Antojos #2 and #3: Teaching the Yoga Sutras to Celebrate 1000 Yoga Teaching Hours

The last few months have flown by, with so much in my life changed or in the process of changing.  In the last year I've lost my maternal grandfather (who was, and in fact continues to be, a role model for how to be a good friend to all in my life), helped my mother recover from surgery (which came on the heels of my grandfather's death), and incurred two serious and, at least temporarily, debilitating injuries that brought my Ashtanga-Vinyasa yoga practice (something which has been a staple in my life for almost 15 years) to a complete halt for a while.

Looking back, they each struck the same chord, forcing me to step out of the busyness of life to contemplate the little time we actually have in this world, that we are all in the process of breaking down, and that we won't always have the means to accomplish what we'd like.  For a while, it was easy to feel directionless; too much going on to wrap my head around, let alone make sense of any of it and take direction from it.  But it turns out that the antojos I built this blog around are powerful drivers, perhaps because they function at a deeper level than reason.

When I finally had a moment and returned to my list of 40 Antojos, I realized I had, without thinking much about it, completed more than a few of them already and, if not on schedule to completing them before my 41st birthday, I'm at least not that far behind.

My yearnings fall into various categories, Yoga being one of the most prominent.  And two that I am especially proud of are having achieved 1,000 teaching hours since my yoga teacher training in 2009, and teaching the Yoga Sutras, the text that establishes the foundation of Classical Yoga.

Antojo #2: Achieve 1,000 Yoga Teaching Hours

What we know as the "yoga community" (whether U.S. or worldwide) is comprised of many different traditions, which have some things in common but which can also vary significantly in their language, practice and emphasis.  As such, there hasn't been an easy or elegant solution to the problem of certification and training.  Some traditions, like the Iyengar method, require years of practice, training and apprenticeship before you are allowed to teach.  The Ashtanga-Vinyasa method itself is highly dependent on the level of achievement in your own practice rather than in the number of years you've been practicing, honoring the Classical Yoga assertion that the level of effort and knowledge of a student translate to achievement.  Many modern methods, especially since the commercial boom, require only weeks of training and do not tie your ability to teach to the level of your practice.

The only effort (for many years) to establish a common criteria for teachers from all traditions came from Yoga Alliance (YA), which was established and popularized in the 90s with their 200 hour and 500 hour training requirements. YA required yoga schools to register their teacher training programs, providing details on the material that would be covered to make sure that it aligned with YA's philosophy of including training in physical practice, adjustments, yoga philosophy and human anatomy and physiology (until today, there is no requirement for teaching pranayama, or breathwork, meditation, or chanting, each of which is significant in many traditions).

YA has five different levels (http://www.yogaalliance.org/Credentialing/Credentials_for_Teachers) at which you can register:

• Registered Yoga Teacher (RYT) 200, which means you've completed a 200 hour training in any tradition
• E-RYT 200 (the "E" is for "Experienced", which means you've completed the RYT 200 training AND since your training you've cataloged 1,000 teaching hours
• RYT 500, which means you've completed a 500 hour training in any tradition
• E-RYT 200/RYT 500, which means you've completed a 500 hour training AFTER having achieved your E-RYT 200 status
• And E-RYT 500, which means you've completed your RYT 500 AND 1,000 teaching hours (at least 500 of which came AFTER the RYT 500 training

I became a RYT 200 in 2009, after having trained at Infinite Yoga, the Ashtanga-Vinyasa shala in Little Italy I'd been training in since 2007.  Because of my day job, building up to 1,000 hours was not easy.  But I always valued it immensely.  I think most people look at the RYT 500 as the bigger contrast to the RYT 200.  But, for me (and to a great degree for YA), that credential of being "experienced" is the more important one (it's in fact the requirement that allows you to teach other teachers and give them continuing education units to maintain their YA registration), since it requires you put in your own effort on your own time.  It is not easy to complete a 200 or 500 hour training.  It's challenging physically, intellectually and emotionally.  It requires that you remove yourself from your daily routine and commit time to training.  But you enjoy the benefit of a support group in the fellow trainees in class who motivate you to continue and remind you of your goal when you forget.

