She Planted Herself

I found her today, this rogue beauty from last year’s blooms. She is one of a single pair of survivors of my 2019 amateur gardening skills. Her sister viola had been transplanted last fall from my whiskey barrel to a forgotten window box at the edge of the yard; I thought she was the only one salvaged from the season. It turns out, though, you don’t just have to bloom where you’re planted. Sometimes you’re discarded, thought to be dried up and gone, but you claw your way through the cracks, rooting down in the crevices of unlikely places to bring a little life and color to the world as you know it.

Marian Who?

Originally posted on April 18, 2017 at the blog of my website, www.marianblueyoga.com. Sharing here in an attempt to save a story from the cruel fate of discontinued website service.

I called my sister as soon as I had found it. 

It wasn't too early in the morning, but it was much earlier than I typically would call just to chat. I worried, as the phone rang, that she might think something was wrong, but I desperately needed a sounding board. I had just stepped out of the shower and completed a Google search.  

I know how odd this "shower to Google" thing sounds, but who can control when ideas come to them. And come on- I can't possibly be the only one who is struck by revelations in the shower!  I know at the very least other stay-at-home moms are with me.

I had been seeking inspiration in all sorts of places for weeks. A name is of the utmost importance and tackling the task of bestowing such a thing is an incredible responsibility. It needed to speak volumes about what I was offering the people of Hampton Roads, the people of the world. This was a new beginning, a big deal- if only to me, and I needed more than "Yoga with Nikki Ortiz."

I had had several failed attempts.  Everything I was drawn to initially was terribly flawed, whether for being too common amongst studios and yoga business across the U.S., hard to pronounce or market, or just down right cheesy. Some words of inspiration even lent themselves to sounding more like a not-so-gentlemenly gentlemen's club rather than a reputable yoga business. (Yikes!) But it was on this day that I had the random idea to search shades of my favorite color.

I went through the process I had adopted in searching, saying a few of the found words out loud.  I scanned the list of blues. Only two really stood out, both of which ironically ended in -ian, like the names of my children, Christian, Julian, and Adrian. I won't even bother telling you the other shade name at this point (a girl must have her secrets after all), but it didn't matter. Marian Blue was the one- I felt it in my bones.  I loved the family ties with the -ian ending, AND I had remembered my obsessive genealogical research revealing a great-grandmother named Marion. Yes, this was definitely the one.

 Still, I took a breath. A feeling in my bones could not vouch for even "the one" without a little research, so off to the trusty search engine I went, saying a little prayer as I typed it in. I had to be assured it wasn't overused or that it was free of alternate meanings according to the Urban Dictionary.  To my relief, I found only the color itself and the following information (provided by the sometimes unreliable Wikipedia)...

"Marian blue is a tone of the color celeste named for its use with the Virgin Mary."

Throughout history, the Virgin Mary was portrayed in art wearing this blue. Well, these were findings I could live with. In fact, I was thrilled, as it provided a subtle hint of my essential and all-important Christian beliefs. What more could I ask for?

I repeated it aloud over and over, feeling the words and testing the flow. And then I took it to my sister, relaying the story to her and rejoicing in her shared excitement. I retold that story a few times that day... to my husband and to my best friend. The consensus was that it was clear I had found the perfect name for this new baby of mine. Perhaps they really thought it was that good, or maybe they just knew it was so...well, just so me. Either way, Marian Blue was born that day, and I have thrown much into her creation since.

My mission is simple; I wish only to share the gift of yoga with love and light, and in Marian Blue Yoga, I seek to accomplish that.  I hope to convey my passion for yoga and its ability to strengthen mind, body, and soul. With every session, with every class, and with my whole heart, I want your own passion for life to be ignited.

Nikki Meets the Mat

Originally posted on April 9, 2017 at the blog of my website, www.marianblueyoga.com. Sharing here in an attempt to save a story from the cruel fate of discontinued website service.

This is a story that has it's beginnings in decades gone by- thirty seven years and some odd months to be more precise, as it is truly a story that begins the day I was born.  You see, I believe whole-heartedly that every moment from then on has led me directly to my yoga mat.

Ok, maybe not "directly" in the sense of the shortest distance between two points... blah blah blah. No straight lines here, but every bit of this twisted, rocky road has been beautifully necessary.

