On how what you pay attention to, pays attention

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

The first time I heard the line, “What you pay attention to pays attention,” I was sitting in a yoga teacher training session. The line felt so meaningful to me that I wrote it down immediately. Something in me understood it and knew it to be true.

At a surface level, it makes sense. If you pay attention to your pets, your spouse, or even someone you barely know, they tend to pay attention back. It could even be a stranger behind the coffee counter each morning—positive or negative, attention has a way of being returned. It doesn’t really discriminate.

But what about things that aren’t alive? Can they “pay attention” too? That’s where my curiosity was piqued, because I feel that in some way, they do.

This idea brought me back to a time in 2001, when my ex-husband, our two children, and I moved from Cape Cod to Naugatuck, Connecticut. At the time, I had my first real sense that there might be something to the idea of energy we can’t see.

We had been living in military housing, and after the movers packed up our belongings, we stayed for a couple of weeks in temporary housing on the base. The units were identical, clean, and fully furnished. When we first arrived, we were able to look at all four units and choose the one we wanted.

Around that same time, while staying with my brothers on Long Island, I picked up a book on Feng Shui from a bargain table at a bookstore. I had heard of it before, mostly in passing, but didn’t really know what it meant. As I read about the concept of “chi,” something clicked for me.

I started thinking about the temporary housing unit we had just left. Even though all four units were the same, I had a strong sense that the one we had lived in would feel different to the next family. It would still be clean, but something about it would carry the imprint of our time there.

When I mentioned this to others, they had more practical explanations—air flow, dust, things that couldn’t be seen but could be detected. That made sense, but I still felt there was something more to it.

Over the years, I’ve come back to that idea in different ways. What I’ve consistently noticed is how often things I pay attention to seem to be noticed by others shortly after.

I’ve always liked to keep a clean home. Even when I was busy, I made time for it, sometimes with help and sometimes on my own. When I had the time, I would focus on small, specific areas—corners, drawers, the tops of door frames—places that weren’t obvious but still felt important to tend to.

What struck me as odd was that later, without me saying anything, someone in my family would comment on that exact area. Not always the surface, but the object itself—a desk, a table, something I had quietly given attention to. It was as if the attention I gave it somehow made it more noticeable.

The same thing has happened in other ways. I’ve had moments where I noticed something about myself—like a pair of shoes I had worn many times but suddenly appreciated in a new way—and then someone else would comment on them that same day.

One of the more personal examples goes back to when I was younger. As my features were changing, I became very self-conscious about my nose. Many of the women in my family had a similar shape, and I didn’t like it. I focused on it in a negative way, and it seemed to draw negative attention.

Years later, I saw a woman with a similar nose, and it looked beautiful on her. It fit her face perfectly. That shifted something for me. I started to see my own features differently, and over time, others began to reflect that back to me in a more positive way.

It felt like I was being seen in the same way I was seeing myself.

To me, attention feels like a direction of energy. We can’t see it, but we experience it. It shapes how we move through the world and how the world seems to respond to us. Whether we are aware of it or not, it is always there.

What we focus on—what we think about, what we give time to—becomes part of the way we experience life. It also becomes part of how we are perceived.

I don’t always remember this, and I don’t always believe it in the moment. Just yesterday I had an experience that brought it back to the surface again.

I was out for a long walk in my neighborhood and passed a dog barking loudly behind an invisible fence. I knew I would have to pass the same dog again on my way back. The barking was disruptive to what had otherwise been a peaceful walk, and the dog itself seemed agitated.

I started thinking about energy and what it might mean to approach the situation differently. As I walked by again, I intentionally shifted my focus toward a sense of calm and openness. Almost immediately, the barking stopped.

For a moment, I felt like I had figured something out. But then the dog started barking again. It made me laugh, because I realized I had shifted from calm to control. I had changed the energy I was bringing into the situation.

When I returned to a more open, relaxed state, the barking stopped again and stayed that way as I continued down the street.

It was a simple moment, but a good reminder.

Life is a series of experiences like that—different situations, different “streets,” all offering something to learn. The way we approach them shapes what we experience in return.

If we move through the world with curiosity, openness, and a sense of care, it tends to feel different than when we approach it with tension or resistance.

What you pay attention to pays attention.

So it may be worth paying attention to what you’re paying attention to.

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On Halloween and Our Shadow Side

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

We were made from the universe, so we contain the same elements of the universe. The universe is both dark and light, and so are we.

But who are “we,” really?

If we can agree that we are not our liver or kidneys, even though they are vital organs, is it feasible to agree that we are not the brain either?