Picture of Ashtanga Yoga Center San Diego

When you're tracking hours and teaching others trying to develop your observation skills, your style and your voice, it's all you and it's something that confronts your insecurities about doing the right thing, moving in the right direction, and about what you are worth as a teacher.

In June, I met my 1,000th hour and the YA representative who answered my call, whether or not she was picking up on my own enthusiasm, seemed as excited as I was for this achievement.

Antojo #3: Teaching the Yoga Sutras

As I approached my 1,000th teaching hour.  I decided to mark the occasion by having a donation based class.  My hope was to share that moment with my closest friends and students.  I imagined us working through a satisfying asana practice and then finishing off with fruit, chocolates and champagne.  

But the more I thought about it, the less I liked the idea of a bunch of sweaty stinky people sitting down in a stuffy, hot and humid room to eat and drink.  So the idea came to me to instead teach a lecture.  Afterall, teaching yoga does not mean teaching asana only.  

So the idea of giving a lecture on the Yoga Sutras was born.  

The Sutras, if you have ever tried to read them, are often simple and to the point, but can just as easily slip into intensity and mystery.  My first exposure to them was in 2006, when I pursued my first yoga teacher training.  Not that I had any aspirations of teaching then.  I simply wanted to deepen my own practice.  And the Ashtanga Yoga Center San Diego (not to be confused with Tim Miller's Ashtanga Yoga Center in Encinitas; the San Diego center was based in Hillcrest and later Point Loma as well), which had been my second home for 5 years, was about to close its doors.  I felt like I needed to take the training to continue to teach myself what I wouldn't be able to learn with a teacher, at least for a while.  Tim's shala was 30 minutes away and that seemed a long way to drive and an expensive daily routine for a guy who had only a few years before moved from the Midwest, where gas prices weren't nearly as outlandish as they were (are) here.

The Sutras provide the foundation for what we understand today as Classical Yoga.  Their timing, origins, and authorship are not precisely known.  The best estimates we have suggest they were written within a few hundred year span that can be as early as a 250 B.C.E. to about 250 C.E.  It's content suggests something of the origins of the Sutras.  The style in which it was written is typical of many sacred texts, designed as manuals to be memorized and deciphered with the help of a teacher and personal practice.  It is general enough that the many different yoga factions that existed at that time, and which were often in conflict about specific techniques and the worship of personal deities (or the denial of a personal deity), would've found nothing to contest in them.  The Sutras don't mention even one asana (posture) and, though they mention the surrender to God as a useful spiritual practice, they never mention a specific personal deity (India has many, and factions often fight over them), and even suggest it is an optional practice (this has been attributed by many scholars to the presence, and competition, of Buddhism with Yoga).  

The author of the Sutras is the most mysterious of these, of course.  The Sutras are attributed to the sage Patanjali, whose own origins are not verifiable through documented history, and instead are described in poetic language.  This is consistent with India's approach to Truth, which does not require that it be relayed with facts.  In his most visually stunning depiction he has 1,000 radiant heads that emanate like the fanning crown of a cobra and likened to the cosmic snake, Adishesha, who serves as the meditative seat of Lord Vishnu.  

The Sutras have been translated and commented on for years, by yogis who adhere to Classical Yoga, swamis from the Vedanta school of thought, and even non-practitioners of yoga, most prominently among them Buddhists (who despite the many similarities in modern practice to modern yogis, have a fundamentally different philosophy and metaphysics) and Sanskrit scholars (who tend to adhere to literal translation).   With so much room for interpretation due to the sutra format, and so many different perspectives contributing to translations and commentaries, the Sutras have been no stranger to disputes, and are a notoriously difficult topic to cover well, let alone thoroughly.  

So the decision to teach them was not something I took lightly.  On the contrary, I spent a month preparing for it.  Having accepted that this was a ballsy undertaking, though, I figured I would go all the way and teach them in a very different way than I had been taught.  Rather than approach the topic sutra by sutra (which would take forever and would drown an unsuspecting audience in yogic metaphysics), or select the best known sutras and relay them (which might not have the proper context), I settled on creating a theme that would be appreciated by most people in the world of yoga: how the Yoga Sutras instruct we should conduct our practice.  So yes, some very popular sutras would be covered, but also some much less popular ones.

