opinion – Britt Skrabanek

The Observer

I taught movement for a long, long time. Ten years of dance to students of every ability and every age, followed by a Yoga teacher certification which launched me into another rambunctious nine months promptly after that.

At the end of March I moved across the States to the gorgeousness of Portland, Oregon. I haven’t taught since then, since early Spring.

Sure, a lot of it had to do with that effortless trauma that accompanies any move, or should I say a more uncomfortable word? Uprooting. But I’m not a good liar and I’m certainly not going to lie to you guys. The reality had nothing to do with that.

It was time for me to stop being the teacher. It was time for me to become the student…the observer.

I learned and grew so much from teaching, absolutely. Yet somewhere along the way I lost my own practice, the sweetness that comes with delving into the mind, body, and soul. The energy for myself was pushed aside to give to my incredible students.

I loved every beautiful minute of it—please, don’t get me wrong. But what is a teacher who is not able to pause and observe? Shit, not the teacher that I want to be.

I haven’t talked much about Yoga in the past year, not because writing has been more prominent with my book release but because I have been quietly observing my physical side.

My emotional and physical beings are deeply connected. As are all of yours.

The time has come to take the same approach with writing. To step away and give to myself by observing all that I can and once again become the humble student.

I’m determined to stick my little nose in as many books as I can. I’m beyond excited to dedicate time to reading again, rather than squeezing books into my packed schedule and feeling rushed.

So much of the past few years of my life has been dedicated to my work. I have self-published three novels and kept up a weekly blog which I pour my everlasting love into.

Every novel is the very essence of me. Every blog post is painstakingly created with attention to detail and undying tenderness.

I have three solid ides for my next projects—two novels and one short, a challenge I’m curious to explore. Unlike other times in my life, I’m not setting a timeline for lift-off. I’m gonna write when it’s right.

Now is not that time. Now is about observing the bits and pieces of life, absorbing that damning beauty we are all so fortunate to experience.

Before I used to teach any of my classes, whether it be dance or Yoga, I used to get so freaking nervous. My heart would race wildly, sweat would decorate my brow and my back, and I’d often consider ditching the class with some mediocre excuse.

Not because I didn’t cherish my students. Because I was terrified that I had nothing to offer…nothing to teach.

Through writing I learn incessantly about every moment, every breath, every heartbeat. I press the pause button on my personal chaos to record eccentricities, emotions, and events…but, what the hell do I know?

I’m only a student. And it’s time for me to observe.

Sometimes We Crash

On my favorite hike yesterday evening I had a soul-stopping moment.

There is a rather busy road hikers have to cross to pick up the trail again, with no light or stop sign, so cars have to stop to let pedestrians go. I had just crossed the street when I heard that all too familiar sound of crunching metal.

I whipped around expecting a fender-bender. Instead, I watched her car flip off the side of the road and disappear over the drop-off.

I sprinted back across the street, expecting her to be gone. Several people jumped out of their cars and we all joined at the side of the road.

The car was pinned against the base of a tree, which saved it from somersaulting down the cliff. Had there been a passenger with her, that person would not have made it.

Four men rushed down to the car as we called for help. We all watched in horror, expecting the very worst.

Miraculously she was conscious and crying, with no visible injuries.

We are always told that a person should not be moved until help arrives. However, when a car is cradled precariously by a tree with the possibility of plummeting into a creek way down below, that changes things.

And so the guys worked together and managed to bring her up the cliff to safety.

Good-hearted people kept running over to help. At that point there were too many cooks in the kitchen and we had to turn people away. We needed to keep traffic going so the ambulance could actually get through on the narrow, winding road.

Four of us remained with the driver until help arrived. We did what we could for her during that time.

Fortunately, one man was a physician and besides being extremely shaken up, he could tell that she was alright. Effing lucky as all get-out, but alright.

The other man called the young woman’s mother. It was heart-wrenching to watch her attempt to form a complete sentence on the phone, but you could see that just hearing her mom’s voice was the best thing for her while we waited.

The other woman I was with covered her shaking shoulders with a shawl and I gave her my bottle of water. We continued comforting her as best as we could.

Naturally, it seemed like years before the reassuring sound of sirens echoed in the distance when it had probably only been minutes.

I answered a few questions and then I began my long hike back home in a daze.

This was only my second hike since a pretty awful bicycling accident I had with Silvie a couple of weeks ago when I hit a jerk of a pothole. (Hence, the Band-Aid pic above.)

I crashed and burned on my way home from work, because I wasn’t paying attention the way I should have been. I paid for it too, with a mosaic of bruises, bumps, and scrapes all over my lower body. Crotch bruises…not fun.