If we are not the brain, are “we” what is in the mind—the function of the brain? It would be analogous to saying that we are not detox, which is the function of the liver.

Hopefully the answer is no, because “we” are the substance that hears what the mind is saying. We are the part of the body that isn’t cells or physical substance. Just because it is only us who can hear what our mind is saying doesn’t mean that what the mind says is actually us.

Our mind is influenced by the physical world around us. Jingles in our head, the replaying of conversations, things we’ve watched, and the internal back-and-forth of competing thoughts all arise without effort. If we are able to notice them, then the part that notices is closer to who we are than the part providing the commentary.

That is, if we notice at all. The thoughts, songs, internal dialogues, arguments, and justifications are so constant that we often believe they define us. But that is not the case. Who we are is the witness to this chatter.

I’ll go back to the idea of the angel and devil. How can we claim to be only the “angel,” advocating for the right decisions, when the opposing voice is right there doing the same thing in a different direction? We may align with one side because it reflects our values or what we’ve been taught is right, but the other side still exists within us. It may not be comfortable to acknowledge, but it is no less real. That side is often referred to as the shadow, representing the parts of ourselves we don’t want to admit to having. It can exist outside of our awareness at first, but with attention and self-reflection, it becomes easier to recognize.

Neither the angel nor the devil is who we truly are. We are the part that notices both, and both will influence the decisions we make unless we learn to separate our identity from the constant activity of the mind. One way to begin noticing thoughts more clearly is through practices like meditation, but that is a deeper topic for another time.

The point here is that we are not our thoughts. It is as natural to have both “good” and “bad” thoughts as it is for the day to move between light and dark. Our physical bodies are part of the natural world, and they are governed by the same patterns. Both sides exist, and no human is exempt from this.

Some may have developed a deeper understanding of it, and many teachings point toward recognizing the difference between thought and awareness. Even without formal language for it, this idea has existed in different forms throughout history. We can think of this in terms of different layers of awareness: the unconscious, which regulates automatic functions and influences instinctive reactions; the conscious mind, which contains our thoughts and interpretations; and a deeper level of awareness—the part that observes all of it.

If we don’t recognize that we are not our thoughts, we tend to attach ourselves to the parts we prefer and reject the parts we don’t. We identify with what feels acceptable and try to hide what doesn’t, but that doesn’t remove those parts—it simply keeps them out of sight. Acknowledging the full range of what arises in the mind can create more clarity and allow us to understand what is influencing us, rather than reacting without awareness.

Accepting the presence of both light and dark within ourselves is not about acting on every thought. It is about recognizing that they exist and understanding that they are not the entirety of who we are. In nature, cycles of light and dark are constant. As seasons shift, we move through periods where one is more dominant than the other, but both are always present. The same can be said for us.

There are times of clarity and times of uncertainty, times when things feel lighter and times when they feel heavier. These shifts are not separate from us; they are part of the experience. During certain times of year, particularly as we move into the darker months, these patterns can feel more noticeable. The transition itself can be a reminder that change is constant and that both aspects are necessary.

Accepting that we move between these states can make it easier to navigate them. Not everything needs to be resisted or controlled. Some things can simply be observed and understood.

When I taught yoga regularly, I often used the theme of embracing the unknown during this time of year. I would invite students to consider what they might be avoiding and to allow it to be present, even if it felt uncomfortable. Not everything needs to be solved in the moment. Sometimes the first step is simply noticing.

Embracing the unknown. Facing what feels uncomfortable. Allowing space for both light and dark.

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Demystifying Yoga: Movement over Exercise

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

When I meet someone and they learn that I practice or teach yoga, they almost always feel compelled to share their own experience with it. Sometimes they’ve tried it and didn’t like it, sometimes they love it, and often they follow it with something like, “I’m not flexible,” or “I have an injury,” or simply, “It’s not for me.”

One of my favorite responses to that comes from the owner of the studio where I used to teach. She once said that saying you’re not flexible enough to do yoga is like saying you’re too dirty to take a shower. It usually gets a laugh, but there’s truth in it.

If you’ve never really tried yoga, it’s hard to know what it actually is. For many people, the assumption is that it involves twisting into complicated shapes or keeping up with a fast-paced class. In reality, it’s often much simpler and much more accessible than that.

Yoga is, at its core, movement and breath. The movements are often slow and intentional, and the breath becomes something you begin to notice and work with rather than something that just happens in the background. Most classes are designed so that people at different levels can participate in a way that works for them.

In my experience teaching, many of the students were older or working with limitations, and they kept coming back because they started to notice small changes. Those small shifts—more ease in the body, a bit more clarity in the mind—tend to build over time.