In addition, rather than sitting infront of a class with a white board, I also decided I would bring some of my engineering world influence and teach them via Powerpoint.  I hope the traditional yogis I know who are reading this were not in the middle of drinking something because I'm certain it either came out their nose or they're choking on it right now.  But hear me out.  There's alot of beautiful art and imagery alluded to by the Sutras, and I thought slides would be a good way to include that in the lecture.  Think more art history lecture and less business meeting lecture with bullet points.  

Here is the image that I chose for the title slide of the lecture on the Sutras:

I felt it represented the heart of the Sutras specifically and of Yoga Philosophy in general (care to guess why in the comments?).

I tried to get time at the studio where I normally teach, which is appropriately an Ashtanga-Vinyasa shala.  But schedule conflicts made that impossible and I instead asked a friend who owns a Kundalini studio (Mystic Water Kava Bar & Yoga Studio http://mysticwaterkavabar.com/), which ironically comes from a different tradition, if I could use her space to teach a donation based class.  Sometimes things work out differently than we planned but better than we expected.  The space was nothing short of ideal for the small class of friends and students who came to learn about the Yoga Sutras and then enjoy some sparkling apple cider, Eclipse Chocolat (http://eclipsechocolate.com/) truffles, and fruit.  

I won't say that it was easy.  I was definitely nervous.  But during the lecture everyone was engaged, and a number of students and fellow practitioners attending seemed especially excited to be exploring an aspect of yoga they didn't know even existed.

I'm not sure it made an immediate difference.  But yoga doesn't give instant results.  It plants seeds that, much like antojos, grow and bloom in their own time.

Antojo #1: Swimming with Belugas

Three years ago I saw a beluga whale in person for the first time.  I had seen these animals on countless shows on Animal Planet, and appreciated their beauty and ability to survive in an inhospitable environment.  But standing in the dark exhibit room with the blue glow through the enclosure glass, I was hypnotized by these white ghosts alternately swirling and pausing in the water with the cadence of billowing smoke.  Of all the displays at Sea World, this was the one I spent the most time at.  It was cold in the exhibit room, easily 60 degrees Fahrenheit, and though enough people walked through there, few chose to stay.  The cold was worse if you stood still.  But despite wearing only a sleeveless shirt, shorts and sandals, I sat on the bench, in lotus pose, and just watched.  The moments when there was no one there, when there were no sounds, were the best.  When the cold finally got to me, I left, but did so looking back at them and with the feeling that this was easily one of my favorite places in San Diego.  I would return many times.

I have a great respect for animals and do my best not to romanticize or anthropomorphize their attributes, behaviors and expressions.  This can be difficult.  Among the earliest toys most kids in the Western world have is a plush toy that they come to associate with protection, love and friendship.  It's ironic that these plush toys often depict animals that in reality would eat those kids given the opportunity: bears, tigers, pandas, etc.  This isn't to say that protectiveness, love and friendship are alien concepts in the animal world, or lacking among predators like the ones I named.  They are not.  But animals, even the ones we come to see as pets, aren't prone to offer protection, love and friendship to complete strangers, animal or human.  They are individuals looking to survive on this planet where they must adjust to their environment and avoid danger as much as possible.  And strangers are dangerous... or at least risky.

We share many things with animals and if I suggest that I don't anthropomorphize, it's only to mean that I don't so much see human characteristics in animals as I see similarities between us.  Humans are animals, too.  We all adapt to our surroundings, we have internal clocks, we fear death, we experience attraction, we solve problems, we respond to emotions and we manipulate.

Mammals, especially mammals with very big brains, are particularly good at the latter two, which is what made my first project a little harrowing.  I wanted to be in the water with a beluga whale.

When I tell people this I'm always asked "Why not dolphins?"  People expect dolphins.  Always dolphins.  With good reason, I suppose:  dolphins are found all over the world and so are very familiar, they are social animals, they are curious and will approach people, and they have been known to protect divers from sharks.  Lovely.  Here's the thing, though, dolphins can also be mean, vindictive and aggressive.  They are predators, afterall.  And as large and powerful as they are, they can do serious damage.  There is only one verified incident of a dolphin actually killing a person (1994 in Brazil) but there are many incidents of people getting hurt by dolphins biting and pulling them underwater.  Belugas, on the other hand, have a much milder disposition.  Though belugas and dolphins have similar diets, belugas are opportunistic feeders, often foraging on the sea floor for their food.  They don't seem to exhibit the same aggressive hunting behavior as dolphins.  And they are very skittish.  If you are in the presence of a beluga and make a sudden movement, they are very likely to swiftly get the hell out of there.  They're big... bigger than dolphins.  But they don't have the same track record of hurting people.

