Meditation Monday

Today, there were 4 men and 4 women in my yoga class. I really love it when men come to class because I feel that the practice is not defined by gender, race, ethnicity, or religion. Of course there is some religious influence because its roots stem from the Hindu religion, but overall, the practice is what you personally make of it. There is this notion in America that yoga is feminine. It’s in magazines, movies, and on TV. I feel it is up to all us yogis to change minds and hearts, so that everyone (whether they practice or not) knows that yoga is universal.

My yoga is feminine, masculine, and the unifying knowledge of both.
My yoga is the earth, the atmosphere, and the oneness of the universe.
My yoga is within me, and respects and admires the yoga within you.


-Madison Adams

Mediation Monday

We’re bringing it back! Here is today’s new Meditation Monday by Madison Adams!

1. a thing intended; an aim or plan.
“she was full of good intentions”
2. the healing process of a wound.

1. Today, my intention is to let go of worry; to allow my thoughts and energies to flow through my fingers, and into this keyboard.

2. Today, my intention is to love myself so that I may love others just as deeply.

Start small. Set an intention every day. Today, I will wear two different socks, and be o.k. with it. Today, I will find a new recipe that revolves around vegetables so I have more in my diet. Today, I will bring a warm beverage to a Salvation Army bell ringer. Today, instead of retaliating when I have been hurt, I will remove myself from the situation, and talk about it later.

You may be surprised to find that intentions that seem grand to most, become second nature to you.

-Madison Adams

I Love…

Dahlias and Daisies. Fire pits. Running fingers through my hair. Wiggling toes. Warm strawberry rhubarb pie with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. Springtime sunrise on my back porch. Dissipating fog. Sunsets in Sedona. Baby animal noses and noises. Bubbles. The smell of fresh baked cookies. Rainbows. Best friends. Dancing. Bees. Naps on the sunny side of my couch. Hula hoops. Singing as loud as I can in my car. Farmer’s markets. Dogs. When little kids tell stories. Deaf culture. Yoga. Science. Music that gives me goosebumps. Coloring. Coconut. Vermont. My Adventure Time blanket. Nature documentaries. Birthdays. Laser tag. Siblings. Things that light up. Freckles. Craft beer. When you make me dinner. When you do things I want to do, even when you’d rather not, and still keep an open mind. The way you smile when you’re uncomfortable. The way you manage to make every anxious moment silly. The way you look at me. How you are a part of everything I love; every moment; every day.

-Madison Adams

Fixing Us

I thought I was doing the right thing, you know. In a weird way, it felt like something I had to do. I had to cut myself off – for both of our sakes, because there was nothing more I could do for you. We played the same game, fought the same fights round after round and both of us seemed to lose every time. I couldn’t bear to watch us destroy ourselves anymore. I was done, played out. Confused, exhausted, angry, hurt and everything in-between.

I’d always assumed that we’d carry on the way we were forever, you know. We were Monica and Rachel, Blair and Serena. A team. We’d walked the same paths together, lived the same things, carried each other and stood side by side and hand in hand for most of our lives.

But we began to fade. Slowly at first, but then we spiralled deeper and deeper out of control and out of love.

Maybe it was your fault.

Maybe it was mine.

I’m sure we’d blame each other.

You spoke a different language that I was tired of having to translate. Somewhere in the labyrinth of your mind, I lost my way. You changed the route – the one I was always so sure of- and I was left alone. That’s when I decided that I couldn’t fix you, and that part of me didn’t want to.

In each other’s eyes we saw different things, and I wasn’t sure I liked my own reflection.

So I gave up: on you, on us. On everything we had and hadn’t yet become. It seemed easier that way, like ripping off a plaster in one go, to just get it over with. They do say a clean cut heals faster. But ours was far from clean.

We had everything, and yet nothing to say to each other. Always hidden behind screens, terrified by the bruises we might leave. I wanted you to hear me, but the words caught in my throat and left a bitter taste on my tongue. Like disappointment. Cutting myself off from you, I thought, would stop me from getting hurt, but those same cuts ran deeper and frustration spilled from them and stained my clothes.

For the first time in my life you made me vulnerable. I was scared of myself and the things I was thinking, the way I was feeling. But most of all, I resented you. Because you didn’t do the thing I thought you would. You didn’t act the way I wanted you to,

I pushed you away because I expected you not to let me. I wanted you to choose me, to choose us.

But you didn’t.

So I stopped trying, and tried to stop caring. My wires were exposed and your hands were made of knives. It was too risky for me to take another chance and I didn’t think you were worth it anymore. You weren’t the same person, but what I failed to realise is that neither was I.

Do you know what made me come back to you? You were just as surprised as I was to see me, so suddenly and out of the blue, holding a white flag in the midst of no mans land, carefully treading over the growing cracks in our relationship and trying to build a bridge.

I remembered New Years Day, waking up alone in the bed we were supposed to share because I thought you were going to throw up from all the vodka jelly and jager you promised my mother you wouldn’t have. How you read the message from the boy I’d told I loved him the night before because I couldn’t bear to do it. The sadness in your eyes when you said it’s lovely, but I don’t think it’s what you wanted to hear. You hugged me and we drank tea and chatted over hazy memories of laughter and buttered toast on my kitchen floor. I remembered that and thought, you were the person that was there for me in one of my weakest moments. When the illusion I’d created for myself came crashing down, it was you stood with the dustpan and brush offering to sweep me up. And it made me wonder why I could do the same for you just one more time.

I’m sorry I put you on pedestal and then punished you when you couldn’t reach.

I’m sorry that I expected too much of you and I’m sorry that I left you when you needed me the most.

When we’re young, everything is so clear cut, so definite. Good and bad. Right and wrong.

But as we grow older, that line merges. The sea of morality becomes murkier, dirtier, and we can no longer see our toes in the sand underneath. We become uprooted, unstable, swept away by a tidal wave of emotion. Because we’re human. We make mistakes. It’s what we do best.

We were a tropical storm, you and I. But we passed.

I promise you that, slowly, I’ll try and fix us, but only if you promise to let me.

-Amy Beecham
To read more of Amy’s writing, visit her blog The Girl and the Words.

There Is Nothing That Doesn’t Touch Us

Light refracted and infused with life. Intricate colors pour out onto the canvas of my sleeve-worn heart. There is nothing that doesn’t touch me. Things that seemingly have nothing to do with me grab at my soul and demand my attention. I am the man who just lost his wife. I am the girl who cries because the guy she loves doesn’t love her back. I am the giver and the taker alike. There is nothing that doesn’t touch me. I am found in the quiet solitude of a just-ended summer rain. I am found in the noisy roar of a city that’s wide awake. Every time someone dies, I lose. Every time someone is born, I rejoice. There is nothing that doesn’t touch me. I am woven into the fabric of every life that has come and gone and yet to be. You and I…we’re the same person. There is nothing that doesn’t touch us.

Lee Brown