People often come to yoga after an injury or surgery as well. It can be one of the first ways to begin moving again gently. That said, it’s always important to be aware of your own body and any specific conditions you may have. A good instructor can offer ways to modify movements, but the most important guideline is simple: if something doesn’t feel right, don’t push through it.

Yoga is different from what most people think of as exercise. It’s not about keeping pace with others or pushing through discomfort to reach a goal. It’s about paying attention. The teacher offers guidance, but you decide how far to go. There’s no real concept of falling behind, because the practice is happening within your own experience.

Over time, that combination of movement and breath can have a noticeable effect. Physically, people often experience more flexibility, strength, and balance. Mentally, it can help with focus, stress, and overall awareness. But those benefits tend to come as a result of the practice itself, not as something you have to chase.

If you already practice, you likely understand that in your own way. And if you don’t, it might be worth approaching it with a bit of curiosity rather than a fixed idea of what it is or isn’t.

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On Being in the Dark

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

A light breeze blew in from across the street when I opened my blinds and cracked my bedroom window while it was still dark this morning. The sound of the Long Island Sound filled my ears as the semi-salty air drifted into the space where I stood. A bell buoy chimed in the distance. A nearby bird sang. The cool, damp air felt refreshing against my skin in the otherwise still, sleepy room. I took a deep breath and let it all in, appreciating the quiet of that moment in the dark.
I moved through my morning routine and into meditation. Since the clocks changed last week, it is dark again in the early hours, and for a short time we get to watch the sunrise earlier along the horizon. It had rained overnight, and the world felt just a bit more crisp—renewed. I chose a different space to practice this morning, turning off the lights and opening the curtains to let the darkness slowly give way to light.

I stumbled around to find my meditation pillow while carrying a glass of lemon water. My animals moved around me, a little confused and curious about the change in routine. As I felt along the floor for the doorstop, I struggled to find it and eventually had to put everything down to search more carefully.
At some point, I knocked over the water. I heard it spill and felt the dog walk through it moments later. I sat down on the floor, slightly defeated, and then laughed as I felt wet paws and kisses on my face. My mood lifted almost immediately.

There was a lesson in it.

We can’t see well in the dark. We can move through familiar spaces by memory and touch, but our sense of sight is limited. We don’t fully know what is around us—we only know what we remember from when there was light.

Nature ensures that we spend half our time in darkness. Depending on where we are in the world, that balance shifts across the seasons, but the presence of darkness is constant. It’s part of the rhythm.
In many ways, our internal world operates similarly. There is so much we don’t know—about situations, about other people, even about ourselves. When we don’t know something, we are, in a sense, in the dark. Often, we don’t even realize what we don’t know.

There is something humbling in that. Accepting that we are not always seeing clearly can change how we move through the world. It can soften certainty and make room for curiosity.

This becomes especially relevant when we form strong opinions or beliefs. Whether the topic is something as large as politics or something as small as a personal interaction, it’s easy to assume we understand more than we actually do. We operate from our own experiences and perspectives, which feel complete to us, but are still limited.

When we stay open to the possibility that we are only seeing part of the picture, it changes how we listen and respond. It doesn’t mean abandoning our views, but it does mean holding them with a bit more flexibility.

There are countless sources of information, perspectives, and experiences that shape how people see the world. Not all of them reach us, and not all of them are easy to understand. Accepting that we may not have the full picture allows for a different kind of awareness—one that is less rigid and more receptive.

After cleaning up the spilled water as best I could in the dark, I made my way back to my practice. My cats and dog settled around me as I sat, the door slightly open, the cool air still moving through the space.

Without relying on sight, the other senses became more vivid. I noticed the sounds—the birds, the water, the buoy, the distant hum of a car, the steady rhythm of my dog’s breathing. The feel of the air on my skin was more pronounced. Things I might normally overlook became clearer.
As the rain began again, a new layer of sound filled the space. Gradually, the darkness gave way to light, and with it, my attention shifted back toward what I could see. It became easier to rely on sight and, in doing so, easier to overlook everything else.

There is something in that as well. Our strongest sense can sometimes become the one that limits us the most.

My animals seemed to take the whole morning in stride. The change in routine, the spilled water, the unfamiliar movements—it was all simply part of what was happening. They adapted without resistance.

There’s something to learn from that.

When we accept that we don’t—and can’t—know everything, it becomes easier to move through the world with a bit more ease. We make decisions with the information we have, understanding that it may not be complete. That awareness can feel less like a limitation and more like a kind of freedom.
It allows space for learning, for adjustment, and for seeing things we might otherwise miss.
And perhaps that’s part of the rhythm, too—moving between what we can see and what we can’t, knowing that both are always present.