Of course, I won't give the whole story away in a single blog post, nor will I start as far back as the day of my birth. Instead, I'll share from a single, significant crossroad in my adult life. Already a wife, already a mother, and yet struggling with the box I kept myself in and all its sticky little labels.

​

I won't give voice to the ugly things I heard in my head, but I was truly unhappy with myself. 

In May of 2012, I traveled home to Texas. It was a weekend away from my husband and kids to celebrate an important day in my younger sister's life. We couldn't all afford to go, but Sam was graduating from college. It was the perfect excuse for a girls' weekend away, and so in the company of another of my sisters, Amy, I made the trip to Lubbock.

It was on this trip that Amy and I commiserated about the unhealthy reflections we found in the mirror.  The scale was all too honest with me as well with its digital 212 staring back at me- the heaviest of my life, but Amy had some words of encouragement and a secret weapon. It was an app and it was simple- log your food and exercise.  It came with the all important promise of her accountability, too.

Downloaded. Done and done. Now comes the hard part... follow through.

I took one day at a time, mastering small changes before moving onto something new with the help of this little gem- starting with just the calorie restriction, then finding a little extra movement in my day before moving onto exchanging sodas for water, and so on.

These were the little battles I fought. These were the little battles that won my war.  Even with periods of weight gain (as you can see. I told you- no straight lines!) and struggling against moments of old habits rearing their ugly heads, I was still discovering a healthier version of myself.  And I felt good- better everyday. I was able to do things I hadn't ever been able to do before, some as simple as climbing stairs without being winded. And so I continued.

In the summer of 2014, in a moment of discouragement, I was given some advice to kick up my activity level a notch or two... or ten. My daily treadmill hour at the gym was no longer serving me.  It was time to trade it in for a higher intensity combination of cardio and body weight training, but I had no idea how to do that!  Lucky me- under the care and planning of some very good friends a meticulous plan was crafted.  Ashleigh and Justin were a power couple, if you will, who guided this gym-shy but determined woman to a whole new fitness level. My schedule was intense with 4-5 mornings or afternoons in the gym, sometimes both, but my family routine and the less demanding age of my children now allowed me the time to really focus on this health pursuit quest.

It was at this time, in July of 2014 that Justin suggested adding yoga to the regimen, particularly on my "rest days."  Intrigued by this yoga thing, but intimidated by the daunting idea of trying a new fitness class, for which I still shy away from, I sought out classes and information from the first place anyone from my generation would look- the internet. I found some fabulous yoginis willing to share their practices via Youtube and Instagram, and it was there I began, mat unrolled on the bathroom floor and computer calling poses from the counter where it sat. 

Turns out, it wasn't just for those "rest days." I practiced. Every. Day. I made some kind of time for that cheap pink mat, and as I fell in love with this God-given gift, I began to chronicle the discoveries I was making; fun poses, balances, and inversions. Of course, it has become so much more than just asanas now, but it's fun (and funny) to look back at those first photos (my very very first pictured above).  Some days I wish I had had the courage to start with a class with real human beings, as I now know the value of community and guidance by a trained professional, but most days I am so very grateful to have the little Instagram squares I had compiled to reflect on.

We forget so easily the distance we've traveled. We get so caught up in the measurement of the single steps in time and inches, sometimes mere centimeters.  But those are the precise moments to scroll back through and remember- to truly own the trip-ups and triumphs alike as a thing of pure beauty and grace.

I came to my mat because I was led here.  

And now, having completed my RYT 200 hour training with Chesapeake Hot Yoga in March of 2017, I'm ready to lead others, with experience and knowledge, passion and love, to find the unique gift and beautiful purpose yoga has in each individual life. 

My yoga education continues; with the completion of my initial 200 hours, I jumped immediately into 300 hour teacher training. I will proudly earn my RYT 500 status in March of 2018 from my "om away from home," Chesapeake Hot Yoga.

The Trouble with Labels

A great discussion after yoga class this morning has had me wondering all day- what would you choose to be if you removed all the labels you place on yourself?

Seriously. Maybe they're characteristics of a particular season in your life in which others identified you- just adjectives from adolescence or childhood- and you just accepted them as permanent fixtures, adopted them as your very nature.  Or maybe they're self-proclaimed, true tendencies, and you wear them like a badge.  But let's think about it for a second.