All that reasoning, and the repeated experience of watching these whales at Sea World, made me much more comfortable with the idea, at least safety wise.

My partner, Kevin, surprised me with reservations at Sea World San Diego to do the Beluga Interaction Program (http://seaworldparks.com/en/seaworld-sandiego/Attractions/Exclusive-Park-Experiences/Beluga-Interaction-Program).  We'd talked about doing this a few times and had a couple of opportunities that we'd passed up, which I regretted when the program was temporarily shut down for renovations for a year.  Just because it was safe didn't mean it was free of conflict, however, as SeaWorld, along with many aquariums and zoos have been guilty of suspicious practices, the most disgusting being the indiscriminate capture of wild animals for their exhibits.  Over the last decade, much attention has been brought to the likes of Sea World for purchasing their more profitable animals (dolphins, orcas and some sharks) from groups that use inhumane practices to capture animals and which provide them just as easily to animal parks as they do to the meat industry.  For an honest and disturbing look into this world, I recommend two documentaries:  "The Cove" (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1313104/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1) and "Blackfish" (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2545118/?ref_=sr_1).  I don't mean to suggest that all of the work that zoos and aquariums do is suspect.  There are many critical breeding programs that have advanced only because of these places.  That the sideshows which attract crowds and money are what pays for these programs is unfortunate and opens up an important area for discourse on how to provide much needed education and research without betraying the same respect and humane treatment of wildlife many of these organizations are trying to promote.

I learned that, though the dolphins and orcas at San Diego SeaWorld have been the subject of controversy, the belugas have been mostly bred in the park, making San Diego SeaWorld one of only two successful breeding programs for belugas in the world.  Belugas are notoriously difficult to breed in captivity and the belugas found in most aquariums are wild caught.  Nanuq, a beluga in San Diego SeaWorld, has fathered 5 of the 7 belugas at the park.

According to the website, the Interaction Program was not available yet but Kevin had called Sea World to check when it might restart and received the happy news that he could book us for the encounter that weekend.

The day of I was nervous.  Nervous because it's scary to come face to face with a whale and also because I had so much expectation built up and was concerned I'd be let down.  The Beluga Interaction Program starts infront of the arctic exhibit, which you'd think would've tipped me off to just how cold that water would be.  But I was so excited and nervous about being in the water with the whales that I didn't even think about it.

The program begins with a behind-the-scenes tour of the walrus and polar bear exhibits.  Both interesting in their own ways.  The male walrus was a rescue and I forgot his name.  But he was very fond of fish and was perfectly comfortable with people feeding him.  All you had to do was get the fish close to his mouth and, like a vacuum, he'd suck the fish in.  I am not good about these things.  Whenever animals are made to perform I feel like, just as anybody would, they will likely tire of the same old shit, and I'll be the unlucky fool who gets his whole hand sucked into a walrus because he's done with fish and, well, maybe human flesh tastes better.  I imagined myself getting caught and the giant thing trying to pull me into his enclosure amidst my screams and the screams of the horrified trainers.  But seeing as it was highly unlikely I would ever again have the chance to feed a walrus by hand, I built up my courage and gave him a couple of fish, getting close enough to let his whiskers graze my hand.  No tragedy.

There was a female walrus but she was having none of it.  Stayed away from the crowd and instead made all kinds of noise to get attention even as she insisted on not participating.  The trainer simply said she was "being a diva."  See, sometimes they do get tired of the show.

The polar bear experience was not nearly as intimate, but I think that was the point.  At any moment there were at least two heavy duty security doors between us and the bear.  And from that vantage point it was easy to see how polar bears could turn into plush toys.  They look so calm and playful.  It's easy to forget that the moment there aren't two heavy duty security doors between you, the thing would be trying to devour you.

