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.

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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.

Of Injuries and Scars

I quietly sat on the x-ray table, lead vest heavy across my belly and spotlight aimed at my troublesome right knee. The tech making polite conversation as she gave me directions, "Turn this way, just a bit," and "Hold this up. Now, be very still."

I silently obeyed, holding my breath as she stepped behind the window and snapped the shot.  As still as I was, my mind careened around all the possibilities.  Another injury. 

It hadn't been but a few months since I was sitting in that very room with a similar limb affliction; one right shoulder, overworked and under-rested.  At least this time, there was actually an identifiable incident.  I had been reaching for a kettle bell mid-workout, between the running and the squatting.  I hadn't even touched that darn bell yet.  I merely stepped and reached for it, twisting in just the right way.  Or I suppose I should say, "just the wrong way," as there I sat.  It's silly really, and believe me, I felt the ridiculousness of it all in telling the doctor as he examined my angry knee.

I listened intently as he went over the diagnosis; a simple sprained knee to be cared for with a brace, some rest, and anti-inflammatories.  But there was more.  There were "abnormalities" visible on the x-rays. Well, who doesn't love to hear a doctor say that lovely fear-mongering word- "abnormalities?"  He explained the existence of what appeared to be some sort of calcification on what he felt was a knee far too young to allow such a presence.  I was left with a promised follow-up from the radiologist, and a possible orthopedic referral, dependent upon their closer examination of the x-rays.  Of course, I don't remember the exact details of his medical monologue.  It's funny how I always believe I will remember every word, but as soon as I step out of the office, my brain is wiped clean with the exception of all the questions I wished I had thought to ask.

In the few hours that have passed since the appointment, I've teetered back and forth between a high-spirited optimism and plan for a quick recovery, and a disheartening pessimism of being held back from the activities I love for any length of time.

It's a minor injury.  No surgery required.  What a relief!

Minor though it may be, it will still keep me from my routine.  Workouts are my sanity, my remedy for more than just a calorie burn and muscle toning.

Yes, but five days' rest is nothing.  And then I'll be back at it, rebuilding my strength slowly, smartly, but surely.

Unless this calcification business is more.  Then what?

Then, I'll work with it, and stop trying to fight against it.  I can accept my knees never permitting an inverted lotus pose.

Ugh... I was planning to start my YTT this week.  Lotus pose?  I can't even do child's pose right now.

But, my body needs rest.  I'll rest it, and then start next week.  That's the benefit of choosing a program which allows practice and study in my own time.

And round and round I go.  No, really... I am this insane.

In the end, all I could think was how maybe I've made a mountain of this minuscule thing.  A minor injury.  I've allowed it to make me feel broken.  I don't like feeling broken.  I don't care for exposing any fleck of my fragility, physical or otherwise, though I am quite aware of each flecks existence.

The truth is, my fear isn't about this injury or its subsequent recovery.  It gives life to a much more personal and emotional issue deeply rooted and boldly growing from old scars split wide open by setbacks like this.  Clearly, they are wounds that never really healed.

Many, many years ago, I gave up far too much far too easily, and it haunts me still.

One memory rubbed raw and resurfacing most recently, is that of my rather brief stint in the Air Force; four weeks of boot camp training followed by two months of "Medical Hold," only to be sent home for migraines. This is a story many friends and family know, though I've always told it differently than it actually happened.

The basics are the same. I had been aimlessly floundering after the chaos of life led me down an unplanned path. In an attempt to pull myself out of the muck and find any sort of purpose, I proudly joined the U.S. Air Force.  The day after Christmas in 2000, I traveled to San Antonio's Lackland Air Force Base from Houston.  I missed the initial TI verbal assault on the incoming buses, courtesy of a day long paperwork delay, but I was settled into my flight with all the usual "pleasantries" by the 27th.  I learned quickly and became the perfect little wall-flower, despite having the first bed just outside of the Sergeant's office and an easy target for a last name.  "Homer" had brought me nothing but grief since The Simpsons' debut in the fifth grade.  Fortunately for me, it went unnoticed amongst the 59 other girls in my flight.  By week 4, I thought I was golden, but the changes in diet, exercise, and sleep began to take their toll, and my occasional pre-Air Force migraines struck with a vengeance.  It wasn't ever long after Reveille that a daily monster would take hold of my poor pounding head.  I couldn't think straight, and suddenly "the perfect little wallflower" was missing marching calls and standing out like a cactus in the bare desert.  It wasn't pretty, and no one thanked me for the numerous extra "motivational push-ups" we were having to do in penance for my errors alone.  After several days in a row of brain torture and worry, I finally requested to go to medical call. The clinic doctor granted me a referral to the neurologist and an unwanted ticket to leave my flight for the "Medical Hold" Squadron until a diagnosis could be made and everything sorted out.  With this, I found my boot camp graduation delayed and my reserved spot at Shepherd AFB for my next phase of training given to another recruit, though I wasn't fully aware of it at the time.  Once again, my life's plans were shaken.