I convinced myself I was made a certain way for much of my life.  I'm a procrastinator. I'm lazy. Incapable of finishing what I start. Naturally good at math, science,  and music, but too undisciplined to be great at any of them. Bad knees. Eating issues. Genetically incapable of being an athlete of any sort. Big boned with a slow metabolism (my favorite)... the list goes on.

It was true.  I was all of these.  But here's the deal- it's who I was and who I remained because I accepted those things and they became my excuses. I didn't struggle through them to be more of what I wanted. I instead struggled to accept them... and accepting most of them truly was a struggle for me because I didn't like some of those traits. In acceptance, though, they became road blocks that held me back, and I grew comfortable in my box just saying, "Oh, that's cool, but I could never do that. I'm too _________. I'm content where I am."  But I wasn't.

I didn't want to be (mostly self) labeled as lazy anymore, so I got off the couch to knock out daily "to do" lists and learned (ok, still learning) how to better manage my time.  I didn't want to be someone who didn't finish what I started, so I took one step after another to finish whatever it was. Everyday was a choice to counteract those habits I wanted to change. Am I still a procrastinator by nature?  Yes, but I don't like that, so I recognize the behavior and make a conscious choice to change it when I see it.

Of course, in all of this, I realize that my childhood dream of being an Olympic gymnast is beyond me now, but that doesn't stop me from bending over backwards, flipping around, and enjoying the movement my body grows more capable of everyday. At almost 37 years old, it's almost the same thing, right? I still have bad knees, but I don't let them stop me from making steps toward my physical fitness goals.  I just go slower (because it is important to recognize limits and not injure yourself.)

The hardest realization is when I find myself doing it to my children, describing them to people as this or that, and boxing them in, however unintentionally. I believe we are each given certain gifts we should nurture and develop, and we are absolutely led by certain traits. I encourage my kids to seek those out, but I don't believe they (or we) should be limited to activities, careers, etc. based on predisposition, genetic or otherwise.  I try to be very careful of my words now. I want my children to own who they are, but I want them to find the balance to know when to move if they want something more or different.

All I'm saying is this- if you want something, figure out what it is keeping you from it, and tear down that wall one small brick at a time. Be good to yourself along the way. The journey can be long and riddled with ridiculous opinions and hardships. But strip yourself of the labels, even just for a second, to imagine all that you've ever dreamed of being, and let nothing stop you in that pursuit, especially not your own perception.

Under the Influence of Little Boy Humor

Double-take at Target yesterday... I was *certain* I saw "pillowFART" while making my way to the home goods department clearance end-cap.

Every little girl's dream bedding, right? 😂

Now, it would've been a down-right riotous scene, if I had been in the company of my boys. Or at least, there would've been a greater display of appreciation for the mistake.  As it was, the woman perusing the cozy Snuggies at the end of the aisle thought I was unquestionably insane based on the hysterical laughter coming from this solitary soul.  I may have even snorted.

Apparently, this is the result of spending the entirety of my days with three boys between the ages of six and twelve.

Nooks and Crannies

When your place of residence changes too frequently you learn to define "home" solely by the intangible spaces you create in yourself and in between the people you love.  No address or physical place will do, for you cannot take those nooks and crannies with you when you go.

It is simply one lesson I have learned as a military wife.

We remain in one spot for a fleeting breath of a moment it seems- often only three years or less.  It is long enough to attempt to settle in a house always owned and decorated by someone else.  By the time our belongings are sufficiently scattered from corner to corner, the packing season has rolled back around.  Everything finally organized on our assorted-colored shelves or in our mismatched furniture must carefully be rewrapped, repacked, and rearranged in relabeled boxes.  Even now, our time here on Sandusky Court is up, and we are once again a family awaiting orders.

I'd say "patiently awaiting," however, patience has never been a forte of mine.

I'm a planner; living in limbo makes me crazy.  Truly insane.  But insanity must be tolerated, as this is our chosen life.  Fall homeschool registration, extracurricular activities, plane tickets and summer travel plans... even our small business future precariously rest upon our next move; every one of these tasks in need of being settled very soon.  Luckily, February is the promised month for receiving orders, and we know it is only a short time before the setting of our next chapter is written.

Try though I might, leaving always bears a substantial weight on my every thought as the days tick by.  It is not, however, the unresolved details that are the most taxing effects of our transfers, but the heartbreak that comes of the distance enforced in each cherished relationship built in these transient years.  They are, of course, our greatest blessings- chosen family always is- and so, it is a heartbreak worth enduring, with promises made for visits whenever circumstances allow.