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Sunday Mornings

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Sunday mornings have always had a feel to me of a new dawning. No matter where I’ve been on a Sunday morning, I have felt a certain vibe in the air—that the day is even fresher than the Saturday and weekday mornings before it.

In cities, coffee shops are just opening, few cars are in movement on the streets, and most stores are closed. There is a certain quiet in the air. Softer movements. A slower vibe.

In suburban and rural towns, the atmosphere also has a peaceful quality. The strip mall lots and main streets are mostly empty, except perhaps for a convenience store, gas station, or breakfast shop.

Sunday morning is not quite as exciting to me as Saturday morning. Saturday morning is about chores, shopping, making plans for the evening. Sunday, for me, is more about taking time to wake up—enjoying my cup of coffee longer, mentally and physically getting ready for the week ahead, and having a whole day ahead of me to do so.

This cloudy, albeit beautiful morning is so very typical at this time in my life. I am up before anyone else at the moment. I came downstairs to the main kitchen/living area and it looks like (what we like to say) a bomb. But it is a bomb that I love. This scene is a snapshot in time—my life at almost 43, my family, where I happen to be in the world.

On Sunday morning, my house often has blankets strewn about the couches, the floor, and perhaps even a kitchen chair. Yesterday’s paper is usually lying about in a neat heap, still waiting to be read. The cats are milling and meowing like crazy for their morning meal of a little wet food. The counters and coffee table will often have mostly empty popcorn or snack bowls. A cold tea bag sits in an empty Starbucks mug from one of the cities we have visited. More often than not, there is an espresso cup somewhere with a small circle of dried, dark remnants sitting at the bottom. An open, unfinished bottle of wine sits on the counter with an accompanying wine glass or two—either in the sink with an amount too small to finish lying in the lowest nook of the glass, or haphazardly rinsed and left in the dish drain to dry. It’s not difficult to see what we did before bed, be it a puzzle, a card game, or just some movies, since the TV remotes or pieces of whatever we were doing are mostly left where we had them when everyone retired for bed.

I will either be up alone or with the hubby. The first order of business is to start the coffee. Then we quiet the little milling lions, who get increasingly vocal by the second until they receive their ever-so-desired wet, stinky cat food. Either alone or splitting up the tasks, we will start to load the dishwasher, open the blinds, fold the blankets, and put the house back in order.

Today I’m alone. I woke up before Daren, excited to begin a new day and continue to work on a painting that I am in the midst of completing. I cleaned up the house and then sat on the living room floor with two pillows beneath me, facing the East, to do some morning breathing and meditation. It’s a cloudy, dreary, gray morning—but beautiful nonetheless. The sun is still making its way up and about and brightening the day, even though we can’t see it.

I couldn’t help but take a picture of the scene I was looking at. Every morning it looks different. Even in its drab form, this morning was picturesque to me. I stepped outside to get a closer shot, and the air felt so fresh and cool I didn’t want to go back in. But I did—simply to get a chair and two blankets to take my morning practices outside.

It feels like Sunday. Even in February, birds are singing. I can’t see the town or even much of our neighborhood from the back porch, but nonetheless it has the Sunday morning vibe of serenity that I enjoy so much.

Nothing exciting, but I am feeling intense gratitude and oneness with the world at the moment. A snapshot in time. It’s just a beautiful and precious Sunday morning.

The page has turned. The week, day, and month are fresh. We write the story, whether we do so intentionally or not. Be mindful of your thoughts.

Namaste.

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Gingerbread Cookie (Yum) Lesson

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

It’s the time of year for holiday baking! For a few years I skipped it completely. My friends and family moaned a little, but we used whatever money I would have spent making cookies and sending cards toward charity. This year I decided to make some cookies—only a batch of each to keep it all super low key. Also, as long as a nice large tray of cookies would be dropped off at the domestic violence shelter where I often make donations, it would still be for charity.

Yesterday, while making gingerbread men, I experienced a little of a spiritual quest, where the words of many who’ve walked before me sank even deeper.

Monday I made the gingerbread dough and popped it in the fridge until I was ready to roll it out later. Yesterday I worked from home, and following my lunch walk, I decided to pull out the dough so it would be perfectly soft when I logged off for the day. The cold air outside left me craving the warm smell of cookies in my home.

When it was time to roll, the consistency was just perfect. I preheated the oven and set to work making tiny little people with a brand new cookie cutter I purchased from Zabars on Sunday morning (for an unbelievable price, by the way). They were coming out seamlessly.

