It’s January, which means a new 30-day yoga program (Move) from Yoga With Adriene. Ken never understood it; but for me, yoga is about self-acceptance, really self-love. When I “get on the mat,” as Adriene, from Yoga with Adriene, would say, all the self-criticism, all the self-doubt is silenced for that 30 minutes or so. And if I consistently do yoga, I start hearing inside my head those words of self-acceptance, instead of the self-beratement that I learned very early in life. 

“Meet yourself where you are” is such an encouraging statement. If I can only briefly hold a pose, if I fall during crow, if I stay on my knees during plank, that’s all good because it’s where I am in that moment. That lack of judgment can feel pretty weird at first, pretty unbelievable, because we are taught that no matter how good we are, we are never enough. 

What if, in fact, you are enough … actually enough, just as you are? Something to think about.

I read something recently that has stuck with me: “I walk down memory lane because I love running into you.” It sounds lovely, doesn’t it? But of course it’s not really true. Walking down memory lane is a very bittersweet experience. 

You all have memories that run on repeat through your minds, right? And some of them are triggered by objects or pictures or even smells. I have a blanket – it turned 25 years old in early October. How do I know that, you ask? Because I remember the day Ken and I bought it. Every time I see that blanket, the event comes back to me. 

We actually bought two identical blankets on a Friday in October, 1996. We were going to a sleep concert, this sleep concert. We weren’t really prepared – I had no idea what a sleep concert was – and Ken had mistaken the day, a thing he did consistently because he never really cared what day it was. 

So, we drove there on Friday, discovered that it wasn’t until Saturday, looked at the venue (a gymnasium floor) and realized that we needed blankets and pillows. We called my MIL to make sure she’d be okay watching our son for another day (she was thrilled), found a hotel for the night, and went shopping for supplies. 

We got to the venue early and picked out our spots on the floor in front of Robert Rich. Yep, THE Robert Rich. He had a big, amazing, crazy setup and was already there testing his equipment. Ken, of course, went over to introduce himself – a thing Ken would absolutely do and I would decidedly NOT. 

Robert was gracious and thrilled to hear that Ken was a huge fan. They chatted for a long time while I fussed over our sleeping arrangement – it was really just two blankets and like 4, maybe 3, pillows tossed on the floor. (It’s a good thing I was young then. When I think about that setup now, all that runs through my mind is how incredibly uncomfortable it must have been to lie prone on a gym floor for 8 hours.) 

Of course, I couldn’t really tell you what it’s like to spend an entire night on a gymnasium floor, because I had a horrible, mucousy cold. It was the worst. I could only sort of breathe out of my mouth, when I wasn’t coughing, of course. By Saturday evening, I was a toxic waste site all on my own. 

In case you’ve never gotten the opportunity to attend a sleep concert, let me explain. It’s a very lengthy concert experience with live music, some from albums but lots of improvisation. Concertgoers attend with the intention of going to sleep. Noise at a sleep concert is beyond criminal. There’s no rustling, no snacking, no snoring, no whispering. It’s really and truly silent, except for the performance.  

Most attendees do sleep, at least for a bit of the concert, especially as the music gentles to an ambient, atmospheric, spacey sound for a portion of the night. Some people doze or go into what they describe as a trance-like state. As the next day dawns, the music becomes more vibrant to intentionally but gently wake the audience. 

Thanks to my terrible, drippy, disgusting cold, unlike the rest of the attendees, I stayed up the entire night. Initially, I would lie down for a few moments, sit up to sneeze and then lie down again, occasionally tiptoeing out of the room to blow my nose heartily before returning – very quietly – to my little sleep spot. 

Eventually, Ken furiously whispered that I needed to go away because I was disturbing the vibe  – a fair comment. It’s hard to settle in for an ambient sleep music experience when your neighbor keeps sneezing.  

So, I left the gym and sat on the hallway floor listening to the concert until Robert Rich himself invited me to share his picnic table. (There was a literal picnic table placed in the hall directly outside his performance space.)

I accepted his invitation after warning him about my putrid condition. He didn’t care and encouraged me to watch his entire concert up close. Every once in a while, he would take a break and sit at the table with me, chatting about the nothing things that strangers talk about in the middle of the night. It was ridiculously lovely. 

Ken and I attended other similar events throughout our lives together. All have great stories to go with them, of course. One of these days, I’ll dust off the story of the time I wore khakis to Projektfest (black tape for a blue girl – and absolutely nothing sleep concert-y about that experience!) at the Vic Theater in Chicago.

I think I still have the tshirt from that one, though I left my ego on the ground outside, somewhere behind one of the many groups of goths in spike collars who made fun of the only girl there in a button-down shirt and khakis.

I’m not sure if there’s a lesson here regarding memory lane – maybe it’s to be careful how long you linger, though while you’re there, you can wear whatever you want.

Happy New Year.