It doesn’t have to be so hard…

I begin my day in the dark, waking long before dawn, leaving behind my dormitory bunk for a room called Shadowbrook at the Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health.

The sky is still dark an hour later when Shadowbrook fills with Let Your Yoga Dance teacher trainees who take their place on mats in front of me.

What am I doing here?
How am I the one on the dais?

At 6:30 am, we begin the practice of yoga, the last class before their graduation.  After centering, I guide them in a series of warming poses, at which point I look down to see that in my rush to get dressed in the dark, I grabbed the wrong top, and the one I’m wearing allows my cleavage to spill out each time I bend in front of them.

In a wild act of incompetence (unimaginable in my previous incarnations) I ask: Could someone tie these straps to my bra?

And with that, the spell is broken–the one between me and them–as two women jump up to restore my modesty, and I step down off the dais.

“Kelly,” someone calls from the back, her voice freed, “Would you turn off the lights? The sun is about to rise.” (Others nod their approval.)

I walk the length of the room to the back of Shadowbrook, turn the dial, and then return through the rows of mats toward the platform.

Just before I step up, I turn to share something that I’ve only just realized: I feel so much better down here with you.

The students smile and tell me that it will be fine if I teach from the floor, “We can see you.”

I exhale, relieved, and guide them through a series of strengthening poses before inviting these brave warriors onto their backs, into the 4th chakra, the sweet pause–the heart of the Let Your Yoga Dance classes–that soon they’ll be leading in their hometowns around the country and abroad.

I return to the platform and bring my knees to my chest, and we roll toward one another,
breathing deeply, in and out, in and out.

In the sweet pause of breath, I see in them a sea of babies,
“A room full of Let Your Yoga Dance Instructors,” I say,
Ready to be born.”

Like soft bubbles rising from the mats, I hear giggles,
which slowly, then rapidly, swell across the belly of Shadowbrook,
and pop into a chorus of joyous release, until no one can hear or cares to hear my directions.

There are still giggles as we lift our legs into the air,
Happy Baby, while the sun lifts over the mountain
birthing this new day.

The last spell to be broken is the invitation to leave behind the mat and come to the front of the room where we gather in a circle, arms around each other’s backs, Virabhadrasana III, Warrior III–flying toward our destiny–and as we take in each other’s gaze, it’s as if we are flying in the sky, together, in mutual bliss.

I can’t remember what came next, not the inversion or Savasana, because when the class ended, Pam came from the back of the room to tell me what she now knew (and what we all long to remember):

“It doesn’t have to be so hard.”

After the last of the students thanked me and went off  to breakfast, I returned to my room, and changed my shirt, and lay down on my bunk, and pulled the curtain around me, and teared up, in raw humility, for my perfect imperfection.

I had wanted to be so much more, but I can only be myself.

Isvara Pranidhana.


The heart of devotion


My life purpose journey brought me here. Though it took me months to place it. To name it.

The sensation seemed to occur whenever a student expressed her appreciation for how our time together touched her, particularly as she revealed gifts that I couldn’t have imagined or planned, let alone take credit for.

In response, an excruciating tenderness welled up inside of me, doused with so much humility that I found it almost unbearable.

I was back at Kripalu (the yoga center in Lenox, Massachusetts) when an understanding of this profound sensation began to take shape. I was among a large group of trainees as they were invited to come into a circle and speak their intentions for the week, allowing these to be expressed through the body as well.

It was my first time assisting at a training, but I took a turn too, and stepped inside…


My head bowed. My spine bent like a flower kissing the earth; and a word came forth that I hadn’t expected:


What did this mean?

To whom was I to be devoted?

To what?

I pondered this that week. I had a sense that serving at Kripalu had something to do with the understanding.

When I arrived back home, my exploration of devotion was buried by life, until I prepared to return again several weeks later for the second half of the training.

This time, I was relieved to hold none of the angst or anxiety that accompanied the unknowns of my first experience assisting, and yet my body didn’t seem to agree.

In the days leading up to my departure, blisters swelled at the corner of my mouth and at the end of the first evening, I had a full blown migraine, and it was still there when I woke before dawn the next morning, and was later accompanied by a large pimple on my chin and a welt on my cheek. Days later, I hurt my back in the simplest of yoga postures.

