For most of my life I have had a consistent experiences of consciousness. That experience being of a consciousness that flows like a River. This River Flow Consciousness (or we could also call her Saraswati- the goddess of the river, of thought, of order, of culture, of music and arts.) I experience as direct and clear. Sometimes swift and rushing I am able to express my ideas in prolific manner. Sometimes being so driven by her that I find myself powerless in anything other than surrounding to the rushing and pouring power of this liquid streaming through my mind and into my whole being. I take what is gushing inside and make it into order outside. I write. I speak. I make shapes. I change directions. I make decisions.

Thought.
Feeling.
Action.
Like that.

Sometimes the thoughts become like wild rapids where so much water--so much thought and feeling--must be navigated or else I could fall into the cosmic abyss of a waterfall ahead. It can feel like a torrent. That I must navigate to either stay afloat or risk being taken under. Sometimes this consciousness overwhelms me and floods the boundaries of my body-mind. When I was young and learning to write essays, my parents would proofread my work. Sometimes they would ask me; "Well what do you mean here? This doesnt make sense. I think you left something out." The thoughts would come so quickly that I could not write fast enough to keep up. I would leave words, phrases, whole sentences even out and be certain I had written them. My parents assured me each time I must have thought it but not gotten it out. So you see I had to learn to slow down enough, to build levees, and river banks for my thoughts. 

Sometimes I experience this consciousness of the river as much more meandering. Thoughts stream in and I can float with them a while.

Thats always nice. 

I love the spaciousness I get with that. 

Since having Olive I have experienced a very new kind of consciousness. I call it Mulch Consciousness. Now, I have the same amount of thoughts, the same intensity, the same longing to carve my thoughts and feelings--all that is my consciousness-- out into the world in some way. But I have little or no time to ever do so because the various demands of being a Mother. And so the thoughts stream in, but I cannot direct them outward. I feel them fall like overripe fruit into the earth of my Being.

Thought.
Feeling.
Splat.
Woops.
Like that.

At first I was so very disheartened by this. Frustrated. Resentful even. Feeling like a primary identity and capacity was cut off. At first I tried to desperately tread water. Clamoring to find space to write what was arriving and arising. This was futile. Futile against the diaper changes, the feeding, the simple but necessary acts of living.

More and more I come into deeper understanding and even savoring of this new mode of consciousness pulsing through me. Actually, pause, let me reframe. Consciousness no longer pulses though me. It pulses AS me. Mulch Consciousness does not course through. It is the actual consciousness herself living not only inside a body but making the very body. Thoughts and feeling and ideas of a wild absurd plethora may rise, bloom, become fruit and then with the lack of harvesting to make a product, they over-ripen and fall to the earth. They fall deep into my being. Into the dirt. Way down into my mind. Into my unconsciousness once again. There it is mulched and churned into something I have yet to see.

Rivers are sacred. They flow. They cast away our sins. They make us clean. They sanctify and purify. All creatures come to the river to pray, and bathe, and be made holy once again. Plants live by its nutrients. Life is prolific at the banks of River Consciousness. And water is what makes life on this planet. 

We need this kind of consciousness undoubtedly. Let us bow to that which flows through us and into the world so powerfully. 

But.
Don't forget. 

Mulch is made from that which is decomposing. It's our cosmic recycling plan. Mulch is shit. Holy shit. That sweet pungent smell of decay that is too often tossed away and overlooked as yuck. Mulch makes fertility possible. You plant seeds in the ground. All that grows must come from the rich dark soil. And the mulch? The mulch is that rich and unapologetically potent mix of all that was, making life begin again.

I came across a clever LifeHack article on the spectrum of introversion and extroversion. Sure, some of us are innies. Some of us are outies. But we also can be introverts with extroverted personas. (I’ll raise my hand for that one.) I remember when I read the book Quiet by Susan Cain. It was like reading a gospel authored for me. It gave me the courage to actually begin allowing my introversion with this external persona to be an asset instead of the pain-in-the-ass set of social needs that made me awkward, boring and confusing- or so I had been told.

I have spoken and written about a deeper need to understand ourselves at length over the years. Well, I have made a career out of it actually—this educating on the intersection of psyche, soma, heart and culture. And why does any of that even matter anyway? I have long felt that much of the current yoga industry can be like trying to shove square pegs into round holes. And that leaves us two choices— change the peg or change the hole. Or perhaps a third option exists. 

