The Invitation

Today I ran from W186th to E8th where I take Yoga.

A big part of yoga is training your mind to focus on nothing but how your body is feeling and consciously maintaining strong and steady breathing. It is surprisingly difficult to release your focus from the endless stream of thought that circumvolves your consciousness.

Sometimes, when I try to think about nothing, it ends up more like this:

"Think about nothing....nothing....ok, I guess I'm not really thinking about anything....What would it actually be like to think about nothing, I wonder who I know that can probably think about nothing. Oh, yea, maybe John. Doesn't John owe me $14.00. Man blueberries are crazy expensive...

At the end of every Yoga class, as you are lying on a sopping matt breathing an meditating in the dark studio, the instructor reads a quote. I guess it's meant to help you focus on the bigger things in life - joy, spirituality, love... instead of the trains and phone calls. I really enjoy this segment, and I often find these quotes rather enlightening.

I found the one that was read tonight particularly special.. and perhaps you will enjoy it as well.

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your hearts longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even if its not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from The presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the sliver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are and how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.


Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Indian Elder May 1994


Peace,

elliot

My Pet History

By this title, I do not mean that I have a pet named History, although, I think that would quite the clever appellation. I would like to write some about my personal history with regards to pet experiences. If you are wondering why this is important, or how I decided to address this matter, I can only say that finals have a way of making you think about anything else but the subject matter at hand.

I will begin with my first pet, "Mousey." Although he was stuffed, and had an issue with displaying emotions, I was closer to him than any other pets. Whereas some children cling to blankets, others to their thumbs, and still others to both simultaneously, I had a cloth diaper wearing, stuffed mouse. He was very cute as I am sure you could imagine.

Dating back to my pre-school years, I have a number of distinct memories of this friend of mine. I remember a play-date with a friend when we threw Mousey down a flight of stairs and had to perform major emergency surgery. Luckily he had a full recovery within minutes. I remember losing him a lot and feeling anxiety over his absence. It was my father's job to find him when this occurred. He still remembers this post.

Then one day came when I lost him, and he was no where to be find. (no, not even behind the couch - but I did find 38 cents and a tangy taffy) I felt awful.

Then one day, maybe some months later, I was in the Nanuet mall with my mom and we passed a Hallmark. There, sitting on a shelf with 11 identical clones, sat mousey and either his family or a troupe of impostors. I was excited and I asked my mom to buy it for me (I wasn't employed then). She said no.

My mom used to ask me why I don't understand the word "no. It wasn't that I didn't understand it. I did. I even used it regularly myself. I just never believed "No" had any permanence when tried more than three times tops. My mom couldn't say no to me. I was the youngest and a cute kid to boot. But time, for some reason, I didn't push it. We passed the hallmark window and continued to the Macy's woman's shoes section. ( I would play with the disposable nylon mini stockings. If you haven't tried it yet, you must.)

I think, as a five year old, I felt the feeling of readiness to move on. Interesting, how this quality is one that I still have trouble acting upon today. But it's certainly important. People can spend decades of their lives looking back, cognitively living at a different, usually negative time.

I still have good good memories of Mousey, but now I have bigger and better dolls. My roommate and I got a tremendous stuffed dog, Little Spoon. He's got tons of personality, and is housebroken.

Don't look back,

Elliot

Stay tuned for next pet post - Mellow Yellow, the acrobatic Parakeet.

Face Book Part 1

I plan to write a number of entries on the cultural phenomenon that is Facebook.com. Beyond the recreational and utilitarian aspects of the site, I find it to be sociologically and psychologically fascinating. I hope to discuss interesting matters about a site that is so heavily used, but, as I find, rarely spoken about.

This thought has to do with the long term effects that Facebook will produce. I was looking at a friend's page the other day, who happened to have been a member since 2005. As I was flipping through his photos, I was actually able to see feature development, style changes etc, I really saw him grow-up, and it got me thinking.

I don't believe Facebook is just a trend that will fizzle out within the next few years, I think it has staying power like Yahoo and Ebay. People are pretty loyal to the pages they have constructed, and the longer one uses it, the less inclined he or she will be to de-activate it. People get engaged, married, and have kids, and still use the social networking wonder site. People don't grow out of it, adults are using the site more and more.

So now, imagine what your Facebook page will look like in 20 years. Imagine being able to look at 20 years of photos of yourself and your friends and the incredibly detailed record you have of your life. Photo albums of old, would capture occasions and vacations, but Facebook photos are so casual, constant, and plentiful (for many).

Usually predictions about the future are pretty vague. Can you really imagine flying cars and robot friends? Will these inventions ever materialize? But I think it to be fascinating to try to picture what your Facebook page (assuming there are no major changes...like virtual reality flying internet)in 20 years. Perhaps we can even view Facebook as a yard stick of progress.

What do we WANT our pages to look like in 20 years? How many of our hundreds of friends will be meaningful relationships? What kind of person do we want our pictures to portray? Perhaps you can get a good sense of yourself, where you've been and where you are by analyzing your own Facebook profile.

My First Race

Yesterday, I ran my first race. It was a chilly Tuesday afternoon in Central Park. This race had no starting line, no finish line, no bib with my name and number, no medals - nothing; It was a race against the clock. The previous week, I had run with my first jogging partner, Shalom, who, although in very good shape couldn't maintain a running pace through six miles. He had not run in years, and the fact that we finished in 64 minutes was extremely impressive on his part. That is over a 10 minute pace (the average amount of time taken to complete a mile.) and 5.6 average MPH. It was a decent time for me: I still consider myself a beginner, but I was determined to complete the central park 6 mile loop in under 60 minutes.