SOMETHING was going on…

10308250_461359630662896_569786176148467051_nBy the end of a vigorous week together, I was swept up in a current of sensation that left much of my mind behind. We gathered as a staff on the night before graduation and shared our appreciations for each other.

When it was my turn to acknowledge the instructor, I found myself without words or thoughts.

How was it possible that I had nothing to offer this woman whose work I had so long admired?

Megha Nancy Buttenheim, Founder: Let Your Yoga Dance
Megha Nancy Buttenheim,
Founder: Let Your Yoga Dance

I searched my mind and caught a glimpse of her earlier that day, sitting across from a student, in rapt attention, while the rest of us dashed off to lunch after the intense session of dance.

She looked like a child in that moment, and I recognized what I witnessed, and spoke this word in appreciation of her work:


The next morning, I stood beside a rose-petaled path that she had created on her hands and knees for the graduates. While she ushered them across the threshold of the room one last time, I silently greeted them along the way.

I felt so graced to bear witness to the enormity of this moment, and so honored to help steward the journey, that tears, typically frozen inside, flowed freely down my face.

When we took our seats and watched as the diplomas were bestowed, my delight was so great that I tasted pure joy.

As the ceremony ended, the graduates asked the staff to sit before them, and I was unprepared for what came next…

10309510_10152520651623746_3264191283948952743_n 2Music began to play and they formed a semi-circle in front of us, while others left the room and re-entered in a procession down the winding rose-petaled path, each bearing a basket in front of her heart.

When they arrived at the front of the room, they delivered a basket into each of our laps, bowing at our feet, and placing their hands there as the others called out appreciations for each one of us in stereophonic bliss.

My hands remained at my heart, unable to move, as tears of recognition washed my face.

Life Hack~7 Years of Dancing: from 43 to 50

7 years ago, I experienced a life-hack that led to the past 7 years of dancing–with hundreds of women (men & children) from Southern Vermont & beyond. I share it now as testimony to risk and vulnerability and community and remembrance:

Me at 8
Me, before I forgot

Spring 2007

This spring my career path was seriously derailed when I found myself training to become a dance teacher.

This is absurd for so many reasons–not the least of which is that I’m 43 and that my genetic package includes gravity defying hamstrings.

Then there’s the family history of being yanked out of ballet class at age 5; and the elementary school performances where it took weeks to learn what others learned in moments; or the highschool musicals, where I was the one who could be seen “counting” out my steps.

What gives?

Well, about a year ago, facing growing children and a deepening drift between myself and my previous incarnation as an elementary teacher, I embarked on a full-scale career search.

Determined to find a new avenue of self-expression and contribution, I read a host of great books on the subject of passion and purpose, taking all kinds of personality tests, and really getting a handle on what makes me tick; But unfortunately never finding a “job” that matched that beat.

In one last act of desperation (and courage), I took a position in the world of business–of strategic plans and bottom lines, hoping to force new growth, if nothing else.

How then did I end up at Kripalu Yoga Center in Lenox this April studying something called DansKinetics? I’ve asked myself that same question, regularly, with some choice expletives, especially as I return to “dance boot camp” this month to complete my certification.

All I can say is that I love to move to music. I always have. I just forgot. And at my age, there aren’t enough parties or weddings to go around (and forget bars, they aren’t the best match for the married, financially challenged, and easily hungover.)

The other part is that Kripalu DansKinetics (KDK), despite its complicated name (they’ve since renamed it), is really quite simple, designed for everyBODY, offering an incredible workout that’s fun and easy and most importantly: healing.

My class of teacher trainees range in age from 20 to 60, and they come from all walks of life, hailing as far away as Italy, Japan, and even Wisconsin!

So here I am, “career-less-ly”, offering dance classes to those of us who aren’t “dancers”–just because I’m pretty sure we ALL like to move to music, we just forgot.

Come re-member with me!

(More about YogaDance.)

Get behind me, Satan

What we call the beginning is often the end.

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

The end is where we start from.

T. S. Eliot


My family of origin–made up of Fundamentalists and New-Agers and lapsed Catholics–is my own laboratory of world peace. If we can speak to each other, if we can understand each other, if we can find common ground, then there’s hope for the world.