I had trouble sleeping and walking for a week. Naturally, Yoga and hiking were out of the question. But I got back on Silvie the bike again two days later. Because after all of that, I was banged up but alright.

Sometimes we crash. The important thing about crashing is to learn from it, to recognize that life is precious and very, very fragile.

We live in a world of distractions that alarmingly moves faster and faster each day. Our minds are cluttered, trying to keep up with it all.

I’m not writing this to campaign against texting and driving, because duh—don’t do that.

I’m writing this to say two things…

There is no such thing as being too present. Slow down, pay attention, and be in every moment as much as you possibly can. It may save your life.
No matter what happens—an accident, a disaster, a crash—we are there for one another. The beauty of the human heart will always come through. And that, lovelies, is a powerful thing.

Yin-Yang and Pop Tarts

Last Friday I was cooped up all morning in my pajamas, a mad writer in the final stages of novel editing. My eyes were burning and I was barely on speaking terms with the English language.

As it was due time to see the light of day, I rode Silvie the bike through bustling downtown Portland and found some surprising tranquility.

There are things about Lan Su Chinese Garden that would normally keep me far, far away. It’s located in the city’s touristy Chinatown and you have to fork over nearly 10 bucks to get in the front door.

But, I gave it a go.

I decided to geek out and take the walking tour.

The tour guide with the cheesy Yin-Yang baseball cap almost made me change my mind, but he had me with his calm demeanor. He even told us we could leave at any time, or wander away and come back.

There were covered walkways throughout, but the rain was a soft drizzle so none of us cared about getting wet. Rumor has it that a heavier rain at Lan Su is nothing short of magical as the rain slips off the ornate roofs to create a beaded curtain effect.

It was incredible to learn the meaning of everything encompassing us—the stories and poetry, the Yin and Yang from floor to ceiling.

Bridges were designed in a zig-zag pattern to encourage the walker to slow down and absorb their surroundings.

At a leisurely pace I marveled at this island of serenity surrounded by noise and grime, lapsing into a walking meditation. Then I began to be awe-inspired by the Yin-Yang connection beyond the walls, in the way the city itself contrasted starkly with the garden.

To finish my sweet adventure I stopped into the tea house within the garden for sustenance. Before you enter there is a sign requesting guests to silence their cell phones. Um…awesome.

For my first ever formal tea experience, I chose the Golden Monkey black tea accompanied by pecan cookies.

Exquisite music struck up next to me and suddenly I noticed the man serenading us.

I purposely abandoned my Kindle in my bag, sat back and enjoyed. There was no need to do anything else but that.

When I left the garden with sweets and tea lingering on my breath, my skin still damp from the rain, and a drunken grin on my face…it all changed. The traffic jarred my senses, and so did the man who yelled at me the second I was on the sidewalk.

“Hey! What’s in that helmet? Huh? What’s in that helmet?”

A homeless man, startling the poor tourist families passing by, had a thing for my bright green bike helmet. I crossed the street and hurried over to my bike. He made a beeline for me.

Sure, it’s noon in the middle of a city. But when an unstable man approaches me, I’m on high alert. I’ve been an urban bike commuter for the past six years. As such, I have two survival plans…

Plan #1: Unlock the bike with a quickness, then ride like hell.

Plan #2: Whack the attacker with my bike lock.

This is my bike lock.

He was muttering incoherent things and flailing wildly while I unlocked my bike as quickly as I could. I realized that I would have to face him head on.

I gripped my bike lock in my right hand and stared at him without speaking.

He looked me up and down and said: “Alright.” He showed me what was left of his teeth as he smiled, then he gave me a peace-offering, which he carefully rested upon Silvie’s handlebar.

The brown sugar and cinnamon Pop Tarts.

In Yin and Yang there are opposites which cannot exist without one another. Fire and water. Male and female. Light and dark.

Perhaps me and Pop Tart Man are another example of this philosophy. Or perhaps, I just scored a bag of Pop Tarts.

How to Survive the Effing Winter

I can’t take credit for this amazing pic as it was flying around the social media world.

It sums up most of our feelings in the Northern Hemisphere during this (fingers crossed) last hurrah of winter, and inspired me to write a sassy post on survival tactics.

This is not a post about rainbows and unicorns. It’s not about my usual good vibes and “Go Life!” mentality.

This is real man, and it might get ugly.

Some of you live in places where there is no winter. I remember, I used to live there, too. Foolishly happy in a land boasting sunshine, leaves, and a welcoming breeze.

Run, save yourselves!!!

This post is for the rest of us. Those stuck in the “cold, gray, bucket of suck” in the worst of all wintry months…DUN-DUN-DUN…February.

By the end of this fateful month last year, I was teetering on clinically insane when I wrote Winter, you can kiss my pasty ass.