Connections such as these are never broken.  They are the very filling of my invisible nooks and crannies affectionately carried from town to town, and that by which I create this, my unconventional definition of "home."

Fireflies- Part 2

The story continues...

She made her way through the reception hall, gliding gracefully just on the edge of the room, careful to navigate around the other guests so as not to distract their eyes from the twirling lovers in the room’s center.  She stepped around the table laden with punch bowls and cups, and then another, where the cake towered, topped with a miniature, dancing bride and groom identical to the stunning pair swaying in perfect unison on the dance floor.  She took a seat with the cake table in clear view.  It was her favorite wedding tradition- watching the newly weds share the first delectable bites of cake.  

Of course, as endearing as it could be, it was not a romantic notion from which this interest sprang.  She was far too practical for romance after all.  Her mother had raised her better.  She believed a couple’s fate could be determined by this single exchange, and in possession of an extreme fascination with relationships and human nature, she had studied every morsel of cake consumed during this ritual at the fair share of weddings she had attended this year alone, making predictions she would obviously never admit aloud.  It seemed like a cruel little way to entertain herself, but so it was.

Naturally, she realized that despite her years of study in psychology, she had very little experience with love.  She had done her best to follow her mother’s guidance in avoiding the wandering eyes and empty lines offered by boys intrigued by her beauty.  It wasn’t that she was immune to the enchanting allure of the fairy tales, love songs, and pretty words, but she was taught not to be fooled by them.  No sparkly happy-ever-after could be found in love.  In spite of it all, she could still appreciate the idea of love, and she didn’t dare speak against it to any of her starry-eyed friends.  She simply had other priorities and pursued them with all of her being.  It made her mother proud, of that she was sure.

            She sat up straight to adjust a slight twist in her dress, before turning back to watch the couple.

“Hi.”

Startled by the simple word pulling her from her own little world, she looked up to find a tuxedo-clad man holding two glasses of punch.  She didn’t mind admitting he was handsome.  Very handsome, in fact.  His dark hair was just long enough to be neatly tousled, a stark contrast to his strikingly pale eyes, though their exact color was difficult to distinguish in the dim radiance of the chandeliers without awkwardly staring.  She wasn’t willing to risk sending the wrong message by doing so.

“Hello,” she responded casually.

“I don’t suppose I could offer you some punch?” he asked, with a slight grin, oddly drifting between a cool confidence and a nervous uncertainty that made her unknowingly return the smile.

“Thank you,” she said simply, reaching up to take a glass.  Experience told her to say nothing more.  She could hear her mother suggesting polite responses without any further encouragement to continue the conversation.  Eventually, they all go away.

“Would you like to sit down?”  The question uncontrollably tumbled out of her mouth. 

“Actually,” he began, “I would rather dance, if we could?”

 For the briefest of moments, she considered refusing, but she was a sucker for dancing, and she did intend to fully enjoy this evening in its entirety.  She took one last sip of her drink, and then set it on the table.  Placing her hand in his, she let him lead her to the floor.   He wrapped his arm firmly, but ever so gently around her waist.  Their eyes met and she was suddenly caught up in the stunning shade of light blue encompassing just a hint of a glowing golden green looking back at her.  It was a light leading her in.  And his arm was holding her there.   Before a rational thought could work it’s way in, he was interrupting her swirling thoughts again.

“Bride or groom?”

“I’m sorry?”  He was making a habit of catching her off guard.  Irritating, and still so charming, she thought.

“Are you here for the bride or for the groom?” he asked again.

“Oh, neither,” she coolly teased.  “I’m just part of the wait staff.”

He laughed. “Of course!  I should have known.  A beautiful woman dressed to the nines in this gorgeous blue… must be wait staff.”

What was she doing?  Flirting? 

She gathered herself in an attempt to revert to the minimal conversation rule. “No, I’m a cousin of the groom.  His sister and I were inseparable growing up.”

“Ah, well, Cousin of the Groom, do you have a name?”

“Lina.  I’m Lina.”

            He stopped dancing and gave a slight bow. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Lina.  I’m Lucas, brother of the bride.”

He gave her a little twirl and she was right back in his arms swaying to the music.  She found her world now whirling out of balance, the dizzying effect more from the embrace than the spin.  She could see Lucas was trouble to her uncharacteristically wavering resolve, but in this moment, she wasn’t sure she cared.