Monthly Archives: August 2012

A State of Hypocrisy – A Rant Session

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Recently I was on a flight from Seattle to San Diego.  I rarely board an airplane early (typically preferring to board last).  However, for some odd reason (and I forget why) I found myself to be one of the first people on board.  I took my window seat, fished out my book and relaxed during the boarding process.

Not long afterward a woman sat down in the aisle seat across from me.  She didn’t smile, didn’t move out of the aisle while taking her magazine and water out of her bag and when the person behind her said, “excuse me” so as to pass her, she ignored him, rolled her eyes a bit and at her own pace put her duffel bag overhead.  She also placed her yoga mat overhead.  I began watching her.  She wore a tee shirt that said YOGA on it and the magazine she was reading was International Yoga.  She must’ve sensed her being watched and when she looked over to me I simply smiled back at her.  She didn’t return the smile and instead turned her attention to her magazine.

The plane began to fill.  The flight attendant on board then approached the woman and politely asked if she would consider moving a few seats back so that a family could possibly sit together.  The woman/yogi respond with a curt, “No.  I paid for this specific seat.  Find someone else.”  The flight attendant, without responding to her rudeness moved on to the next row (where the people graciously agreed to switch seats for the family.)  I closed my eyes and shook my head to myself – sad.

I wondered how a woman who so blatantly advertised to the world that she is a yogi could be so callous and rude to everyone around her.  Her hypocrisy really bothered me.  I once knew a man who wore either a Caduceus (wasn’t Mercury a protector?) or a Shiva pendant around his neck every day, had a collection of spiritual figurines in his home and was well versed in the yoga sutras and philosophy.  However that same man, when asked by an old man to help him move his car on the street of Rome, ignored the man and walked away; refusing to help a senior citizen. Although his Caduceus dangled around his neck he held little compassion in his heart.  The man I was with wasn’t a bad man altogether, he had just become so conditioned to say no to those on the street, asking for help.  And who else was the old gent going to ask for help in protecting his car then someone advertising their spirituality?  We all come across rude and unhappy people on an almost daily basis; and personally I am rarely put off by them: but, when someone announces to the world that they are a Yogi, a Christian, a Buddhist, a Taoist, a fill-in-the-blank-here….and then behaves as such a hypocrite – I want to cry.

How many times have I seen people advertising their faiths with tee shirts, crosses around their necks, WWJD bands, OM pendants, Mandala beads, spiritual tattoos, Shiva bracelets and such, only to watch them put down, strike out and otherwise ignore the humanity around them?  Why is it that there is a need to market our beliefs anyway?  And, if we choose to market them shouldn’t we hold ourselves to a certain standard towards our own social graces.  Perhaps we have simply been taught false advertising.  Even when it comes to advertising our beliefs and core values.

In no way am I stating that I have not been hypocritical in my life.  I most certainly have.  There were times that I have asked of those around me something I was incapable of giving back to them and so on.  At one time I called myself a vegetarian and continued to eat fish; a hypocritical act.  However, although I have been hypocritical myself, I have never once announced to the world that I practice yoga, believe in the serenity of Buddhism and so on, only to then denigrate those I had held myself to a higher standard to.  Also, I have always shied away from advertising my beliefs for some reason.  I’ve always felt that words never go so far as deeds I guess.

Maybe we are all just looking for something to belong to.  Perhaps we hope that one day we can live up to the standards we advertise with our words, wear on our shirts, our necks, our arms and our hands.  But in the meantime….is it so hard to just give up our seat to a family…or help an old man move his car??…

Oh Hands of Mine

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“Ignorant men don’t know what good they hold in their hands until they’ve flung it away.”
-Sophocles

Last night I was at a restaurant with a few new friends and while the conversation was moving from one subject to the next I found myself thinking about hands of all things.  One of the couples I was with had a little girl around two years old.  She really was beautiful;  with a sweet disposition, perfect olive skin, brown hair and pretty brown eyes – and the cutest little hands in the entire busy restaurant.  When the waitress came to take our orders the little girl, Josie, was entranced by her hands.  The waitress, Wendy, had long fake fingernails all painted different bright colors and a tattoo of some sort on her left hand.  I watched Josie watch Wendy’s hands.