I knew I was going to freeze most of them, so I didn’t want to frost them. Instead, I opted to make three little indentations with an appetizer fork on their bellies for buttons, as well as on their feet to mimic a little cuff. For the eyes I used the back of a lobster pick. I decided against a mouth, nose, or cuffs for the arms. It was a bit too much, as this year I’m keeping it simple.

As I decorated the first batch, I couldn’t help but notice how different each cookie already looked. I attempted to make them all the same, but the place in the dough where I cut and the ever-so-slight differences in the eyes, buttons, and cuffs made each beautiful little gingerbread person unique in its own way.

I popped the first two trays in the oven and set to work on the second two trays. It was immediately apparent that the dough was already slightly warmer and a bit more difficult to cut. However, making the indentations was easier.

The first batch came out, and I loaded the second one in. I let the first two trays cool for a minute before carefully removing them with a spatula onto the cooling rack.

These cute little confections puffed up in the oven and began to sink back down as I started to lift them. As with many cookies (especially complicated cutouts), a few broke a little arm or leg in the process. Some had less deep button indentations. Some just cooked a little more than others depending on their place in the oven and how thick the dough was. Despite my attempt to make them uniform, nature, chemistry, and my own artistic abilities made each ever so slightly dissimilar to one another.

Some had gotten so puffed that they combined with neighboring cookies. I had to carefully cut them apart so I didn’t break either in the process. For some, it was difficult to distinguish which overlap belonged to which cookie.

This is where my mind went on that short spiritual quest.

Like people and animals, these little cookies were all distinct. Where does one person really begin and another end? Those cookies that stuck together came from the same batch. Where they overlapped, it was hard to tell who was who, as they are made from the same stuff. And does it matter, other than to the eye, that they are separate? It’s all just cookies that will taste more or less the same.

Then I thought… what if somehow these gingerbread cookies became conscious? Would they form a society and create a hierarchy of “better” or “worse” cookies based on cut, color, consistency, button depth, etc.? How crazy would that be? Not too long before that they were just ingredients in a store, then my fridge, then in a ball together. Why would they create a structure in which some have dominance or perceived superiority over another?

What if they split off into groups and started hating one another? Hating one another so much so that they began destroying one another based on their own gingerbread beliefs. Wouldn’t that be kind of crazy? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of making the cookies in the first place? Why would they fight over differences rather than celebrating how each is uniquely different?

Why do we think we are any different?

We are all made from the same fundamental “ingredients,” shaped by different conditions, experiences, and influences along the way. Deep down, we are far more alike than we are different. It’s only circumstance, environment, and the unfolding of life that creates variation in how we look, think, and move through the world.

We were created from the same source and, in many ways, for the same purpose. Maybe instead of focusing on our differences, we should be celebrating what makes each of us uniquely beautiful.

Lessons from the Gingerbread People

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One of my cookies—

Hygge (Hoo Guh) & How I Plan to Embrace Winter this Year

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I never heard this word until last week. I was starting to plan for the holidays and feeling really festive and excited—until my heart sank thinking about January and the rest of the winter.

I REALLY don’t like the winter. But it’s an inevitable part of life. If I’ve learned anything this year that is positively impacting my life, it is to enjoy the moment, whatever it is, as this too shall pass. Alan Watts wrote a book called This Is It. Meaning, as we are waiting for life to start or get better, we are actually wasting it—because the whole thing, the good, the bad, the ugly… the joys, sweat & tears… and even traffic is “it.”

I hardly noticed the winter until the year I was pregnant with Gabby. She was due in June, and around February I really started nesting. I had a paper calendar on the wall at the time (who didn’t in 1999?), and on the last day of February I excitedly turned the page and saw the beautiful spring picture for March. My heart filled with joy. I was so excited and ready for spring. I went to bed happily anticipating the coming months. But when I woke up, it was still freezing, dark, and wet. Weeks later, it was still freezing, dark, and wet. That same year, as the days turned darker and colder in October, I realized I am one of the thousands I had been hearing in the background who dislike what feels like the never-ending season of winter.

20 years later and I’m still a hater. I want that to change, or at least to accept it the way I can smile and catch myself from feeling grumpy during traffic. This is a totally new concept for me—to accept even a yucky present moment [most of the time anyway] and tell myself that this is really it. This is life. There is nothing else, and even this could be kind of enjoyable when I realize I’m alive and experiencing what exists in the spectrum of living experiences.

So I went to my best ally that I turn to for answers (Google, of course) and asked, “How to enjoy winter?”

Almost every search response turned up this word “Hygge,” pronounced “hoo-guh” (I personally like the way I was pronouncing it in my mind better, but that is neither here nor there). Apparently it’s a Danish word that loosely translates to coziness. The Danish are well known as one of the happiest cultures in the world, but also have one of the more harsh winters with a population of human settlers. What is their secret?