Back in 2004, I went to live with my sister in Florida while my husband finished building our house in Vermont.  During my time Down South, I picked up some Christian speak from my family and from the church bill boards that lined the roads on the way to the mall. “If God is your co-pilot, swap seats.” That was one of my favorites. Another favorite was an everyday exclamation from the people there,  “Thank the Lord. ” But the one that intrigued me the most seemed to be reserved for special occasions:

“Get behind me, Satan.”

This one tickles me still. I’ve always been concerned about the religious focus on good versus evil; so I was delighted to hear “The Devil” addressed with such levity.

In the years after I left Florida, I kept my finger on the pulse of some of the Christian world, not only to stay connected with my family, but also because (for a long while) the Fundamentalists were the only ones on main stream media talking about matters of spirit. So from time to time, I’d turn on the radio and take in a segment from Focus on the Family with James Dobson.  It’s not that I agreed with everything he said, but there was always something to glean, especially if you knew how to translate Christian speak into your own words.

Over the years, my sister and I learned to do that for each other.  She’d say “Universe” for me, and I’d plug in “Jesus” for her. We found that we could hear each other better that way, and love each other better too.

Recently she turned me on to a new ministry called Ransomed Heart. I loved the name, and she knew our voices would resonate.  Though we didn’t talk about matters from the same place, we were often exploring the same themes–living from a place of authenticity and alignment with truth.

Whenever I find truth aligned among strange bedfellows, I get fired up; like yesterday during the National Prayer Service. I cried listening to the interfaith leaders speak (Jew, Muslim, Quaker, Baptist) each, in their own way, on behalf of gun control, on the one-week anniversary of the awful massacre at Sandy Hook.

Like countless others, I’ve spent the time since then railing against the view that guns aren’t central to the violence in this Nation.  It’s not that I don’t eschew violence or understand it as fundamental to the issues we face, but as any wise parent or teacher knows, you take the rock out of the child’s hand before you discuss why he wanted to throw it.

But what is straightforward to the rest of the world is terribly complex to the U.S.  Our ability to see is confused by fear, entitlement, tradition and authority. This country needs to lie down on the couch of a good therapist.

After reading a sleuth of “secular” posts on the killings in Connecticut, I turned toward the religious, hoping to be inspired by what John Elredge of Ransom Heart Ministries had to offer; but when he opened with a paragraph likening gun control to a child’s suggestion of removing trees to stop the wind, I was appalled. It got worse.  He wasn’t protecting guns out of fear or allegiance; he was dismissing them, as besides the point:

We seem utterly devoted to avoiding the question of evil, to misdiagnosing it, completely committed to a childish view of the world. And our foolishness is proving very costly… “The great human heresy is that the trees move the wind.” …heresy that it is economics, race, poverty, a political party or doctrine that are the real causes of evil in the world; in this case, that it is the lack of gun control that causes evil in the world. Is the evil therefore located in the gun? Far more people are killed by automobile accidents each year in the U.S.—is the evil located in those vehicles?

His follow up post was even more alarming:

 I want to encourage and equip you to be praying Life over your households. Some sort of death assignment and/or spirit has been released, and we need to bring the power of the resurrection of Jesus Christ against it.

When I later read what Dr. Dobson of Focus on the Family had to say about Newtown, I was numb with disbelief:

We have turned our back on the scripture and on God almighty and I think he has allowed judgment to fall upon us.

Now before anyone goes and assigns the above views to all Christians, keep in mind that there are as many differences among Christians, even among Fundamentalists, as there are differences everywhere. But this is not to say that those who view the world in terms of good and evil don’t alarm me. I’ve seen the harm this view can do, and the wrong it can justify, or worse–ignore.

I once made the argument to my sister that one of the fundamental differences between our belief systems was that she was waiting for the world to end (to crash and burn, let’s say); while I was waiting for it to begin (to awaken and heal.) My sense was that her view led her to accept what was happening in the world and respond compassionately to relieve the expected suffering; while my view called me to imagine and create something more humane.

Do you think they’re one and the same?

Kelly Salasin, December 22, 2012

Conscious Incompetence

2012 is evidently the year for consciousness. At least for me. About my own incompetencies.

In the past 6 months, I have been informed of my incompetency as: a daughter, a sister, a community member, a group member, a friend, a blogger, a facilitator, a bread-winner, an appointment keeper… and the list goes on.