Wendy’s hands were quite feminine and her fingers (minus the long nails) seemed to be as long as her forearms.  My own hands are rather earthy and not particularly feminine.  I keep my nails on the short side and wear only nude nail polish.  I frequently have charcoal or ink staining my fingers and my tendons seem as though they want to sit on top of my skin, rather than underneath.  While they are certainly not my most feminine quality they relay the information my eyes – the mirror of the soul – needs relating.

I’ve long had a fascination with hands.  Everyone has been asked the question in their life of, “What is the first thing you notice on a person?”  I’ve always noticed hands first; then eyes and so on.  If the eyes show a person’s soul, their hands relate the information their soul holds.  Hands hold the key to expression of sorts and can transfer information in a way that the voice can’t.  They can create and destroy most anything (even things you cannot see, like feelings.)  And likewise they hold compassion, love, hate, anger and even memories inside of them.

I remember going to visit a convalescent home with my daughter many years ago when she was a little girl (she’s now a woman.)  Her dance school was performing a Christmas show for the senior citizens.  Afterward, the little girls would go around and give out special Christmas treats to the residents watching the show.  Every senior citizen would reach out and touch the hands of the girls when receiving their gifts.  The girls, unbeknownst to them, were showering the residents of the home with love and compassion just by taking their hands – by touching them.  I stood by and watched as my daughter and the other girls brought touch to some twenty or so lives that day.  Some of which may not have been touched again for weeks on end.

As a yoga teacher, practicing and teaching Ashtanga yoga, I have literally touched hundred and hundreds of bodies and have gotten different responses to each and every one of them.  Some would soften at touch, while others stiffened, clearly uncomfortable being touched at all.  I became somewhat of an expert in reading muscles and reactions to touch.  I came to the conclusion that although some people don’t like to be touched, there is a certain amount of comfort in just knowing that you have been touched compassionately; that someone has transferred their information to you via their hands and without words….if that makes any sense at all….

I myself need human touch and am quite touchy feely when comfortable with someone.  In fact, having been single for quite some time now, I’ll say that the thing I miss most about having a romantic partner in my life is the simple act of holding hands.  I miss that – hand holding.

It’s a powerful thing we have in our hands, no?

“Once I knew only darkness and stillness… my life was without past or future… but a little word from the fingers of another fell into my hand that clutched at emptiness, and my heart leaped to the rapture of living.”
- Helen Keller

Jennifer Allison Hands, Elizabeth McElveen Photography

“The Slow Arrow of Beauty”

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Beautiful Illusion – Jennifer Allison, charcoal and pencil

“The slow arrow of beauty. The most noble kind of beauty is that which does not carry us away suddenly, whose attacks are not violent or intoxicating (this kind easily awakens disgust), but rather the kind of beauty which infiltrates slowly, which we carry along with us almost unnoticed, and meet up with again in dreams; finally, after it has for a long time lain modestly in our heart, it takes complete possession of us, filling our eyes with tears, our hearts with longing. What do we long for when we see beauty? To be beautiful. We think much happiness must be connected with it. But that is an error.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

“Lacta Alea Est” – Jennifer Allison with Julius Caesar


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A brief history of sorts — After my brother’s tragic death roughly eight years ago, my body was a mess, although on the outside it  appeared perfectly fine.  A friend had referred me to a homeopathic doctor in British Columbia for my spleen pain and general anxiety.  My mother and I went together, each having made an appointment months ahead of time.  After a thorough examination and a short session of acupuncture she sat me down to talk.  It wasn’t what I had expected at all.  She was a tall, pointy woman who spoke proper English in a thick German accent and after prescribing a series of homeopathic tinctures to help me, calmly added this, “One day you will need to cry.  Not for just your brother but for all the sorrow and secrets you hold inside of your spleen.  You will want to be alone when it happens, so if your children are home then send them away.  First you will feel it in your toes and then it will move up your body as if you were violently ill.”  I sat staring at her, dumbfounded.  I came for therapy, to help with physical issues and essentially she told me I needed to cry.  I had never been a crier before, instead opting to hold it in until nauseated.  