One can look on their own—I’m not going to go bonkers writing it all out—but the general concept is to embrace it, do all the things inside that you’ve been putting off, make time for friends no matter the weather, and indulge in winter foods, clothes, and warm beverages. Embracing it means hunkering down and getting cozy. Lots of candles, soft light, and blankets. Also, going outside every day for a bit no matter how dark or cold. Not only is the fresh air and movement of walking a benefit, but the contrast back into the cozy home makes it all the more sweet.

As I raked leaves at both of our homes this week, covered the stubborn little spring bulbs I recently planted that were poking up, and started to put away the outdoor summer items, I felt a sense of connection to the earth and, dare I say, even slight excitement toward this season for the first time ever.

Being prepared and doubling down on making my home cozier than ever felt right. I ordered non-holiday candles for my windows that I plan not to move until the sun starts to set at an earlier hour next year. I purchased battery-operated string lights for little places in the home near the potted plants I brought in from the outside for the winter for extra light and cheer. I hope to have a fire almost every evening (mental note: need to have the hubby show me how first), so I ordered a ton of firewood just for the occasion. AND I put it on the porch right outside the front door so it stays dry and seasoned—and it is close enough to not groan about having to trek anywhere else outside to get it.

What else?

I’m making a list of movies I’ve always wanted to see. Creating a pile of books to keep in the living room that I want to read this winter. I am putting together exciting crockpot, dessert, and soup recipes to try. I have a list of electronic things I never get to that I want to cross off my mental to-do list forever.

I also made a list of things to do on weeknights and weekends that aren’t as appealing in the warm months because the draw to be outside is so much greater. Some of those things are to use the sauna we have in the basement, cross-country ski (we have a trail within .2 miles from our front door), put together puzzles we bought and never touched, paint, write, color, knit, take online classes to get CEUs or just learn about something I’ve always wanted to know more about, go to plays and musicals at local theaters, visit museums, try new coffee shops…

Just writing it all out again makes me feel like the whole winter might not be enough time for all these great activities! Could it be that I can enjoy these months? I hope so! It still might not shake out to actually be enjoyable, but it absolutely won’t be if I don’t realize all the cool ways I could embrace and make the most of it. Fingers crossed.

If you are one of the many like me who dreads these months and found an idea or two here to make it more bearable—then this was worth the time to write and share.

Here is to embracing it all, because after all, this is it.

~Esterina

Welcome Winter

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My wood pile on the porch. This was taken only yesterday after moving a half cord of wood myself and then making a large tarp to keep it all warm & dry. I put kindling in flower pots. Today the scene is full of snow!
Now a day later.
Welcome Winter

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On the Spiritual Aspect of Halloween

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I have always loved the autumn. The cooler air, the deep, rich colors, the shifts in daylight; and yes—the heavier, warmer foods and attire that are part of the shifting season package. My “Vata Dosha” (the who?—something my yogi friends would get and isn’t too relevant at the moment) is supposed to really not like this time of year. And even though my body has a serious cold intolerance (I mean SERIOUS), I have still always felt some sort of magic in the air, chills notwithstanding.

Somewhere between the cooling temperatures that take place a few weeks post–Labor Day and Thanksgiving sits Halloween—smack dab in the middle-ish of it all. I realize that it’s become a very commercial holiday laced with sweets and costumes, but there had to be a reason that it’s celebrated at the time it is.

I’ve briefly read in the past that it was a Pagan tradition that the church latched onto to help converts to Christianity experience something familiar. I knew about the European tradition of the jack-o’-lantern. And last year, when my husband and I were in South Africa on Halloween Day, I wondered why it wasn’t celebrated much in the Southern Hemisphere.

I grew up going to Catholic school. Halloween for me was exciting, not just for the trick-or-treating, but because the next day was All Saints’ Day and we had no school.

I also know that Mexico celebrates this same time with a Day of the Dead celebration, Día de Muertos.
Saints? The dead? This kind of had something in common, right?

This year I volunteered to teach a yoga class on Halloween evening. While considering how not to avoid saying anything about the day of the year it is in class, I went on an online hunt to find the spiritual meaning behind this tradition. I found it fascinating enough to share what our elders may have been sensing when they established this time of year for this tradition.

I learned that Halloween really isn’t celebrated in the Southern Hemisphere because it’s the seasonal shift from warmth to coolness that makes the veil between our world and others feel thin. Southern Hemisphere traditions mark a similar shift in their own seasonal timing, which makes sense as that time of year mirrors what we are experiencing now.

