What's magical, sometimes, has deeper roots than reason
Mary Oliver, from "Such Silence"
Hello everyone! I’m so glad you’re here.
This photo is from last Tuesday afternoon, shortly after sending this newsletter, when my body decided it was not, in fact, ready to be out in the world yet.
Thankfully a few days rest did the trick. How are you?
A bookstore and ice cream shop just opened in my neighborhood. It’s owned by the same people who run the café I’m writing this from, who also happen to be my neighbors. I’ve written about them before; one time their teenage son pitched a ladder outside my fire escape and helped me climb through the window when I’d locked my keys inside, a bewildered Robin watching the whole scene unfold from bed. Needless to say, I’m grateful to live where I live.
A movie is being filmed on my street this week. There are giant Haddad trailers parked outside my building with sleep-deprived production staff roaming in and out. One of them is cute and we make eye contact every time I walk outside. It’s apparently a film with Gwyneth Paltrow and Timothée Chalamet, though I have yet to make any spottings.
I don’t know why I’m talking about celebrities and film crews when there are much more important things to place our attention on, but lately I’m taking refuge in the small day to day happenings that make life sweet.
Because it’s not really about the ice cream or the books, but the fact that these neighbors have brought such community to this corner of our city, and that takes on new meaning in the times we are living in.
Yesterday on the Upper East Side after teaching a private, I spotted handwritten signs perched in the sidewalk dirt that said Women, we see you. You are not alone then a few feet ahead, a second one- You do not have to apologize for the toxic masculinity of the man who was elected president. A stranger in front of me had stopped to read them. I imagined the person who sat down to write these signs, the time it had taken to buy the cardboard and place them in the soil. The act of resistance felt hopeful, an invisible thread of solidarity connecting those of us who feel unmoored at the state of things.
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Last week after teaching my morning zoom class and hitting send on the newsletter, I returned to my apartment feeling a bit off. I wasn’t hungry, which was strange considering I’d only eaten a small breakfast that morning. I started to panic when I sat on my bed sending emails and my stomach lurched that kind of interrupting tug that leaves no room for hesitation. I spent the next 24 hours violently vomiting over my cold toilet, laying supine in a hot bath then with my beloved heating pad. I called out of work the next two days and watched an absurd amount of television.
It could have been a post-travel bug or food poisoning, but I suspect my nervous system was overrun and my body gave me no choice but to listen to it. I historically get sick after leading retreats, which is interesting because the opportunity to hold them has become such a gift in my career, and it likely means I will be overstimulated for awhile after. Thankfully I am someone who loves to relax, so the unexpected pause was welcome.
My friend Hallie brought me crackers and electrolytes while her dog pesto kept me company when I offered that he stay at my place during her meeting downtown. I wrapped him burrito-style in a blanket next to me the way I used to do with Robin, and for a moment she was on the bed beneath my hand, the weight of his warm body suddenly the shape of hers, and I missed her more than I have ever missed her, which is to say not nearly as much as I know I will one year from now, or twenty.
My friend Kira introduced me to this incredible artist over the weekend. He has the type of soulful, gravelly voice that stories live inside of. I can’t stop playing his song “Grief is only Love,” whose main lyric- grief is only love that’s got no place to go is perhaps the most accurate depiction of longing for something you can’t get back. I sift through old photos on my camera roll: Robin side-eyeing me eating pasta, her porky body losing its mind in a pile of leaves, those perfectly pink lip flaps- and am grateful, if only for a moment, to feel her aliveness again.
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I spent Thursday night eating pasta and fried artichokes at Morandi, Friday roaming around the MoMA then my friend Katie’s place with her cutie pie dog, Chai, and a hot bowl of earthy lentils that she cooked in a cast iron skillet, and Saturday having dinner and a movie with a student friend who also enjoys fake buttered popcorn and junior mints.
I did yoga, laid in the steam room for awhile, got a foot massage, and randomly meandered into an outdoor vintage market in Chelsea. I didn’t buy anything, but a fabulous older man drew attention when he tried on a floor-length fur and leather coat at one of the stalls, insisting he looked amazing while encouraging everyone else to agree with him. The market was full of my favorite used treasures: jewelry, clothing, shoes, antique mirrors, rugs, frames, tchotchkes- but I was mostly there for the vibe and a sweet golden retriever named Polly who lost half her coat every time she sidled up against me.
Four years ago I sat in my living room and decided to start a newsletter that would hold me accountable to a weekly writing practice and be a means for connection and community. I did not know how long I’d keep at it, only that the prospect of sitting down to write each week felt exciting and a little bit intimidating. When new students ask what the newsletter is about, I always hesitate in answering- ummmm, it’s about yoga, sort of. But also just life and being a human in the world, and my dog shows up a lot, too. Haha.
I don’t think I realized how much I would get out of showing up here each Tuesday, just as I couldn’t have fathomed how significantly becoming a yoga teacher would change my life when I completed my first teacher training at 23 years old, a whole lifetime ago. I often think of the teacher I will be at forty, fifty, seventy. How much will have changed by then? How much will still be the same?
If four years are any indication, there are eons more lifetimes waiting for me. Some days I feel like a trapeze artist swinging without a net; what will be there to catch me? But most days I can swing into the abyss, certain only that the answers will reveal themselves with time, and that my daily lived experience equips me to accept the unknown with grace and even hope.
Sending a big hug today. We are all walking through something. We all benefit from moments of real presence or a genuine compliment. As I said to my students this morning, thank you for being a part of the good in my world.
See you next Tuesday,
Emma
My former roommate Richie (who happens to be extremely artistically inclined) made me laugh over the weekend when he dmed me this: the MoMA is so funny. This looks like the back of a retail store.
new rug went live in the kitchen!
a thank you note that made me cry (why is seeing people’s handwriting always so tender!)
that post-stomach bug glow, lolz
Because art saves lives
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Have a beautiful week!
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Washington Heights community!
Heights Meditation and Yoga is now using the Hebrew Tabernacle space to hold classes until we move into permanent residency. The space is big, quiet, and candlelit, (and classes are starting to get really full again so it feels like a budding community!)
Come join me on Monday nights for 630 vinyasa and 745 restorative.
Ilysm!! 💖 Your newsletter is such a gift, here's to four more years!