But I have cried,” I told her.  “No, you haven’t” was her answer.  “I cried at the funeral, and even before the funeral.” I argued.  I then asked her when this “crying session” was supposed to happen and she shook her head and said, “I don’t know.”  At the time, I was angry with her.  Angry she didn’t have more answers.  Angry that she gave me what felt like a pending doom session and couldn’t tell me when the doom would occur.  Her last words to me before ending my appointment were, “This is not a simple cry Jennifer, it represents something more, and only after you do it can you be healthy.”  I walked out of her office and sat in the sterile waiting room, completely confused while my mother had her visit.  When she  had finished she came out of the exam room smiling and I asked if she had had any mental counseling as well. She told me she hadn’t, but needed to take more vitamin B or something.  We left and I never made another appointment with her again although from that point on, on the occasion I would cry, I’d think to myself, “This must be it.”  

——————————-
The die is cast – In 49 BC, Julius Caesar, while leading his legions, crossed the Rubicon river and uttered the phrase, “Lacta alea est.”

A few weeks ago, after receiving a copy of one of my drawings, my father sent me a message.  It read, “Jennifer Allison, I do believe you have crossed the Rubicon.”  I had heard of the Rubicon River a few years prior while watching a documentary on Rome, however never thought much of its significance – until my father reminded me, in just a few words, of my metaphorical likeness to Caesar.

What do I, a forty-year old woman, have in common with Julius Caesar anyway?  I don’t claim to be an expert in Roman history or history in general, and likewise, I am certainly no expert in the art of war.  I am, however, like Caesar, schooled; an expert if you will in the art of defiance.

I wasn’t an easy child to raise.  I’ve been somewhat defiant my entire life.  A defiant daughter:  A defiant partner and lover:  A defiant mother.  A defiant woman.   Like Caesar leading his troops across the Rubicon into what would result in a civil war I have led myself (usually at a run,) many times over into the river of defiance.  But unlike Caesar, I would never fully cross and instead chose only to stay in the shallow side of the river and ultimately, feeling alone and frightened, I’d return to the safety of the river’s edge; of the known – head down, eyes averted, rallying my Self to try to cross the river once again but never casting the die fully – until recently.

My wading into the river – finally to cross – was in itself an act of defiance I suppose.  I hadn’t expected it to be alone though.  I was deeply in love with a man whom I thought would eventually hold my hand and lead me across the river.  What I found, however, is that the Universe gives each of us our own rivers to cross – alone.  And although it’s a frightening, sometimes dark path; it can’t be shared with anyone else.  It’s not meant to be.  Which I assume is why so many of us choose to forgo the crossing; the casting.  So as he and I began to wade in the waters of depth to cast our dies together, he panicked, pulled me back to shore, let go of my hand and walked away to something and someone safe and known.  I begged for his help, but he wouldn’t look back.

For months after I stayed on that metaphorical shore if you will…and cried – hard.  Harder than I ever have in my entire life as a matter of fact.  So much so that indeed I felt violently ill.  I couldn’t pinpoint the exact causes of my sorrow as they all seemed to meld together and oozed out of every pore of my body.  There were days I wondered if I’d ever recover.  I longed for the known; the pattern I had created in my life and the ideal of stopping that pattern, that known, left me lost. But like Caesar, there was no going back once I waded into the river at my slow and steady pace.

About that time, while having a routine annual exam my doctor noticed my puffy eyes and obvious weight loss and asked if I wanted a daily pill to help me “get through” my depression.  I declined, instead telling her, “I think I need to sit and feel it all.”  She didn’t quite understand what I meant and wrote the prescription anyway.  On the way to my car I ripped it up and tossed it in the garbage; an act of defiance.