In this 2012 deluge of “wrongness,” my ego feels riddled with buckshot; and yet despite limping with self-doubt, I sense an emerging litheness.

New frontiers–beyond perfection–beckon on the horizon; while the onslaught of criticism cripples any thought of turning back in defense.

And yet, what I discovered on the path to the Wild West of Self, was more reckoning. Only this time, I was doing the shooting–coming face to face with my own annoying personality traits.

I won’t bore you with descriptions. I can’t bear them myself.

I will tell you that I wanted to crawl into a ball of despair, or a bowl of chocolate, or even better–a box of hard work.

Ah. Work. The great distraction.

It’s been 17 years (the age of my first born) since I relinquished the full-time weight of that mask.

Staying home with the kids forced me into greater relationship–with self; and together we created a warrior of awareness–and love.

This past weekend, I was reminded of how these two qualities rely on each other.  How awareness without love leaves us hard and vulnerable to breaking; and how heart without clarity leaves us floundering, without purpose.

This study comes as part of a yoga teacher training in which I have embarked. Each month, a dozen of us gather for a weekend of collective consciousness: the more we learn, the more we realize just how much there is to learn; and this awareness threatens to devour us.

Our teacher explains that we have moved from unconscious incompetence to conscious incompetence. This is the path of becoming, he assures us, relating his own fragile journey.

He tells us that we will gradually move into conscious competency; but of this we are frightened too.  We feel clumsy and self-conscious with these new skills, we complain.

He soothes us by sharing that this new self-consciousness will eventually unfold into unconscious competency; and finally our fluttering hearts settle. For now.

For some, the weekend of yoga and study comes as a welcome retreat, but at this half-year mark, I feel exposed. The quieting of my mind in meditation has left bare my own imperfections.

This is so painful that I desperately want to hide, but unconsciousness no longer fits.

Once home, I try ice cream and Facebook and family, but I climb into bed unsatisfied. I decide that I simply must jump into work first thing in the morning even though I wasn’t scheduled to go in until Tuesday.

My 17 year-old stops in to say goodnight and decides that tonight is the night to open up to all the ways he has felt overwhelmed, and corrected, and confined–by his mother.

If I wasn’t so tired, I would laugh at the way 2012 pursues me.

In the morning, I remain in bed. My husband brings me tea, and I sit up and make a list of all my faults, one by one.

I hold my hand so that I don’t run away.

I remind myself that these expressions were honestly earned by a lifetime of sometimes cruel imbalance.

With compassionate awareness, I accept my imperfect self, while at the same time I commit to building competency:

I want to listen more.

I want to refrain from interrupting.

I want to continue to appreciate my enthusiasm and insight while allowing more space for others to enjoy their own.

Kelly Salasin, June 2012

the DARK in me…

One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.

—Carl Jung

I’ve been expecting this post ever since I first discovered–hate–living inside–of me.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, posts like these arrived:  I Hate You, and  The Things I Hate.

And then, after I used a photograph from my latest post: The Toilet Bowl, as my Facebook profile, and received profoundly disturbed comments from friends, I knew that I was on to something bigger.

I just didn’t know if I could deliver.

But I’ll try. Here. With you:

…Years ago, when I first discovered yoga, it gave me the biggest, blushing high; but later, it was more hit and miss–sometimes releasing inexplicable anger instead of joy. I blamed it on my damn neck. It had always been so tight.

But now I realize that it wasn’t my neck’s fault that yoga made me mad. My neck was simply releasing that which had been stored inside it for so long:

Unexpressed venom.

In my life; in my conception of myself in my life, there wasn’t room for ugliness…. so I stuffed it in or covered it up with something else.

All these years later, I’m much more aware of and accepting of my feelings (a wise therapist helps), but there are still some “unbiddens of old” lurking in the shadows. I mask them with anxiety or numbness, and if they still creep out, I label them as bad or wrong, even though I only strengthen them in doing so.

In that first yoga session, twenty years ago, I awkwardly practiced the classic Sanskrit closing: Namaste.  At the end of each class, we yogis turned toward one another and toward our teacher–bringing our hands to our hearts–bowing lovingly with a word that meant: The light in me greets the light in you.

How nice to live in the light!  How nice to be above all those who don’t.