My first neurology appointment offered a migraine diagnosis, only pending MRI results to rule out worse possibilities.  And so my waiting began- waiting on appointments, waiting on paperwork.  Just a whole lot of "hurry up and wait."

A few weeks later, while making my way by bus to the base hospital, Wilford Hall, for my MRI and follow-up appointments, I passed the marching grounds where graduation preparations were in order.  My breath hitched.  It was my original flight's graduation day.  My graduation day... but not.  I maintained the military bearing as I was expected to display, but my heart broke right there on that shuttle bus as I watched the graduating flights march to the field in their dress blues- the uniform I was measured for, but never received.

It is here where the difference in the story I allowed people to believe and the actual truth diverge.

Perhaps it was riding on the emotional low of that bus ride when I felt my decision was made.  At my appointment that day, the neurologist made the official diagnosis and explained that migraines were typically a "no-go" for acceptance into the military.  He was, however, willing to make an effort to make a case for me to return to normal training along with a prescription to help ease the headaches. The choice was mine. Of course, I had certain anxieties about Warrior Week and other aspects of returning to training, but I truly couldn't see past those graduating flights marching all over my altered dreams to even consider amending the timeline to still reach my goals.  At that moment, I just wanted to go home.

And so, in the great disappointment of my imagined failure, I chose to truly fail by asking that doctor to send me home.

It took another 8 weeks for the paperwork to be properly gathered, but the decision had already been set into motion.  By the time I was reasonable enough to fully comprehend what I had done, it was too late. I told my family and friends that I wasn't given a choice, a fact most are reading for the first time only now.  The shame of disappointing them yet again with the truth of my ever-wavering resolve was too much to bear.  I couldn't shake my adopted role as a quitter, even if only I knew the truth, and it was my own fault.

I let that role rule me for decades, always letting that girl in the mirror forever harp on how I never finished anything I started.  So many times, I proved her right.  Then, little by little, I learned how to be louder and stronger than she was, taking one goal at a time, however small, and celebrating the hell out of it.

That nagging reflection is gone, but she is sadly not forgotten.  It is her ghost, her shadow I fear in moments of sprained knees and slightly-delayed yoga teacher training, knowing old habits are so easily resurrected.  I might be 36, but apparently 21 year old versions of myself still rattle me.

Still, I won't quit. Broken, sprained, calcified, torn, delayed... whatever.  I'll rest.  I'll get back up.  I'll continue moving forward, ever wiser, ever better.

Domino Toppler Extraordinaire

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

I don't get that question much anymore, because, well... I'm 36. Grown. But don't you know, it still applies!I wear many of those proverbially hats people are always going on about. First and foremost, you can label me the typical wife & mother, of the "stay home" variety. We'll throw "tattooed and sometimes scandalously clad homeschooling momma" in there together, just to be more specific, and because it's fun to see the look of surprise on people's faces when slaying their vision of the stereotypical, sheltered homeschool type. That makes me a teacher, too, though I tutor more than my own spawn. And because that's not enough to keep my two hands occupied, I've passionately adopted the title of small business owner, times 2, making gourmet jams & jellies with my best friend, and building my own little branch of the most fabulous health & wellness company 'round these parts. Together, these make up only a small portion of the dreams I'm setting out to realize. My desire is to be the the most eclectic combination of all these professions, as well as yoga instructor, farmer, and writer. Interesting fusion, right?

Its a mouthful of an answer, too, so I've invented a better, all encompassing title, however vaguish it might be. For the sake of simplicity, and because I doubt the defining of who I am will stop with merely these fine adventures, I've chosen to designate my pursuits and achievements under the title of...

Domino Toppler.

That's right! I'm gonna set those little dominoes up one at a time, and then I'll knock 'em all down, insuring that each falls right into its perfect place, creating the flawless masterpiece of the run. I'm fully expecting crazy looks when entertaining anyone who dares ask what I do, but at the very least it would be an interesting conversation & far better than the "jill-of-all-trades" response. 

Further more, the one thing I've learned in life, and will be passing on to my unsocialized weirdos, is this... I define who I am, and I don't concern myself with the likes of titles others bestow upon me.