I wish I could say that “Just like that, I was fixed.”  But it’s not “just like that”.  There was no one ground breaking emotional epiphany that had me all of the sudden run across the river and never look back.  The truth is… I always look back.  I still ache, still question myself, and still somewhat long for what could have been; but there’s something different in my aching now.  The only way to describe it would be – acceptance.  I have accepted the past and no longer try to fix, change or question it.  When I feel sad, I let myself feel sad, and likewise, when I find joy and laughter, I let myself relish in joy and laughter.  I no longer harbor such immense sadness and in fact, owe a great deal of gratitude to the one who left me on the shore.  It was unfair of me to look to him to lead me across the river and had it not been for his torment and abandonment, I would have continued to look towards other people to help heal the sorrow I held on to so tightly – Never really willing to cast my own die, cross my own Rubicon.

Although we both have crossed a significant river, Caesar led his troops to war while I have, in fact, led myself rather slowly away from the war within me, choosing to be healthy instead and never going back to the old shoreline; old patterns…

Lacta Alea Est

A Poem by Stanley Kunitz

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The Layers
by Stanley Kunitz

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

Honolulu, Hawaii and Men with Balls

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I met a man on the beach – juggling.  I stopped my walk and watched for a moment.  After noticing me, he turned and gave me a private show and when he had finished, I complimented him on his skills and turned to leave.  Before I could take my first step the man began a conversation.  The man; the juggler, simply wanted to tell someone his story .  I was that someone and he had my utter attention.  He didn’t introduce himself, nor shake my hand.  Instead, he humbly thanked me for my compliment, explaining that Hawaii had many amazing jugglers and he was certainly not one of them (He was juggling six balls without flinching mind you.) I politely disagreed with him and told him he shouldn’t knock his skills.  He ignored my comment.

The man; the juggler, told me that he had lived in Honolulu for twelve years and had been juggling since his arrival.  He was from Chicago originally; where he had been a mailman for many many years.  His mother, on her death-bed, had told him of his inheritance and he promised her that he would retire from the postal service, take the money and move to Honolulu – her favorite place to vacation – and retire.  He did just that.  After explaining that Americans in general had no respect for the art of juggling like that of Europeans, he began juggling once again.  After a while I wished him a good day.  Likewise, he wished me a good walk and continued his juggling.

I’m not a huge Honolulu fan, however, I now have a whole new respect for jugglers…

Men with Balls, Jennifer Allison

“Close Your Eyes and Just Feel It” – Tango Love

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Tango Love, Jennifer Allison, charcoal and pencil


Argentine tango is danced in an embrace that can vary from very open, in which leader and follower connect at arm’s length, to very closed, in which the connection is chest-to-chest, or anywhere in between.

Tango dance is essentially walking with a partner and the music. Dancing appropriately to the emotion and speed of a tango is extremely important to dancing tango. A good dancer is one who transmits a feeling of the music to the partner, leading them effectively throughout the dance. Also, dancers generally keep their feet close to the floor as they walk, the ankles and knees brushing as one leg passes the other.”
-Wikipedia

“Close your eyes and just feel it – don’t look down.” he said – his chest to my chest, softly holding my right hand in his left hand, while his other hand rested on the middle of my back.  He stopped mid dance so I could “collect” my heels and as I did, I felt his chest fill with air as he took a deep breath in.  His warm breath then left his mouth and passed quietly by my right ear; comforting me.  He was helping me to relax; to let go of all the tension I had let build up on the dance floor as I scrambled to remember each move; what to do next.  Moving his chest and body ever so slightly from side to side he repeatedly took my balance from one heel to the other so I could “feel” his next move.

With my eyes closed I let my body relax once again and taking a deep breath in I allowed myself to feel every nuance of his body’s movements just as he had said I would.  After our long pause to breath, collect, and feel, his right chest and shoulder subtly pressed into my left.  It was my cue to take a step back so as he could step forward towards me.  For a few more minutes he led me around the dance floor like some master artist.  I felt as though I was a thread in a great tapestry and he was the weaver guiding me through the loom until the song ended.