The idea of a thin veil would make it easier to honor and feel connected to those who have passed—hence Mexico’s Day of the Dead.

But why now?

I couldn’t find much online, even on what I would consider to be “junky” sites. From my own understanding of nature, it actually does make sense that it is now. We just experienced the height of summer, and that strong “yang” energy is starting to dwindle away. The mix of lingering warmth and emerging coolness seems to naturally slow us down and turn us inward.

It’s an interesting time of year from the Ayurvedic perspective, the way I understand it, in that we are entering a cyclical time of letting go, with plant and tree life ending and the preparation of the cold, frozen season ahead. Additionally, at this time the elements feel briefly balanced—earth, water, fire, air, and ether. That balance, paired with the transition from life to dormancy, feels like a natural point of connection to the broader cycles of the universe.

As above, so below—in that the laws of nature are consistent everywhere, in the heavens as on earth. Birth and early life (spring), the high point of life (summer), the elder years and letting go (fall), and the quiet, unseen preparation for new life (winter). There is no true end point—it just continues to cycle and transform.
So without getting any more wonky than I’m starting to sound, I’m going to end it here. If you’ve followed my attempt to explain my crazy point—great! And if not, that’s ok too. Maybe a seed you would like to cultivate has been planted. Or perhaps this is just all a bunch of nonsense that many of us like to dabble in while we have fun celebrating Halloween, watching scary movies, and dressing up as something we normally wouldn’t. It’s all in good fun.

In preparation for my yoga classes this week, I think I’m going to focus on embracing the unknown and the lessons this time of year can offer us—learning to sit with what feels uncertain, honoring cycles of both life and loss, and recognizing that growth often begins in places we can’t yet see clearly.
Enjoy all that nature has to offer!

Peace

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On Navigating with Love

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

There are some experiences in life that seem almost magical or otherworldly as they happen. Sometimes it is when you meet someone and you get a sense of déjà vu or a flash of unexplained feelings. Or when you hear or read something that just seems to strike some sort of chord within you about its unexplainable truth.

One of the dozen or so times this happened to me is when I had first read that the soul is the connection to the divine (God, nature, or whatever you choose to call all that is). I was so moved by this simple statement. The truth of it was so obvious to me in that moment that it sparked one of those otherworldly flash feelings. The article discussed how the soul doesn’t dish out advice like our loud, animal, thinking brains do. But if you quiet the monkey mind and ask your soul for guidance, the right answer is always there waiting to be heard.

Wow. Yes.

I knew that somewhere but didn’t realize it until then. A few hours later, after mulling it over, I posted something on Facebook about it—a short quote I made up as my own interpretation of this. It had very few “likes.” Guess my Facebook tribe didn’t get it.

Not long after, I heard a podcast about the moral compass. The speaker explained how we experience negative emotions (depression, hopelessness, anxiety, etc.) when we aren’t living according to our moral compass.
Right—that makes sense too. And in my own interpretation, I understood that moral compass connection to be through the soul, which is connected to all that is. When we can’t hear or follow that sound advice and live against it, we feel unhappy.

Then, not long after, I started to better understand the deeper meaning of the yoga I was attracted to. The focused attention of breath and movement quieted the monkey mind. Meditation and quieting the mind became a way to really hear that inner guidance—something that, without question, always knows the right and loving way to be in this world.

I felt so inspired to write this morning because when I opened my email, something caught my eye strongly enough for me to open it. It spoke about the idea that love is not something we earn, but something that exists as our foundation—and that it is from that place that real change happens.

The message brought the idea of the soul and moral compass home for me. It reflected on the idea that we are created in the likeness of the divine (or nature, or whatever we connect to spiritually), and that likeness is love.

The takeaway, as I understood it, is that when we are not living from a place of love, we are out of alignment with who we truly are. And when we are living with love, we are acting in accordance with our deepest truth.

Love… Love it. To me that says it all.

Maybe, just maybe… the allegory of the apple and the suffering that followed was about losing trust in that love. Not listening to the soul. Not having faith in what is.

The soul knows. Perhaps we should listen a bit closer. It’s always there—the quiet, steady voice. Not the loud one demanding attention, but the softer one that doesn’t need to shout to be true.

Maybe listening to it really is a step away from fear and suffering.

Hey… it’s worth a try!

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The Harvest Starts in the Mind

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

In the yoga classes I’ve taught this past week, the theme I have been focusing on is “The Harvest.” The chosen reason is the time of the year here in the Northern Hemisphere, especially where we live in New England. The purpose of this theme, however, is not about the crops we need to harvest before the first frost (which was last night), but all “seeds” and “harvests” for the future.

