, light up, and inhale deeply.   How did I wind up working at a dive bar, owned by a man I never met, who has been serving time for tax evasion since before I started?

I had taken a semester leave from school and needed money to pay my expenses.  I promised myself that Tommy's would be a temporary stint, but as with other jobs before, I stayed much longer than intended. I felt compelled to stay, had excuses as to why I needed to stay, and convinced myself that no other employer in the world would ever want me to work for them, therefore I had to stay.

I eventually left Tommy's, yet my next job proved to be a reincarnation of Tommy's in a different setting, as did the next one, and the next one, and the next.  No matter what job or industry I worked in, restaurants, retail stores, or offices, I stumbled upon the same lecherous bartenders, the same nasty cooks, the same dysfunctional bosses, and the same sub standard pay.   I always had an excuse to stay in the Bad Job.  I felt trapped in the Bad Job.  I felt like no one else would hire me or give me that tiny,  inconsequential benefit that the Bad Job offered. Who cares if I'm only making minimum wage, how could I possibly live without my discount on custom orthotics, or lead crystal table ware?

After years of running on the Bad Job treadmill,  I realized that I apparently had some unconscious agreement with myself about money, work, and self worth.  For some reason, I felt the need to work twice as hard as everyone else, for less pay, and in volatile environments. There are numerous reasons why I may have had this agreement with myself, but most importantly, once I realized I had it, I had the chance to change it.   

Some refer to these unconscious agreements as our "blind spots,"  patterns in our personality that are so deep, we often don't realize they are there.  However, once we are able to detach from our own thoughts through meditation, we increase our ability to see them.   Until then, these blind spots can prevent a Fierce Diva from living the life she loves, and who would want anything to get in the way of that?

Where do you have unconscious agreements that interfere with living the life you love? Is it with work? Friendships? Your marriage?  Money? Your relationship to your body?  Meditate on it, Divas.  And remember,  you not only have the right to change those agreements,  you have carte blanche to nullify those contracts completely.

Namaste, Divas!

©2012 Ilene Evans

 

 

The Fierce Diva Guide to Lightening up

One of the Dudes I dated in my pre-Diva days is a guy we'll call Sam.  Sam, by most accounts, seemed pretty normal , especially compared to some of my other dates, like the actor, who wore more eyeliner than  I did, the nudist, who cooked me vegetarian meals in his backyard, out of what appeared to be a large cauldron, and the CIA hopeful, who broke up with me on the basis that I was "bad for his career." 

Sam worked in a trade.  He left the house by six in the morning, came home, ate a meat and starch supper, watched his favorite TV shows, went to bed, and started all over again the next day.  It was a good life for Sam, and a reliable routine. Sam liked me initially because I was different.  He had never dated a "vegetarian" before, or a writer for that matter, or a girl who wore Doc Martens.  Sam must have read that book about the rules of dating,  because  Sam always made sure to call me by Wednesday for a Saturday night date. Hence, that became Sam's reliable routine with me, one quick phone call on Wednesday followed by a night out on Saturday.     

Things went fine for a few months, but then one day, I broke the rules, and initiated a phone call to Sam myself.  Sam and I lived about forty minutes apart.  I would be in his area that evening and wanted to know if I could stop by.  Sam explained it was not a good time for me to visit.  He was about to take his nightly shower,  which he planned to follow with ninety minutes of the Thursday night NBC lineup, followed by a 10:00 lights out.  Agitated, he hung up the phone.

I stopped hearing from Sam immediately after that phone call.  I spent hours talking with my fellow Divas,  trying to deconstruct the situation.  How could one innocent  phone call to Sam have rattled him so severely?        

But it wasn't so innocent.  It threatened his routine.  Like everything else in his life, Sam had compartmentalized me.  As soon as I ran out of the little box he kept me in, I became a hazard. Once I became a hazard, Sam had to get rid of me.  I was no longer safe,  benign, and predictable.