This is what we could see of the bear:

And this is inevitably what the bear must've seen looking back at us:

Then it was time for the belugas and I could hardly contain myself.  But the suspense was still being built up.  We were taken to changing rooms where we were to put on wet suits provided by SeaWolrd.  This was my first time putting one of these things on and I felt surprisingly sexy in it.  For those who have never been in a wet suit: it's kind of a mix of superhero tights and leather chaps.  For those who have been in a wet suit: stop rolling your eyes.

Once in the wet suit, we were walked through the display area that I'd become so familiar with and through a locked door into the exhibit.  I think I started to do a little dance at this point because not only was I going to be in the water with a beluga, but it was in the same exhibit I'd come to know and love the last three years.

And then I was given the big fat caveat about wet suits: the term "wet suit" is actually a very accurate name because you do infact get wet.  Very wet.  Water soaks through the suit and a thin layer of this water remains in contact with your skin.  Your body heat warms up this water and the suit then keeps that layer from moving, which means you have a layer of warm water surrounding you.  Ultimately you will feel warmer than the surrounding water.  But initially you will get hit with the full force of the temperature of the water you are stepping into.  And the water, in this case, is 55 degrees Fahrenheit.  Doesn't sound bad, right?  It doesn't because when we think of 55 degrees Fahrenheit, we are thinking of how it feels on a chilly morning in San Diego or a crisp afternoon during the Fall in Michigan.  But 55 degrees in air is NOT 55 degrees in water.  In water, 55 degrees feels like something's trying to remove the warmth from your very soul.

We were reassured that we would "warm up in no time."  This was, in a word, bullshit.  When I stepped into that cold ass pool, the water rushed in through the suit so I felt like I was not wearing anything at all.  I had to fight the instinct to jump back out.  Only thing that kept me going was seeing two belugas in the distance coming close to the surface and then disappearing into the indigo darkness of the pool.

As we continued to walk in the cold kept getting worse, my limbs would not stop shaking and I could hardly speak from the shivering.  I actually felt like I was fighting passing out.  I'm a Caribbean boy, people, and we are not used to this temperature.  The only thing that took my mind from that was the warning the trainer gave us about where we were standing.  It was a grated platform that only extended 20 feet out.  Beyond that the pool descended another 18-20 feet.

"You can get really excited being with these guys but if you forget and step off the flatform, that's what's waiting for you."

I felt my own mortality at that moment.  Could not get my mind to focus on anything else but being too close to that edge and reaching over too far, or the beluga making a quick move, and plunging me into frozen ass water in which it would be impossible to swim because my limbs would not respond to my brain.  With that wet suit saturated with water I would sink (just like you sink when you try to swim in jeans... alot of people drown that way), my arms and legs shaking like I'm having an epileptic seizure, all the while looking up to the fading faces of the trainer, Kevin and the other folks who were participating.

Then the trainer interrupted my semi-romantic death-scene with "But don't worry, you won't sink.  The wet suit will make you float and we'll all point and laugh along with the spectators as you bob around the pool"

Float?  Now I imagined myself circulating the entire enclosure instead, bouncing off the glass walls where children and parents are watching amused by the idiot who didn't heed warnings about the platform.  My limbs would be quivering from the cold so I'd look like an insect writhing helplessly on the water surface.  I was still not getting anywhere near that edge.  Ridicule is not a great option either.

The trainer called over one of the belugas, Nanuq, the stud that had fathered most of the beluga whales at the park, and this first close look at one of these creatures was as mesmerizing as those moments in the viewing room.  They're perfectly white.  As white as fresh snow.  Dolphins and other whales all have markings.  Their bodies show at least slight variations in tone and hue, especially between the underbelly and the dorsal fin side.  But belugas are the same color regardless of what angle you look from.  This radiant, perfect white that makes them look like a canvas God forgot to paint.

They have a curious way of hovering in the water, much like humming birds do in mid-air, and can swim backwards (the only whales that can do so), which the two that we met had no problem doing if anyone moved too quickly.  For the most part, though, they seemed perfectly at ease with us, and we were able to be in close contact with them.

There were the necessary (though frankly incredibly cute) poses with the belugas kissing each of us or rising out of the water while we held onto their fins, as if the were sharing a dance, as well as a surprise soaking, which strangely enough made the 55 degrees feel better.  All of these were met with fish from the trainer or the participants to give positive reinforcement of the behavior.  But I just enjoyed touching them, being in such close proximity.  Their bodies feel strange.  The blubber that covers them (which gives them buoyancy, allows them to store energy, and protects them from near freezing temperatures) is not like the fat we're used to.  It's tougher, firmer, but has give and sways when you put pressure on it, making it feel like you're laying your hand on raw steak.

