Day 1

It's 5:44. I was out of bed by 5:10, which will be cutting it close in a few days. Today is Ellen Heed's anatomy workshop, which starts at 8. I'll find out of my roommate wants to do the 40-minute walk, or if she wants to walk alone.

I left my house at about 2:30 Sunday. I was traveling with my friend Peter, a poet, and two of his poet friends who were going to do a reading at Pilot Books, an unbelievable heaven-on-earth of a small press bookstore, owned by a rad 25 year old woman entrepreneur! On our way to pick up Emily we encountered all manner of people hanging out of honking cars waving Canadian flags, by which we gathered Canada won the hockey game. We boycotted honking just like we'd boycotted the rest of the Olympics. We were late getting out, so it was a real bummer when the border guards took issue with my "status" (yoga teacher training) and took us all in to talk to us. I guess I was pretty niave about this border business. I didn't have any documentation proving I'd only be staying a month -- granted, nobody sent me any documentation that would prove such a thing. All of my correspondence was through email, and I hadn't printed it. They let us through begrudgingly after about a half hour. Everyone else in the car was really kind about it and commented on the fascinating semiotic politics of the experience, and called it educational. We thought we'd make up time on the not-too-busy highway until we ran into collision warnings. Halfway through a crawling detour we found out that someone had apparently been hit by a Greyhound. Our journey so far had been late, hassled, and brushed with tragedy, so there was a small air of foreboding. I blame the full moon.

We finally got to Seattle about ten minutes after the reading was supposed to begin. There were only four people at the bookstore, including the owner, the event organizer, and I think some staff. Emily and Chris launched into their wicked collaborative feminist poem series, and after they presented their poetics all of us participated in a long and involved and passionate debate about feminism and language. Everyone was about to leave for dinner when Peter said he'd like to propose that I read. Flustered and unprepared (and dehydrated), I managed to pronounce 5 poems, and then he read about 5. I haven't read at a poetry reading in it seems years, and usually only friends and teachers see my poems, so I was astounded and thrilled when the owner of Pilot (her name is Summer) said she really enjoyed my work and that she'd like to have me read there again! We'll see . . . .

After dinner I finally got around to trying to figure out my sleeping arrangements: no dice. I couldn't get through to my backup and it was too late to try the place I'm renting. I ended up sleeping on Summer's floor, which I feel no end of embarrassed about -- irresponsible! But I suppose it was pleasantly bohemian of me to roll in, throw down a few last-minute poems and trust the universe to provide me with a place to sleep.

I conquered the bus and arrived at the place I'm staying, which is a beautiful large old house. I have a bigger, comfier bed than I've ever had, and there were fresh flowers waiting for me when I arrived. The owner of the house is friendly and helpful, and I discovered this morning that she gets up before 6am, too. I met my roommate, Fatima -- another Forrest trainee -- who is stylish and personable, and we ventured off to see if we could find the studio where we'll be practicing.

I feel like I'm on the right path when my journey to Forrest training brings me smack, first thing, into artistic opportunity: my intention for this summer is to concentrate on art and become involved in artistic communities. I have found that I need both artistic expression and yoga practice in my life to maintain my peace of mind. In the first week here I'll have found both.