When I took the Myers-Briggs at 25, and it told me I was an introvert, I thought I had done something wrong on the test. All my life I had been labeled as an extrovert. I called some friends, and 90% of them agreed - it was a mistake. I'd loved theater, and had enjoyed all my public speaking classes in college. There was no way, plus, I didn't want to be an introvert!!!

However, one very close and wise friend, agreed with Myers-Briggs. We discussed it for weeks over coffee, and over time I became more open-minded to the idea. A year later, accepting that part of myself, has brought a lot of peace. What I often genuinely want and need, makes more sense now, and I am more likely to not go against it.

“Introversion is a basic temperament, so the social aspect -- which is what people focus on -- is really a small part of being an introvert," - Dr. Marti Olsen Laney, psychotherapist and author of "The Introvert Advantage.

Naturally, I got a kick out of finding this article and wanted to share.

23 Signs You're Secretly An Introvert

August 13th, 12:42am. Distractions.

In the starkness of the night, on the last train home tonight, it hit me. All the history, all the bad blood, all the smeared mascara in the world cannot undo kindness.

What you thought was this heart going to war, was in fact, a masterpiece. Unwittingly, he built what could not be undone; a red scarf for all those raging bulls.

What you thought was damaged, in fact, still works. He kept it safe, put away. Oiled and smooth, like it's still 16. It can skip a beat. It can loose its breath. It doesn't think, it feels. It stutters. It gets shy. There is no cynicism, there is no thick fog, or fear. It just sat there all those years, protected, at peace, loving you.

Without a doubt, loving you.

I still don't have a mat.

Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, very far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answers."

Rainer Maria Rilke

I still don't have a mat, and although I have been practicing in the most beautiful places, I am beginning to feel disconnected. Today I am severely missing my yoga community, my yoga friends, my yoga teachers, and the beautiful designated asana and meditation spaces that I was blessed enough to practice in.

The sand by the sea, and the dewy grass in my friend's and grandparent's back yard has served as my mat thus far. As one would expect, it was invigorating at first - the smell of the water, the grass, the wind in my hair. Now some of these elements are beginning to feel less glamorous and more like annoyances, and at times, distractions. My hands constantly sink into the sand, and I wonder if it's any good for my wrists. I slip in the dewy grass, and I perpetually fidget and adjust myself. Even the postures that usually bring immense stillness to my body, like Adho Mukha Svanasana, lack focus. Not to mention that every time I practice outside, I always come home looking like I just fought a wolf.

I've looked up classes in the city, Riga. The most popular studio is actually owned by a family friend, but it is a Bikram studio, and I would prefer to practice traditional hatha/vinyasa style. However, I have considered reaching out to him and checking it out - who knows - maybe it would be different than my experiences in California. From what I hear, this studio has wood floors and not carpet and that in itself is a huge plus. At this point, I have to stay somewhat open minded.

All the other studios I found only offer about one or two classes a day (or retreats), and it is hard to tell what type of classes they are. Basically, there's just not a whole lot of yoga happening in my country. I am hope that when I go to Copenhagen in a week to see my little brother and dad, that I am able to quickly find a studio there and take as many classes as possible. I imagine CPH's yoga community is just as developed as Stockholm's, where I took some awesome classes a few years back. I am looking forward to that.

Meanwhile, I have decided that I need a mat. I just can't do it anymore. Yoga without guidance, without the community, is challenging enough. I need a bloody mat. My childhood friend, who I am staying with, manages a sporting goods store, and she said I could come in and check out some of the mats that they carry. I am planning to take the train to the city tomorrow to visit her location. They don't have any brands that I am familiar with, but I am sure I can find something to suit me.

Meanwhile, I am just going to try and enjoy the nature. I know that the bumps I am experiencing is the work I need to be doing, and I trying my very best. I just recently read a quote that really resonated with me by my favorite author/writer Maya Angelou. Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better; do better.  

Anyways, here are some photos from a 3 day river trip that I went on with Lionda's family, plus some other places that I captured while running or hiking that have brought me energy, and inspiration. Until next time.

Yoga by the Baltic Sea.