Forgetting the rules once again I thanked him (I’m polite if nothing else.) He responded with a slight scolding of, “Don’t thank me unless we are done dancing.” I smiled at that and apologized; grateful it was him, who happens to be a good friend of mine (as well as a musician and tango instructor), that reminded me (once again) of dance etiquette.  It’s okay to thank a friend by accident, but entirely different when you thank a new partner who then wonders what they may have done wrong that warranted your ending the “dance.”  The “rule” or “etiquette” is as follows: Typically a “dance” will include more than one song.  Also, when you say thank you to your partner before those songs are done, you are essentially telling them that you no longer want to dance with them.  My politeness be damned, I held my tongue when the next song ended and after three songs we finished.  I was then free to express my sincere thanks, of which I did.

By the end of the night I had danced with a few partners (all completely different), learned a couple of new techniques and ochoed my way across the wood floor multiple times.  More importantly though I felt free, entranced, expressive, womanly, artistic and utterly happy all at once.  Dancing has become for me just one more outlet to express myself and like the other forms of art I practice, I’ll not leave it…

Key, A Poem

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I once had a key
to a door with layers of white paint
covering the old
walls and hardwood floors
windows that overlooked windows
with Buddha paintings staring at me
and a hard Ikea bed
next to cheap night-lights
with bulbs that burned
on tiny glass tables
which held my water
and hairbands
so I wouldn’t strangle myself
while I slept
until I woke to snoring
beside me
to neighbors talking
and me in the little bathroom
which housed Rogaine for men
and hair dryers
that were left on
so as to warm the room
and dry dried hair
that used to be thick and wavy
that would fall out anyway
because beauty
doesn’t care about hair
or words
that injure
compliments on my body
but never my mind
giggles that would fill the air
while falling on the hard Ikea bed
bought on sale
along with cheap bookshelves
filled with books
most of which never to be read
while pictures in frames
would watch from shelves
which smelled like the old books
and morning breath smells
soup smells
rotting vegetable smells
cologne smells
sex smells
hallway smells
computer smells
of lies
of photographs
and profiles promising more love
more sex
better lives
with copies of keys
being passed around
in the night
at the office
at the coffee shop
while my key slid
under the door
with layers of white paint
covering the old

-Jennifer Allison

Chicago, Illinois and Hot Sticky Cable Love Blues

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Underneath Love, Jennifer Allison

Ferris Wheel Love, Jennifer Allison

Subway Music Love, Jennifer Allison

Book Man Love, Jennifer Allison

The great city of Chicago through me eyes…..

I find when I ask people what they think of Chicago they either love it or hate it.  There is no in-between when it comes to Chicago; like when I ask someone what they think of San Francisco or Miami.  They either say, “I love Chicago, what a great city” or, “It’s too hot and sticky in the summer and too damn cold in the winter.  I hate it.”  Personally, I’m of the loving kind when it comes to Chicago.  Would I live there?  Probably not.  It’s too big for me.  However is it one of my favorite cities to love up?  Yes indeed.

Oh Beauty Mine

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I’ve heard the phrase, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” my entire life; however I rarely gave it much thought until the last few years or so.  Piero Ferrucci wrote a book entitled Beauty and The Soul which I would read, put down, contemplate for a while, then read some more.  In it he discussed the importance of beauty in everyday life, saying that without beauty we as human beings “cannot live full and satisfying lives.”  His thoughts on beauty resonated with me and I found myself considering the word “beauty” much differently than I had before.  Beauty has been, and will always be, paramount in my life.  My early interest in art, the human body and nature has given me much to see, feel and appreciate beauty in.  However, I never considered how very intimate one’s own ideas of beauty really are until Ferrucci pointed out the differences in how each one of us sees and respond to beauty.  Beauty is simply a feeling and completely without limits.

My intimacy with beauty is both aesthetic and cerebral.  I respond to cerebral beauty such as poetry and songs while at the same time a large portion of my thoughts on beauty relate to the physical.  Being the visual person that I am I see aesthetic beauty all around me on a daily basis and it too evokes strong feelings.  Beauty, to me, has been somewhat of a protective shield against the ugliness in the world for most of my life.   A part of me thinks that I have chosen to focus on beauty; beautiful poems, beautiful songs and beautiful art as to cocoon myself from that ugliness – to cope perhaps.  Beauty has served me well.  It is why when I feel emotionally beaten, I read poetry or listen to music.  It’s not that the particular poem I might read, or song I may hear will “pick-me-up” so to speak.  On the contrary; it may very well be a sad poem or song, however each word, be it sad, happy or otherwise, gives to me a feeling of beauty that I can carry – it’s the art itself that soothes me.