There was once class, however, when my teacher did not end with Namaste, but instead added something else, translated as, The darkness in me greets the darkness in you.

This sounded like something from Star Wars; and I didn’t get it; though all these years later, it means so much to me.

Though I’ve never been able to track down that Sanskrit expression about the dark, I’ve discovered a fuller meaning for Namaste.

More than “light,” Namaste addresses the “spirit” or the “oneness” in each other.

When we honor that Oneness, no doubt we must include both the dark and the light.

And so, it is, that I greet the darkness in myself–again–and in doing so pay homage to your own darkness, in the hope that we can each see our own shit, and love it into consciousness.

Kelly Salasin, April 12, 2012

The Price of Blogging

Me at 8

I don’t make any money at blogging, but it’s cost me a lot. Several months ago, an old flame requested that I remove a post. When I refused, albeit compassionately, he ended our connection.

Now it’s my father’s turn.

I shouldn’t be surprised. It was only a matter of time before he joined others who visit my blogs each month.

…Though it did take him three years.

…And there have been countless phone calls, gifts, letters and emails sent directly to him that were evidently unseen, unheard or at least never acknowledged.

Apparently “a friend” sat him down to show him my words, the ones specifically about him.

I scan my brain.
What have I written that includes my father?

There’s the piece about the divorce. (Yep, that would be hard.)

Then there’s the one from childhood. (That one is kind of nice.)

There’s the poem about spanking. (That would be rough.)

Nothing else comes to mind, but then again, I’ve published over a thousand pieces in the past few years so I open my laptop and Google:

Kelly Salasin, father

And I’m surprised to see how little there is.

Just then, my teenager enters the room, and so I ask him:

10507997_607276816053570_297492840_n“Do you think I should just remove all the post that reference my dad?”

(If anyone knows the burden of being related to a blogger, it’s a sixteen year old.)

“No,” he says, and then adds in my defense: “They belong to you; they’re about your life.”

Still, I feel bad. I know it’s a challenge to have a memoirist in the family.  And what will happen when my book comes out? My father may  never speak to me again; though it might be hard to tell because he talks to me so little anyway. I guess I should be satisfied that I have garnished some of his attention… that he’s actually reading my work; hearing how I experienced my childhood; even feeling it.

The Star, Aquarius, Tarot art by Thalia Took

That’s a good thing, right?

Why does it feel so bad?

Why do I sit in bed, late into the night, staring out at the stars, feeling orphaned–again?

“I wish Mom was here,” I say, but then I retract it. She’d be reading my writing too. There’s an entire blog  inspired in the wake of her untimely death.

I guess I could have waited until my dad died to write anything that included him; that way he wouldn’t have to experience what he calls: my  daggers.

But they’re not meant to be daggers, they’re meant to be warning signs for others: Don’t spank your children. Don’t forget about them in the middle of a divorce. Don’t abandon them when you have a new family. Don’t think that your 30 or 40 or even 50 year old daughter doesn’t need her father. Doesn’t want him. Doesn’t love him even though he has hurt her.

As a lifelong advocate for children, I feel it my duty to speak up. In fact, I’ve been like this since I was a child. Some of the biggest fights I had with my father were over my sisters; and before that, speaking up for myself:

“That isn’t fair,” I’d say, and he’d banish me to my room.

“Why…” I’d say, and he’d leave me in the car while the rest of the family went sightseeing.

“I’m too old to be told to go to bed,” I’d say, and he’d threaten me with his size. (I was 18.)

The truth is that he was the one who taught me to speak up. To be candid. To be bold. To be forthright.

“If she thought she lost her father at 19, just wait…

This is the most excruciating thing that he said about my writing.
This is what pings in my heart.
And this is what reveals the most… about me.

It’s taken the loss of my father’s love, the awful threat of that loss–again–to make me realize what my life is all about; and silence is a price I won’t pay for anyone’s love.

Kelly Salasin, January 2012

ps. Though not a week goes by without the blessing of a reader’s appreciation, I sincerely offer this to those my words have hurt:

If I have harmed you in any way, knowingly or unknowingly, please forgive me.

If you have harmed me in any way, knowingly or unknowingly, I forgive you.

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May you be healthy.


May you live with ease.

(the Loving-Kindness Meditation)