Some of us try to protect ourselves with rigid work ethics or schedules.  When we don't leave much up to chance, we feel more in control.  But be warned, Divas, the reality of life is that we have very little control.   Going for a five mile run every morning, insisting on doing one load of laundry per day, and paying your bills on  the first and fifteenth of each month may give you the illusion of control, but it's not real.  A pulled hamstring may keep you off the pavement or a month. Your washing machine could break down and take weeks to fix.  Your computer may crash, wiping out all the information from your bill pay software.  I'm not asking you to abandon your routine.  But perhaps it's time you let go of a rigid attachment to one.  Besides, clinging unyieldingly to your to-do list does not give a Diva much room to live the life you love. 

Next time you meditate, take a minute to think about where you are rigid.  Are you rigid about work, or certain areas within your parenting? Do you have a morning or evening routine that you refuse to break for anything or anyone? What opportunities are you missing out on due to your insistence to keep your agenda  ? And how truly important is this agenda?   What would happen if you let go of your Thursday night shower and NBC lineup?  Do you fear your world come to an end?  

Or is the real fear that your world would open up?      

Namaste, Divas!

©2012 Ilene Evans 

 

The Legend of Shiva Shakti: The Fierce Diva Guide To Trusting Your Instincts

She sauntered into the room like a porn star arriving on the set, hips jutted out in front of her in a walk led by her groin.  As she strolled past me, I noticed the chipped polish of her neon green pedicure, the bleach blonde highlights that swayed between her tattooed shoulder blades, and the outfit that was slightly too revealing for her firm, yet post menopausal body.   "Namaste," she murmured, in an Oxycontin slur, as she crossed her tanned, bare legs into lotus pose.   Thus, began my workshop with Shiva Shakti, the yoga celebrity who boasted a national following.*    

She was here to give a master class to other instructors. The course description implied that Shiva Shakti would lead us step by step on how to safely teach advanced postures to our students.  So, I was surprised when Shiva, one of the pioneers of alignment based yoga, spent the class parading in and out of inversions and intricate arm balances, in a semi-trance like state, offering no verbal cues on how to deconstruct the postures, and never once leaving her mat to work with the rest of us. 

Whenever a student asked Shiva for specific instructions,  her response was "Feel it, baby, feel it!"  in a breathy, chanting tone, that made me wonder more than once, if Shiva Shakti was there to teach yoga or sell adult toys.

At the workshop's end, a Shiva Shakti devotee seated beside me said, "Wow, that was intense." 

"Yeah, that was deep," offered a man in a tie-dyed tee shirt with pierced lips.  

I was confused by Shiva Shakti's approach, especially with her background as a spokeswoman for meticulous alignment.  When I asked Shiva Shakti after the class to offer specifics on some of the postures, she narrowed her eyes at me and spat, "Did you not hear me? I said feel it."  And with a flip of her college coed tresses, she strutted toward her handlers and disappeared into the night.  

I exited the building silently.  Near me were a minion of Shiva Shakti devotees whose montage of enthusiasm included words like "Awesome!"  and "Breathless!"  I questioned my opinion of the workshop, wondering if I just didn't "get" what Shiva Shakti had offer.  She was touted as a genius. What gave me the right to doubt her? 

I spoke with some friends in the yoga world who confirmed that Shiva Shakti had changed her style, taking her long time focus off the subtleties of the postures and shifting to something more "intuitive." It was probably no coincidence that in recent years, she had been losing a grasp on her following to a younger, hipper, generation of instructors.  Many believed that this abrupt transformation was in a desperate attempt to stir up publicity and attract a new crop of fans. The irony of this is that yogic philosophy teaches non-attachment, which Shiva Shakti apparently forgot, in her frantic effort to hold onto her superstar status.

Once I saw the big picture, I gave myself permission to feel the disappointment over the seminar, which had been completely unproductive.  But then I began to wonder why I needed the background information before I allowed myself to formulate an opinion.  

I had been reluctant to trust myself.  I wasn't the yoga authority, but supposedly she was.  We assume we should trust someone who has been presented to us as a great teacher, and has the reputation to back it up.  However, it's equally, if not more important that we trust ourselves and our own instincts.

Fierce Divas have the right to question everything and everyone, not necessarily to call something or someone right or wrong, but to decide whether something is right or wrong for you.  Every now and then, someone asks me about that Shiva Shakti seminar I went to.  I don't criticize it, but I say, "It wasn't for me."   

There are many truths to choose from. Know yours.

Namaste, Divas!