We met a second beluga, whose disposition was a bit different than the first.  It's interesting to see how personality comes through even when the whale is almost fully submerged.  We typically use faces, posture, and gait to assess someone's mood, and though belugas are one of the few cetaceans that do not have a fixed expression, they are mostly submerged, and you'd think mood would be impossible to discern.  But the whales have their own gestures, they move in slightly different ways, and seem to react to commands with a different attitude, some quickly and some lazily.  The female beluga we met had a bit of attitude about performing and so her behavior was a little more unpredictable.  Sometimes she'd execute the command immediately, sometimes she's lag, sometimes the trainer had to give the command a couple of times, and sometimes she'd add a little something extra.  When the trainer was teaching us a command to get the beluga to stand perfectly vertical with half her body sticking out of the water, the female was a bit lazy about complying.  And on the third command to do so she came out of the water but spat out a stream that landed right on one of the participants.  She didn't get fish for that one, though I personally thought she should've gotten two fish.

"She knows she's not supposed to do that," the trainer said.

That's precisely why she deserved two fish, in my opinion.  Obedience, abidance to expected behavior are overrated.  It's nice to see that this playful mischief is not unique to humans... that we have inherited it along with many other animals and that in being something we have in common, it's a way for us to communicate.

We left the water and before getting out of our wetsuits the trainer said she had one final surprise for us.  We were walked into a beluga enclosure that was not open to viewing.  In it there were four belugas swimming around, among them a baby.

"This is Nanuq's most recent," she told us.  The baby beluga was a third the length of the others and, unlike the adults, it was a perfect, uniform dark gray.  It moved to the far end of the pool but played around, coming up and looking our way and then submerging again.

I'd hoped in starting this project I would learn something about myself by trying new things, specifically things that I've been drawn to (even if, or especially if, for no obvious reason).  With this first venture I certainly did: I learned that I hate cold water and that I have a tendency to dramatize how things can turn out in my head.  But more important, I realized that it could also be a venture into learning things about the world around me that I hadn't learned yet, and which can change the lens through which I view the world.  When we try new things, meet new people, read books, watch films, teach ourselves to juggle... these things change us in slight ways.  Give things attention and time and it's surprising how much you come to understand them and the world that created them.  Which is why it is both important to avoid things that will change us in negative ways, and critical that we never stop pursuing new adventures that will help us grow and improve ourselves.  I know more about belugas than I ever thought I would've learned (both in preparation for and during this experience); not just about their species, but also about how personality can come through via simple gestures.  I watched a beluga respond to hand signals the way I would respond to verbal commands.  And I also watched her choose not to comply when she wasn't in the mood and add a bit of play at a person's expense just because she felt like it.  I didn't meet representatives of a species, but individuals who happen to live in the same city I do, who belong to a very different species, and who are far away from what they know as home (a fact that I consider with mixed emotions since it enables our meeting but robs these beings of the sense of belonging to their environment).  Because of this, the viewing room of their enclosure has come to mean all the more.

Turning Pages, Closing Chapters, Making Space

Age is a useful marker.  Our intuition only works moderately well when it comes to the passage of time.  A good time can feel so brief and a grueling experience so gruelingly long.  And the longer the intervals of time, the more our memory seems to take over; and, with it, illusion.  The more powerful instances in our lives remain in the forefront of our consciousness, current despite having occurred long ago, and can rightfully be deemed "timeless" because time doesn't seem to tarnish them.  Things that did not make as much of an impact can seem more distant than they actually are.  And those that are especially banal often fall away so completely that they drop out of our perceived timeline and may as well have never happened.  Try to think of what you had for lunch on Monday one month ago and you get a sense of memory's selectiveness.

Like any other marker (mile markers on a hike, highway signs, rings on a tree's trunk), though, age is only an indicator of the distance between points (in this case in time) and says little to nothing of the the things that lie between.  Age is silent when it comes to the things that have occurred, the things that were prevented from occurring and, perhaps the most impacting, the things we wish would have happened or wish we would have done.