Beauty in Literature — A co-worker recently asked if I had read the book Fifty Shades of Grey.  I responded that I hadn’t read it.  She was surprised, and after highly recommending it praised it as “a beautiful piece of work.”  In her eyes that particular book, like many women in the United States I suppose, constitutes “beautiful” literature.  I, however, having thumbed through it and read about it, wouldn’t consider it “beautiful” and opted out of reading it.  But who am I to judge what a beautiful piece of literature is or is not?  Beauty really is extraordinary and non-conforming.  What is beautiful to her may not be to me.  It would be ugly of me to judge her ideas of beauty and especially beautiful literature.  I see literature as a gate.  We can enter and exit in our minds, visit far off places and even become someone else entirely with literature…of which I have done them all from time to time.

Beauty in the Mirror — I once knew a man who would stare in the mirror for hours, posing and pretending to have his picture snapped by the paparazzi.  He was taken by his own beauty and would frequently comment on how noble his nose or profile was….  Outward appearances of beauty were to him foremost as to how he viewed and reacted to those he met.  On the contrary, I would often look in the same mirror and see my too big of a mouth and too small of breasts and if the paparazzi were indeed behind his mirror I may have run out the door.  I’ve never considered myself ugly, I just prefer to keep personal beauty at a distance never letting it take over and consume me.  On the occasion that it does creep in a little too close I remind myself of its fickleness, instead preferring to feel beautiful, rather than always have a beautiful shell.   In fact, there are days in which I feel utterly ugly and sour on the inside, even if my hair is “perfect” (it’s usually a knotty mess) and I may have on a pretty dress and sexy new pair of heels on my feet…. I still don’t feel beautiful at all.  While other days I may need to wash my hair, change my worn out jeans and remove the chipping paint off my toes – I feel beautiful.  Beauty is not something you can grab a hold of, like perfect hair or pretty shoes.

Beauty in Art — The French painter Paul Gauguin once said, “I shut my eyes in order to see.”  Gauguin’s creations were beautiful and his closing of his eyes gave him the feelings needed to create and associate with his subjects.  Creation is art, period.  Personally, after I’ve drawn a piece, or written a poem or even planted a flower in my garden, I feel a sort of calmness afterward.  It’s as if my entire being has been soaked in a warm bath by her mother (that mother being beauty) and is now ready for a deep slumber.  I may not spend a lot of time in every room of an art museum and I definitely have my specific tastes and preferences in painters and photographers.  However, I appreciate the beauty in all works.  I also may not “get” some modern artists, but nonetheless they still create, which is entirely beautiful in and of itself.

Beauty in Love — I think perhaps this might be my key to beauty – love.  Often times beauty brings feelings of love.  When I look at my children I see beauty, I feel love.  Likewise, when I feel loved I tend to see more beauty in the world.  I won’t go so far as to be cliché and say that colors are brighter, etc., but there most certainly is an underlying sense of surrounding beauty when I feel love, be it romantic or platonic.  Vanda Scaravelli, a woman and yogi whose work and writings (Awakening the Spine) I admire and respect immensely, wrote this before she died – “There is no beauty without love and there is no love without beauty.  What is beauty?  Are love and beauty interconnected? Does beauty derive from love? Or does love derive from beauty?  You will discover the amazing transformation in a person when she is loved; she blossoms, becoming more beautiful each day. When we love what we are doing there is beauty in it and even the more insignificant work becomes attractive.  Love has no barriers, it is like a pool spring, pouring water endlessly. And it is perhaps this absence of limitation that gives wings to fly.”

From my personal experience, my own absence of limitations has given me much beauty, love and a significant amount of creativity: And yes, a full and satisfying life.  Dr. Ferrucci, you were right…..