I’ve arrived a little earlier this year. Perhaps because this winter was less than desirable.

Sunshine? What is this you speak of? No grey and gloom? I don’t believe you…just go, man. Just go.

Leaves? I only see crypt keeper looking branches covered in – you guessed it – freaking snow. They point and laugh at me when I bust my ass on the icy sidewalk and land in a greasy, muddy pile of slush.

Welcoming breeze? For the first time in life, I’ve battled snotcicles. Funny, I thought I was being cute creating this word and urbandictionary.com beat me to it.

Does this sound pretty…

…nope, it doesn’t.

Okay, okay. You catch my snowdrift. (Sorry, it was right there.)

So, how do we survive these final days of dreariness and desperation? Hell, if I know.

But, here are some tips I came up with to share with you all.

Listen to Latin Music I can’t explain it, but it works like a champ. Spicy food, warm beaches, and strong drinks with those bright umbrellas are comforting visuals. Plus, a little rump shaking will help keep you warm. One of my faves is Argentinian singer Federico Aubele, who blends several genres brilliantly and takes you somewhere far, far away.
Eat and Drink Warmth Trade the salads in for soups and healthy comfort foods. I know it’s tempting to get ahead of ourselves with the promise of spring on the horizon and go for the cold, but don’t. You’ll be shivering…again. I recently came across a yummy warm drink that has been a lifesaver. It’s a lemony ginger tonic courtesy of the always wonderful Laura Plumb from Food: A Love Story. You can grab the rockin’ recipe here.
Lose Yourself In Creativity The past few years I made the mistake of working on novels straight through summer. Never again will I hole up when I should be frolicking. Whether you’re exploring your own creative mind or somebody else’s through books, films, etc., take advantage of the somber mood to go deep inside your mind and gain inspiration.
Oil Up, Tin Man Cracked lips, bloody noses, and itchy legs sound familiar? It’s dry as hell, so oil up. One of my saviors has been an Ayurvedic health routine called Abhyanga, where you warm up sesame oil, optionally mix in essential oils for scent, and massage yourself from head to toe. It’s AMAZING! Also, coconut oil is great all around. To fight off those pesky snotcicles, give your nose some love by dabbing a little coconut oil and tea tree oil up there before you head out the door.
Move Your Buns Motivation is hard to drum up…I get it. But, any sort of activity will help keep you energized and less cuckoo. If anything, amp up your workout rather than abandoning it. Yoga practice, for example, should be heated and moving to not only make sure the bod is ready for postures, but also to revive your lethargic ass.

Alright, snow bunnies…your turn. How do you survive the effing winter?

(Next week on a physical perspective, we will return to our regularly scheduled POSITIVE programming. Promise.)

2nd Draft…BAM!

It all began in August, the dreaded second draft.

The first time you read the work you poured your heart and soul into can be a frightening thing. A damn frightening thing.

Is it shit? I mean, is it complete and total shit?

Well, it might be to other people but I dig it. And at the end of the day, amidst subjective opinions on all things artistic, if I dig it, then that’s really all that matters.

This second draft and I are war buddies.

Over the past four months we stuck it out together, on Sundays for a chunk of time and usually on Wednesday nights when I was ready to keel over from day job and Yoga teaching repercussions.

I worked over a couple of paragraphs, folded some laundry, then parked it back in my chair and continued. My dinner got cold on the table just so I could sneak a page in. Headphones blocked out everything from Sunday football to my guitarist wannabee apartment manager on the first floor (we live two floors above him, we often want to chop our ears off and be done with it), so I could manage an entire chapter.

Last weekend I trudged through the final pages and finished. Bam!

If it hadn’t been so arctic outside, I probably would’ve screamed out my window: “Second draft, you were my Everest. And, I conquered your ass!”

But, I refrained. And my neighbors shall continue loathing our noisy manager rather than yours truly, the dorky writer with too much enthusiasm.

I had to share the excitement with all of you guys though.

There’s still a long road ahead, including the next stage which I call “The Serial Killer Phase”. Nope, I don’t write about serial killers. However when it’s time to reference the serial killer notes sitting on my bedside table, that’s the phase I’m talking about.

Writers, you know the notes. Random thoughts and dialogue, groovy sentences from authors who know a thing or two, and of course, the crazed scribbling that happens in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning.

Obsession with a splash of insomnia. Hence, serial killer notes…

Lastly, there will be more editing, reading, editing, reading…until I can’t stand looking at it anymore. That’s where my in-law editors come in for moral support, right before I chuck the dissected, stitched, scarred draft promptly in the garbage.

Long story short, my vague release date for The Bra Game is set for late Spring 2014. So, yay for that!