I began at a reasonable pace. The motivational playlist I had made in the subway kept pushing me forward. I thought my time was on target.

But it's difficult to tell. I don't have the nike+ system yet, that gives you all the info you could possibly want, so I base my speed off other runners. When I see someone who is gaining on me I judge whether he/she is an expert, if so, I set a goal point where I will be when he passes me. When I see a slower runner up ahead, I pick up my speed and try to pass him. This method keeps me running at a competitive pace, and prevents my zoning out only to find myself slowly jogging for 20 minutes.

So, I was on my third mile and I see someone wearing all black sharply contrasted with his mousy gray hair. I was going up a hill around 110th street alongside of the mossy cavernous rocks. At that point I was feeling a little fatigued. He was running at a good pace. He knew what he was doing. He had a unique form - and spandex. I generally assume the tighter the spandex the better the runner. (I plan to purchase very tight spandex soon.) Every time he got within 10 feet, I began a short tempo run for 30 seconds, but after two of these I realized the energy bar I had eaten before the run had worn off.

So I decided to let him pass me. He makes it alongside of me, looks me in the eye. This 65 year old guy looks me in the eye with a devilish smirk and gives me a thumbs up which proclaimed, 'good job kid, but let the senior citizen show you how it's done.'

And then he was 10 feet ahead of me. And then the course sloped down-hill. And then I tap into the mental energy that takes over when your body tells you no more. And then I lean forward, almost tippng and begin to sprint down the hill, a jackrabbit would have been left in my dust, 15 seconds later I tear ahead.

I didn't even stop to return his thumbs up, no smile, nothing I wanted to be in front. But he was relentless. He picked up his pace and soon we were just even when I began to thrust myself forward and continued this for at least a minute. I thought I had him beat.

I remembered a time when I would mindfully not walk past old people because it may make them feel slow and old and in the way and the world is passing them by. I would walk slowly behind the elderly. I realized now I was running my heart out to pass the elderly. I laughed and sped up.

I looked back to see him getting smaller as he got farther. Then he turned into the park and out of sight. I thought he had given up, when in fact he decided to cheat. He made a couple of short cuts through the park. About a minute later, I see the same guy, now 30-40 feet ahead of me, looking back, smiling. I was around the low 80s and my end point was 59th street. If I was going to win, I would need to do it now and faster than I had been going at the climax of my run.

It was then "crazy" by Gnarles Barkley came blaring through my iPod earphones and I knew, even though my legs felt like they were on fire, I was gonna finish before this senior cheating citizen. There was no hill to run down. There was only the blood pumping through my heart telling me this is yours, only 3 more minutes and then your home, then you win.

And I did. I passed him. I finished the Central Park 6 mile loop in 55 minutes, 9:16 pace/6.55 avg. MPH.

I gulped the cup of cold milk I buy from the kiosk on Columbus circle, feeling the ecstatic runner's high that makes a cold-cloudy day in central park more beautiful then the oceans of Tahiti (never been, heard it's nice). On the subway back I realized there was really no competition between myself and the old (cheating) man. That was all in my mind. The real race was against my stop watch; a race against myself. I won.

In truth the race against yourself is the only race. My sister, Elana, says Life is a race, it is long, and in the end of the day you are only running against yourself.

Happy trails,

combo

Top Ten Things Not to Say at the Baddekin

#1 It seems your mascara is running. Your crying from happiness, right?... OK, good.

#2 Woah, you put on some weight this past week.

#3 You really should have went with that other gown.

$4 Your dads paying for this, right?

#5 Ahh, it's you... I was hoping for Cameron Diaz, hehe, get it? no?

#6 Uhhh, I sorta left the ring at Wallmart.

#7 That schmorg is really doing a number on my stomache.

#8 Good luck in all your future endeavors.

#9 I feel like I should let you know - I spent our gift money and savings on a Harley - but don't worry, they say it really retains its value.

#10 Wow, you look beautiful Rebbec.... errrr Sara. Sara, right?

Your Story

I told my friend a Rebbe Nachman story that I have always found so simple and profound. It's a story, I believe, if internalized can really bring one to a level of contentment which is the doorway to joy.

Rebbe Nachman was a very poor tailor. One day his wife, frustrated at their disposition , asked her husband why he was so unsuccessful."You are a tailor, and shloime down the block is a tailor. Yet, he is wealthy and we are so poor." Rebbe Nachman internalized the question and softly replied, "That's his story, and this is my story."

When you are tied down with expectations, assuming all who go down a particular path end up in the same place, you are bound to wind up frustrated. Comparing yourself to other's only robs you of your uniqueness, and won't allow you to ever be satisfied.

We all have our own stories. They are complex,mysterious, wondeful, painful, and everything in between. Embrace each page.

yc

Combo's 412th dream

I was at a posh, but eerie wedding in Israel. Security was very tight and rude, people were trying to get in and couldn't. I went down to the bar, which was also a pizza parlor and asked Douek, who happened to be both the pizza guy and the bar tender for a gin and tonic. He said sure and made me a gin and tonic pizza. I told hi that I actually wanted a gin and tonic drink, but I will still take the pizza. He said, OK, but his boss gave him a frustrated look. He mde the drink, and I returned to my seat with the gin and tonic pizza and drink.