The last of these is especially powerful because we carry them with us from year to year, over our lives, re-evaluating, rethinking and sometimes hoping that the opportunities passed up in prior years may present themselves again.  They become part of our baggage, often the heaviest part.  And will only stop nagging us if we face them or, rare as it is, if we manage to forget them.  They are so integral to us that you could say they are part of our identity and may even remain so (and often become more powerful) when forgotten.  They can be major dreams and aspirations, like the desire to be a professional dancer or performer.  They can be deep seeded connections with someone, as in the sense of having a soulmate.  And they can be completely senseless but persistent urges to visit a certain place or be part of an event.

I've looked for an accurate word to describe these in their totality and no word that I can come up with offers the proper connotation.  "Whims" are almost uniformly dismissive, and "yearnings" sound far too serious and sad.  The best I can think of is "hankering" and even this seems to lean towards the severe.  The best word I know is not an English term but a Spanish one: "antojo."  It is one that I'm particularly familiar with because I was accused as a child of having more than my share of these senseless pulls to do, eat, or say something.  Pulls that more often than not embarrassed the hell out of my parents or anyone from my family who was with me at that moment.

They never failed me, though, at least from my point of view.  Among these antojos were the desire to apply for the Magnet School of Art in South Miami Junior High, to drag my best friend since 5th grade with me there, and, once that program was done, rather than continue with art, to apply to the International Baccalaureate Program at Coral Gables Senior High School, which focused on science, math, language and history (not art at all).  It was there that I was first drawn inexplicably to journalism.  And when I left, rather than pursue art or journalism, my antojo was to attend the College of Engineering at the University of Michigan, a place unlike any other I had lived in.  But I was drawn there.  I could give you the precise reason, because I do remember it, but it would not make it any more easy to understand.

It was easy to follow these hankerings when I was younger.  To change things up as needed.  Having lived in three countries by the age of nine, the concept of establishing roots was not one that I found necessary or especially attractive.  But on getting older, I found that these antojos were less likely to be fulfilled, and so have accumulated at increasingly higher rates, shelved until I find a more appropriate time or a more obvious opportunity to pursue them.  But the time is never good, and these things are less about opportunity and more about determination.  They are so senseless, their logic almost mystical by nature, that no one else would understand, let alone support them on their own merit.  They are things best measured by the strength of the yearning itself.

And so it's on facing the age of 40, replete with (some) positive and (mostly) negative connotations regarding the time we have spent and the time we have left, that I've decided to start this project, "40 antojos," a means of facing these desires that I still carry in my heart, that I have carried for so long in many cases, in an aim to fulfill them sooner rather than later.

It is as much on exploration and self-study as it is on achievement, because the path and cadence of our lives, I suspect, has much to do with how we address or ignore these pulls that we're given.  For those who believe in God, and I undeniably fall into this category, these antojos are signs, means of communicating with God in this ancient and universal language of purpose.  These aren't like other desires for fame or fortune, whose benefits we can taste long before we achieve them, but rather are more like the coaxing of a whisper in your ear, with curiosity as its fuel and self-discovery as its fruit.  No one will think better of you upon having achieved these things.  And many will actually laugh at your for trying, and for even giving them importance in the first place.  But it is these pulls that brought me to photography and Yoga and HP and Kevin.  It is these pulls that gave me the beautiful time I had living with my best friend since high school, that made me think it was a good idea to live in a house with 17 people from all corners of the world in a city I knew nothing about, and which led me to spend Christmas alone in the middle of Joshua Tree National Park, the place where I would discover what true silence sounded like.

Each time I have pursued one of these it has lead me to something that I haven't forgotten, no matter how long ago it occurred, and so I can't believe that they are anything less than the most critical things we are here to do.

In the coming posts I will list the 40 antojos that I am setting out to fulfill before I leave the age of 40; one for each year I have been alive, not because I feel I am running out of time, but because I want in my remaining years to make a habit of pursuing them.  And with each fulfillment, I hope to turn another page, and perhaps close another chapter... all for the purpose of letting go of these things that I may make room for more of them.

This is me on my 39th birthday, May 6th 2013, enjoying a piece of the dulce de leche cheesecake that my partner, Kevin, made for me the day before.  I am not generally a fan of cheesecake, but I am a huge fan of Kevin's baking.