health – Page 2 – 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.

It Pulls Me In

Give me mountains, give me deserts, give me rivers, give me forests and I am captivated—starry-eyed and serene.

Yet, the sea is so different. It pulls me in.

Its power is something I cannot fight, something I am willing to surrender to.

I am a happy slave to the sea. For I am so insignificant when I am around it, because it is greater than I will ever be.

Nothing feels better than being humbled and calmed this way. To know that all of my fears and worries are specks, like grains of sand easily swept away by the tide.

With my sandals casually held in one hand and a salty breeze brushing the other, my toes sunk into the wet sand as I walked along the beach with my love by my side. He is always like that tide, pulling me in, soothing me and making me a better person.

I was away from the sea for too long. I need it near me, to remind me of the unknown.

That it is okay to just be.

Last Sunday Mr. H and I hopped in the car and drove to Cannon Beach to recharge. I got more out of it than I expected, including a little sunburn and a lot of peace.

Here are some fun pix to round out the awesome day we had.

We drank local pale ales on the patio…

We ate clam chowder topped with shrimp in sourdough bread bowls…

There was an impromptu showgirl moment…

A cool Mr. H shot in front of Haystack Rock…

And, the big finale…

It’s so easy to get wrapped up in the routines we all create.

If you haven’t lately, go out and find something that pulls you in.

The Bench Where Lovers Had Been

Living in Portland seamlessly translates into spectacular vantage points. Tourists and locals alike wander around—to stare, to photograph, to be romanced.

It’s no wonder there are so many artistic people here. I feel like I’ve been injected with an inspirational serum myself.

We had one of our first crystal clear, summer-esque days last week. I had a little vendetta with a stunner of a view I tried on a hazy afternoon, so I repeated the 6-mile hike with determination.

To get to the view this way, you’ve got to work for it, uphill along narrow muddy trails. Once I reached my destination, a place called Pittock Mansion where visitors can roam freely on the grounds, I was not disappointed.

Suspended in the air was snow-peaked Mount Hood. Colorful downtown decorated the ground like a set of Legos. All around bright blue skies were intersected by cotton clouds.

A cool breeze soothed my flushed face and quieted my adrenaline. I sat on a bench, one where lovers had been.

I pictured different types of couples sitting side by side, holding hands, their heads resting against one another. Some of them became bold and tattooed their professions of love on the wood.

There’s no telling what became of these couples after they left this bench.

Yet beneath the sun and the rain, until the bench is too fragile and must be replaced, that beautiful moment lives on.

The Book Decor Workout

Last weekend I stumbled upon a new workout. It’s all the rage with the A-listers in Hollywood. (Not really.)

Here’s what you need to get sweatin’…

Tall ceilings with a daring, unreachable shelf.
Sturdy ladder that will keep you from eating shit.
Insanely heavy boxes of books (lots of them!)
Grippy shoes or bare feet, because socks on the kitchen counter are a safety no-no.
Stretchy pants that won’t split in the private area.
Balance, endurance, and a touch of insanity.

So, anyway.

We finally got around to some more unpacking after a two-week stalemate. Although our new Portland apartment and our old Milwaukee apartment are comparable in square footage, they are night and day in all other aspects.

Our 1930s gem we used to live in came with cute built-ins to solve all of our book storage woes. I showed them off last summer in the Show Us Your Shelves challenge that was going around the bloggerhood.

This sleek building we now inhabit is a different creature entirely.

Every bit of space counts when you’re living in modestly sized digs. Lining entire walls with bookshelves can destroy your chances of having anywhere to sit, eat, sleep, etc.. And while my books are the loves of my life, a little practical furniture goes a long way.

Luckily for us, we happen to have 12-foot ceilings and a solid shelf soaring into our kitchen heavens. Problem solved!

Side of the fridge…

Top of the fridge… (For funsies, I stacked a Hitler biography right above “Poems That Touch the Heart”.)

The very random corner nook with absolutely no rhyme or reason to the book placement…

The Yoga friends breathing deeply to remain calm hanging in their dangerous neighborhood…

The Ken Follett region with my dad’s old guitar… (Fun fact, Ken plays the bass guitar in a blues band.)

And finally the glue holding this whole operation together, the champion coffee table books masquerading as a bookend…

It’s been a few days and even with my shoddy architectural design, we have not had any catastrophic domino effect. My comfy chair happens to be right below that cabinet cliff.

Just keep your fingers crossed for me.

When I woke up the next morning and, with the exception of my back and legs, had long forgotten the Book Decor Workout, I had a foolishly happy moment when I walked into the kitchen.

There were all of my friends. Perched high, their lives in peril but smiling back at me nonetheless.

Any of you book lovers can feel me on this. Until those book friends were freed from their boxy confines, I still wasn’t at home here.

It’s funny how many times we’ve moved and always looked accusingly at the books. The choice to give some up arises, and then we veto it and keep them all. Even the ones that were gifted and we still haven’t read. Even the ones that aren’t our faves.

Because the books make our home. Sure they’re heavy bastards, but they’re simply lovely.

Later that day I unpacked one of the last remaining boxes and guess what I freaking found? Ten more damn books.

Time to grab the ladder and get my book fitness on!

Have you ever tackled a home decor project that turned into a surprise butt-busting workout?

On a completely different note, I was absolutely tickled this weekend when my sweet friend Jessica from Notes of Nomads included one of my recent posts in her “5 Best Blog Posts of the Month” roundup. If you haven’t check it out yet, please be sure to take a looksy!

The Last of Every Little Thing

Tomorrow is my last day of work. This day, above probably anything else, is the finale of my life here. In this sweet little city of Milwaukee.

Although this is my third cross-country move, I’ll tell you something. It doesn’t make it any easier.

Excitement for a daring adventure veers sharply into bittersweet. Every place, every face, every little thing that I’ve known for the past handful of years molds reluctantly into a memory…the lasts.

The last time I will walk the familiar route to work, turning up my music to cover the traffic noise and glancing quickly down that one alley to avoid being run over by a delivery truck.

The last time I will smile at the security guard at work who says “Good Morning” in his sing-song voice like he’s part of a Barbershop Quartet. Maybe he is on the side. I don’t even know his name.

The last time I will buy a small latte from Carmen at the corner cafe. She’s always smiling, because she’s one of those rare people who enjoys her job and her life.

The last time I will walk the endless hallways of my office, passing people I know and will never see again, and those I don’t know and will never know.

The last time I will swipe my badge at an entrance before I surrender it forever. Even with that silly picture on it, I will miss it. It was the one accessory I always had to wear, my identification with a place I spent more time in than I did at home.

Each day has been filled with lasts. With amazing friends and family in some of our most beloved places in the city.

Nearly five years ago I moved to Milwaukee without ever having seen it before. What I will remember most about coming here was how lost I was at the time.

And through that confusion, I found myself.

I began teaching dance again, then later, through a life-changing emotional and physical test, I obtained my Yoga certification. And finally, after hiding from it all of those years, I had the courage to become a writer.

Even though I was a foreigner in a strange land, I always felt welcomed by the community here. That comfort allowed me to return to who I wanted to be at my core.

There are a few more days of lasts to endure, and they will be the most trying of them all as we say goodbye to those closest to our hearts.

But, the firsts will be coming very soon. And though they cannot replace the lasts, they will open our eyes to different experiences.

We will grow, we will love, and we will live through it all.