Finding a place where you can actually fit in. 

Much of the yoga culture these days is demanding us to be extroverted when so many of us are much the other. That is not the whole story though. Many of the extroverts get shamed for being so by the sadhana police. 

(insert eye roll and annoyed face.) 

I have been called standoffish, aloof, mean and more because I simply need to connect within before I can meaningfully and sincerely connect with others. 

In the "business" and "client centric" models of studios and programs the introverted teacher is often bashed and told they are bad at sales and welcoming. Shame on you for not being cheery and delightful. Attrition occurs because of you lack of pep. Less than 20 people in a class is no class at all. 

(Ok, I am obviously getting a bit cheeky.)

But seriously. This is not far from what I have heard.

What if we fostered introverted teachers to model for others what magnificence quietude can bring. What if we supported introverted teachers by giving them other studio tasks that didn't involve talking to people. Frankly, I would rather fold blankets then sign in students at a desk. Now to make things seem confusing, I happen to really enjoy engaging with students one a time, in a smaller space. I cane a rather delightful yoga hostess. And I adore that connection. That way I can actually make meaningful contact. So its not so opposite you see. 

But rather, where do I fit in. 

Now before we go all fist pumping for the introverts (introverts don't usually fist pump anyway) let us remember that introversion is not code for being a jerk. No, you do not get to be aloof and then call yourself an introvert. That is not how it works. And if you are introvert I am not going to cajole you because you do not want to be social today. (I don't want to be social a lot of the time. Guess what, its actually really good for me to see other human beings. Its actually critical to my—dare I say— spiritual practice, to engage in social constructs.) 

Left inside myself too long I become my own narcissus and nemesis. Engaged in the collective I become better, more whole. Left too much to the pack too long I become rancid, renegade and resentful. 

Of course, any introvert choosing themselves to be in a person related job has to rise to the social occasion. Just because you are an introvert does not give you license to be mean or arrogant or judgmental without due cause. you have to watch that resting bitch face. It’s a tough world to go out and engage with humans day in and day out in the practices of yoga--so much contact. I know. I get it. But also, (and I do mean this pleasantly), suck it up. You can be introverted and find ways to be socially appropriate. In so doing you may cultivate waysto be with yourself, deeply nourished and find external engagement meaningful and satisfying. 

Ok, now onto the extroverts…

I know plenty of extroverted yoga teachers who feel shamed for being loud and boisterous and the life of the party. They are often told they are "unyogic" and "showoffs". Now, come on people. That;s just not fare. You can't judge someones sincerity in practice by only what you see that is consents with a demanding extroverted cultural ideal. In fact, I love an extroverted yoga teacher. They make things fun. They bring out the side of me thats more playful. They are charismatic and catching and charming. I want to pet them. They give adjustments and love to do it. And sometimes I just really want that. And apparently, a bunch of others do too. These are the folks you should be having at the front desk studio owners. These extroverts will talk you and your studio up to the high heavens and bring student after student into your space. And frankly then can give those quiet teachers some relief. 

Extroversion does not negate reverence. It does not preclude depth. But it can also be helpful when those extroverts stop talking enough to look around and see. Dear extroverts, I know there is a big coming of age for the power of the introvert right now. But thats because you have been in the light a long time. Whole cultures are based off your inherent traits. Might you step back just enough and long enough for those who need more time and space to step forward to do so?

Basically my point, if you couldn't already tell is a call to action on several levels. 

If you are a studio leader of any sort, perhaps try getting the introverts and extroverts to work together to help your space and students thrive. We need the balance and the harmony of both these energies. Most people are on a spectrum anyway, and encouraging acceptance profits connection and useful coexistence. If you care about your business to the degree you are asking teachers to be and make of themselves something they are not, then you add to the confusion and the noise. You have an incredible opportunity to uplift. But you cannot unite without seeing and respecting the difference difference makes.

Before yoga, comes the people. Your people are the yoga.  

Also, let us not be down on ourselves for who we are--truly, deep inside. Let us not walk in shame and doubt wishing we were like someone else. Life is not better as in innie or outie. Let us find mutual respect in supporting what is hard and celebrating what comes innately. Let us forever quest for the truest expression of who we are in the world. Only then can we take a seat, an asana, of truth.