*Yoga has gotten some unfavorable press lately, including coverage on a leader of a yoga based  organization for abuses of power.  This post is not meant to be disrespectful to the science and tradition of yoga in any way.   While people within the yoga world may be flawed, the institution of yoga is not.  Unfortunately, there are people in many different sectors of society who exploit their influence.

©2012 Ilene Evans  

 

 

Please Take A Number: An Account of Losing and Finding My "Fierce"

My Dude was writhing in pain.  Seven hours in an ER, and not only did we not have answers, but the hospital was eerily deserted.  Every so often, a small vial with the words, "drink me" written across it would appear on the counter next to my Dude's stretcher, that would help the pain, but there was no sign of how the vial got there.  Each time I ventured to  the nurse's station, it was empty.  "Hello, " I would call out.  "Is anybody here?" 

"Hello? Is anybody here," echoed back to me.

Late that night, an orderly, who bore a striking resemblance to a rabbit,  rushed in and informed us that my Dude was being admitted.  "Oh, my, we'll be late, we'll be late," cried the orderly, as he pushed my Dude's stretcher into an elevator,  which dropped quickly, hitting the bottom floor with a "thud."

The elevator opened, and the orderly pushed my Dude down a long, dark hallway.  Strange animals were gathered around tables playing card games.  Vegas style neon signs flashed on the walls in unison to the distant sound of carnival music.  The orderly shoved the stretcher into a dimly lit room and hopped away.

Hours later, no one had come to check on my Dude.  I walked to the nurse's station, peered over the counter and said, "Can you help me? My Dude is in pain."

A nurse came out and smiled.  "We'd love to help you.  Please take a number,"  She said, motioning to a deli counter style ticket machine that stood in the corner.

"But he's in pain," I said,  "And no one has been in to see him yet." 

"Please take a number," repeated the nurse, as she patted my arm and then hurried down the hallway.  

An hour later, I returned to the nurse's station.  Barely able to see over the counter, I stood on my tippy toes and in a very small voice said,  "My Dude is in pain. He needs to see a doctor."

Another  nurse stepped out, and said, "Did you take a number?"

I sighed in frustration and slumped back down the hallway.  

An hour later, I went back to the nurse's station, I looked up the wall of the counter, which seemed as high as a fortress,  and squeaked, "Excuse me, whoever is back there. My Dude is in pain."

To which the nurse came out from behind the counter, and said, "Let me see your number, honey."

"I don't have a number.  Please let me speak to the doctor."

"Ok, but he's not going to like this," she said speaking slowly and with a hint of fear in her voice.

A few moments later,  a doctor appeared.  "You didn't take a number?" he asked.  

"No, but..."   

"Just answer the question!"   

"No."

"Are  you trying to cut the line?" he asked.  And then, in a louder voice, directed at anyone in earshot, "Is she trying to cut the line?  OFF WITH HER HEAD!"

I ran down the hallway,  back to my Dude's room, and bolted the door shut. I climbed into a chair that seemed very, very large, curled up in a tiny ball, and fell asleep.

Hours later, I woke up to find my Dude slumped over in pain, and still, we had no answers.   I needed to help him.  I had to help him.  But something wasn't working. 

 I had stopped being a Fierce Diva.

I had been so worried about my Dude, that the fear had compromised my ability to see clearly.  I had begun to react instead of respond, and in my panic, I had lost my voice.  My soft spoken cries for help were not going to work in a hospital setting.*  I didn't need to be loud or rude, but it was critical that I express my needs, be persistent, and stand my ground.  

I took a minute to sit still and breathe. Then,  I looked at the situation and thought through what I needed to do.  Once I had a plan, I laced up my Doc Martens, held my head high, and headed to the nurse's station.

Towering over the counter, my voice boomed, "Excuse me, I need help now."

The nurses nodded their heads in unison and said, "Yes, we're coming."  And they did.

Being fierce, like everything else, is a balance.  Depending on the situation, sometimes we need more of it and sometimes we need to hold back.  Once you know the difference, you have truly become a Fierce Diva.

Namaste, Divas!

*This post is written with no disrespect to nurses or other medics, who work hard, are overbooked with patients, yet still manage to save lives on a daily basis.  The system is what is broken.  Enough said.

©2012 Ilene Evans