Yesterday morning Lionda and I put on our running shoes and ventured through her home town Vaivari. Vaivari is a residential neighborhood of the city Jūrmala, a popular resort town with a 33km white-sand beach. It has long been a tourist attraction in Latvia, and while running, Lionda makes a light joke about having grown up in Latvia's version of Newport Beach, an affluent city in Orange County. And we laugh.

Other than being a tourist hot spot and nuzzled close to a beautiful shore, the two cities have absolutely nothing in common. Jūrmala's neighborhood is old, wrinkly, and sprinkled with romantic wooden houses in the Art Nouveau style. Aside from the few modern homes that have been built over the last few years, it sits humbly on its thrown. Its essence is benevolent and simple.

We keep a steady pace all the way to the shore line, where the smell of the Baltic Sea and the softness of the white sand turns us into 12 year old girls. And that's where we decide to practice.

The Lost Decree

I am drinking hot coffee. Not out of necessity, but for the thrill and indulgence of it all. 

It's not spilling out of the small sipping hole of my usual recyclable Peet's Coffee cup. It's in a ceramic mug, home brewed, and steady in both hands. I sit. We have time. We have an abundance of time. So I sip slowly. I sip, and stare into the lucid brownness, wondering what day I should catch the bus to see my grandparents. I am home. I am in Latvia.

It's been three years. Well, it's been over three years, but I prefer to round down. Up until now, I've tried to not over think it, over analyze it - the distance, the time, the gaps. Gaps large enough to change people. Gaps large enough to to fall through and scar, like bungalow floors. I wonder if the hand will fit the glove. If I still fit. Or if it will hurt. Three years. It's never been this long, and it's never been like this. I've always had a ticket back.

I sip. It's my first morning here. I slept well, but my body is bloody mad, as I am severely jet lagged. I sip and think. I don't have to go to work. I don't have a class to teach, or somewhere to be, or someone to meet, or errands to run. I don't even have a car to run errands in. In fact, there is no car anymore. My phone sits quietly. I canceled my plan, and mostly use it to take photos. I sip and look at my photos. I don't have plans for tomorrow. I am unsure about what I am doing next week. The truth is, I don't know what I will be doing in six months or next year, for that matter.

Intellectually, I am fairly used to and comfortable with this concept, this unknowing. I have answered the question many times: what are you going to do? Over the last few months, I have had time to become quite familiar with the sound formation of these three words. I've practiced. I've said them many many times. To others and to myself. When I am in my natural state, in my truth, the questions nor these words rattle me. However, I am not always in this beautiful space.

I 
don't 
know.

Are you going to be back. I don't know. For how long? I don't know. How do you feel? I don't know. Are you worried? I don't know. Lately, it's my answer to the majority of questions the of majority people ask me. Half of them don't really care but I've peaked their curiosity, half of them have no business, (or as I love to say -- bidness) caring, and the ones between the cracks, the ones that do care, the ones that have a right to care, well, I hope they love and understand. Maybe even they know something I do not.

It's my first time without a home studio. It's the first time I can't run off to my favorite class when I feel like the floor is falling from underneath me. I don't even have a yoga mat anymore. The old Jade was stained and worn with hours of feet and hands, vinyasas, and tears. I left her behind at my parents house - partially hoping that one day my mother will miraculously use it. I don't have a mat anymore. There are time when this thought fills me with panic. I don't even have a mat.

And so it begins. The lost decree. Yoga without a mat, yoga without a studio.

Change; the only constant.

 

This week I have been saying goodbye to many of my students and studios. Today, while announcing my leave and introducing the new instructor at Yoga Shakti, I unexpectedly broke out in tears. I have deep ties to many of my students at this particular studio, still I did not expect to feel so deeply. My emotions rattled me.

For a moment, I almost felt embarrassed. What was happening to me? It came on so sudden. I felt powerless. But when I looked up (yes, my face was buried in my palms) I found my students looking at me with compassion and understanding - some of them teary-eyed as well. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that these yogis have put their trust in me for years -- breathing, laughing, falling, getting back up, and yes, at times, crying -- in a space that I held for them. Now was a time for me to trust and allow myself to be held, too. 

It is okay to feel vulnerable.  

All different, all beautiful.