If you are an extroverted yogi, then fabulous. We need you. If you are an introverted yogi. Fantastic. We need you. 

Lastly, for the sadhana police, this is for you. Cut the crap. You are not the judge of enlightenment. You are not the spiritual law enforcement authority. 

Yoga offersa chance to become witness and ceremonialist to our own Inner World. Admission: One. You.  

We are at an all time high of noise and overstimulation in our world. We could all stand to take some inside time. We need more silence and less noise. This I know for sure. And similarly, which I also feel confident about is that yoga is at an all time place of evolution. We are in the process of creating what yoga is in the west. We don't totally know how that will pan out yet. And like any true extrovert, we also don't know where we are going and in some cases nor should we care. We just know its one hell of a party and we need to be there.

It seems to me that birth, no matter how it goes down, is ultimately merely the preparation for what is to come as a parent. In the process of birthing, every time you think you cannot take one more step, one more contraction, one more twist turn or complication, you meet it (whatever the IT is ) and keep going. By far this seems to be the best training ground and representative towards preparedness for being a mama.

Like the contractions of birthing before, every time you think you cannot do one more task, have one more moment of contact, do one more feeding, take one more spit-up, endure one more kick in your face, wake once again in the night, you do. You meet it. You expand again. And again. And again. Each day, each night, each hour, each minute is an ebb and flow of expansion and contraction of c o n t a c tarriving again and again at the threshold, repeatedly birthing yourself as mama once more.

I remember sitting with my midwife in the last weeks before Olive's birth. She was explaining to me how in the process of birthing the level of intensity increases gradually to the culmination in "transition" where there is a brief pause before pushing which grows again in intensity until the baby emerges. She said "You are going to want a break. And the intensity just keeps building so you take the pauses that come. Otherwise you will get exhausted".

Olive came so quickly that these so called levels of intensity increased not by the hour but by the contraction themselves. Each one more intense then the next until she emerged. There was no time to think or be spacious. When the contraction was over I just let it be over until the next one started the very next breath. The breaks were mere breaths. The breaks were me noting that each contraction, each push was moving us closer to the other side of this process. I knew that this state was temporary. And so I just kept meeting. Meeting. MEEting MEETing the next growing step.

At least once a day (or night) I feel as though I simply cannot carry on. I am maxed out on holding and connecting. I am maxed on breast-feeding. I just want a break. The break does not come. Baby has immediate needs, or childcare shifts, or husband is late, or some stupid interweb fiasco has me running to the business side of life. Somehow, some way, by the good grace of all that is, I manage to expand. I find myself amidst the endless contact. I take a breath amidst the panic. I grow compassion around the upset.

The blessing and the curse of motherhood is this: It won't be like this forever.

The night time wake ups.
The kicking, biting and pulling.
The needing to be close and held.
The need for the breast.
These moments that feel excruciatingly more emotionally taxing than any contraction.

It won't be like this forever.

The raptures giggles.
The way the world is entirely new and fascinating.
The innocent eager smile when we wake up in the morning.
The want to be close and held.
These moments that enrapture us into an ecstasy of heart piercing joy.

It won't be like this forever. 

What scares me more than birth ever could and what shocks my more than the daily intensity of being with an infant is the current state of affairs in our country. We have been reminded very clearly of the incredulous prejudice and racism embedded at a cellular level on this land and between us. We cannot hide from the labor of justice and equality that is emerging right now. Burying our heads in the sand until its over will not change the arduous journey of this birth. Unlike the knowing that the beautiful baby will emerge through the narrow passageway, none of us know exactly what is to come and when. We don't know what form this new life will take. We want a break. It feels like too much. How can we go on one more day like this? I know. Perhaps we continue being moved by these contractions. Perhaps like the dark nights and the overwhelming days without break we find our breath and our breadth to carry on. Perhaps we go through the excruciating moments where we believe there is no way out, we cannot grow one more inch, or allow one more opening. And just like birth, just like mother pushed to the edge of her will, wit and zone of compassion, we find more ways of being with.

There is no way out. Only through. There are no breaks. Only breaths. There is no way back. Only onward toward becoming home and whole--a process of birthing a more Just world. 

Blessed Be.