Not sure what it has to do with yoga? If you are still with me, please allow me to explain.

A seed is just a seed all by itself. A lettuce seed alone has nothing but the potential to become lettuce. If I plant lettuce seeds in the ground in the month of April (appropriate for our Connecticut hardiness zone), there is a decent chance it will grow lettuce. But if I plant a cucumber seed in April, it will absolutely not grow into lettuce, and there is a slim chance it will grow at all. Cucumber seeds can only thrive after the last frost. Hence, it would be best to plant them in mid-May for any hope of having a cucumber in August.

So far I have a seed, dirt, and weather that will hypothetically allow me to harvest cucumbers. Seeds, dirt, and weather are not that insanely different from the potential we have as humans to manifest goals or create the type of life we desire. In churches and other spiritual communities and texts, we will often hear the phrase “As above, so below.”

What does that mean? It means the physical world is not all that different from the mental and spiritual worlds. Even though we can’t see those other worlds, the laws of nature are consistent.

Like seeds, our thoughts are just thoughts alone. The properties of a thought will only bring forth that thought. If I’d like to lose 10 pounds, it’s only a thought or wish until I do something with it. Additionally, wishing it will not yield me a promotion or the improvement of a relationship that I’d like to enhance… obviously. With me so far?

Next, that thought is planted or “sown” in my mind. The mind is not so dissimilar to the soil that we plant our seeds in. The thought that I would like to lose 10 lbs in a mind racing with anxiety, wrought with depression, or full of a stressed-out “to do” list will only go into an abyss of other competing and negative thoughts. Similar to how planting a cucumber seed in sand, in the snow, or even in April—the mind’s condition would not be right to help a positive thought manifest into the raw potential it has.

This is where yoga comes in.

Yoga is not solely about moving around in different poses (or asanas). Yoga means to “yoke.” This sacred Sanskrit term is used to signify the connections between spirit, mind, and body. Whether we are moving through poses, meditating, chanting, doing breath work, etc., what we are really doing is creating a connection of our physical body to our mind and spirit—creating a sense of equilibrium between all three, which are really one beautifully operating unit. It’s difficult to have anxiety when the mind, body, and spirit are yoked in meditation or savasana (that last pose in most yoga classes where you actually enjoy laying around doing nothing for a few minutes).

When we are in balance, the mind is clear. When we sow thoughts in a clear mind, it is akin to planting seeds in proper conditions. When the mind is not clear, thoughts will still grow in murky conditions. These conditions often generate unwanted outcomes. For example, anxious thoughts will thrive and create even more anxiety in a busy mind. The mind is constantly creating whether we get involved with what is put in or not—analogous to how weeds will grow without involvement.

Yoga helps clear the mind through pointed focus and awareness. Focusing on breathing while mindfully moving from posture to posture in an average American yoga class (which is what comes to mind for most when they picture yoga) helps us to stay in the present moment and pay less attention to the wandering mind. When we are on the mat and feeling the slight shifts and sensations of our bodies, we are connecting our physical body with our inner selves. While sitting in a posture for a short while, if the body is relaxed and the mind wanders, it becomes very clear what is in there as thoughts arise.

A beautiful characteristic of yoga is that the habits we build on the mat will begin to stay with us off the mat.

A remarkable trait about thoughts is that you can change them.

If we don’t like what is coming up, we don’t have to actually keep thinking them. With a little practice of strengthening the mind, we are able to notice thoughts that aren’t aligned with the life we want and modify them.

Ignoring or changing unwanted thoughts and clearing our minds creates the proper soil and weather conditions to grow an aspired thought into reality. This will give us the boost to perform the last and third step of harvesting what we would like. That last step is the physical work.

If we plant cucumber seeds in mid-May and walk away… maybe we will have some cucumbers, but not likely. Chances increase if we ensure the seeds are properly watered, have the right amount of sun, and weeds are kept at bay—at least initially. As the season progresses and cucumber buddings begin to grow and get stronger, we still need to keep an eye on them, but weeds and unexacting sun and water levels are less likely to halt the progression of physical cucumbers.

We have to do the work. Once new habits are built and ingrained into our neural pathways and routines, less focus needs to be put on sustaining the desired result. Keeping 10 lbs off is easy with good habits because we essentially reap what we sow—physically and mentally. If you don’t have a crop harvest right now, it’s only because you didn’t plant seeds and nurture them in the spring.

The laws of nature as we know them work the same in the mind/spirit world.

Yoga helps us to create the harvest (albeit “life”) we want by cultivating a healthy mind-body-spirit connection. The take home—mind your thoughts, as they can and will create the life and harvest you have.

NAMASTE