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The Eleventh Commandment: Thou Shalt Have Health Insurance

The Difference Between a Comedy and a Tragedy Depends on How You Define It

Growing up, the first commandment in my family was “thou shalt have health insurance.” This sacred precept was invoked whenever I became itchy at a job or felt the urge to strike out on my own. “Consider what would happen if, God forbid, you got into an accident,” my parents would say. “We would have to sell the house.”

My instincts towards financial self-preservation guided many a decision in my dual career as a clinical social worker and professional writer.  Lest I sacrifice my benefits, I often remained at jobs well after they lost their luster. I was horrified by statistics on the uninsured and perplexed by self-employed friends – mostly holistic health practitioners – who seemed unfazed by their insurance-free existence, as if health coverage was a perk akin to joining a fitness club.

My parents’ admonishment haunted me last March, when I learned that the grant funding my position at a large philanthropic organization would expire at the end June, in the dead of summer, in a recession. In other words, I was about to be unemployed.

Although I yearned to be liberated from the 9 to 5 grind to pursue other career aspirations, like expanding my psychotherapy practice, the prospect of dedicating a large sum of unreliable freelance income to pay for Cobra – on top of school loans and other expenses – made me wonder whether it was I, and not my parents, who would end up homeless, unable to pay the rent on my modest Manhattan studio apartment.

I explored other options. I didn’t have enough documented freelance hours to qualify for health coverage under the Freelancers Union. I could sign up with Atlantis and similar insurance companies that cater to the self-employed. But, as a healthy middle-aged single woman, I would probably pay at least 10 times more than my current monthly contribution for far less coverage. Financially and ideologically, this troubled me.

Granted, I knew the Obama administration had passed a generous 65 percent subsidy on healthcare insurance premiums as part of the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009. The Cobra reduction, which had been extended several times to addressing rising unemployment, was due to expire May 31, a month before my scheduled departure. The Senate had approved an extension through the end of the 2010. But it remained to be seen whether the House, which needed to ratify changes in the Senate’s legislation, would follow suit.

With the subsidy, I would pay $210 instead $600 a month for 15 months, amounting to nearly $6,000 in savings. I would also retain my current level of coverage without having to change doctors.

Faced with an absurd no-win situation, I opted to ignore it and hope for the best. I reassured my colleagues, “They’ll extend it. How could they not?” This strategy worked until the last week in May. The expiration date was approaching with no extension in sight.

On Monday, May 22, I raised the subject with the managing director of my department. She had invited me out for lunch to apologize about my situation and see if she could help. I explained my quandary, and she offered to lay me off a month early so I could qualify for the subsidy. I posted a status update on Facebook. “So it boils down to this: whether or not I have a job next Tuesday depends on Congress. Go figure?” A friend replied, “Oh dear, oh dear. You’re screwed.”

Yet I was reluctant forfeit a month’s salary if an extension was imminent. Seeking guidance, I consulted an attorney with the New York Legal Assistance Group (NYLAG), a pro-bono firm which offers consultations on unemployment compensation and related matters. The attorney advised me to call my Congressman.

Since I live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, my Congressman is Charles B. Rangel, chair of the House Ways and Means Committee, which sponsored the aforementioned legislation. I called his office for regular updates. Was the bill coming to the floor this week? Most likely but not guaranteed, a young aide explained. Would it pass? Probably, since it had sailed through the Senate. But there were no guarantees.

Although I am a registered Democrat and I voted for Obama, I regard politics with the same disaffection I reserve for football – I am vaguely aware that there are two teams who seek the destruction of their opponents, using muscle and intimidation to score points and and galvanize fans. Generally speaking, I root for the home team.

But this time, it was the 11th hour, and the score would determine whether I would say goodbye to my five-year job at the end of the week, or in another month. On the morning of the last day of eligibility for the extension, there was still no decision. I felt like an actual football — just an object in the game of politics, with my future being punted back and forth.

I checked the online news at frequent intervals, proving the old adage about watched pots. I called the aide at Congressman Rangel’s office, who referred me to Washington, where the resident expert on healthcare was in a meeting, presumably about the legislation.

At 4 p.m., there was still no news. My colleagues in Human Resources advised me to leave and call them after the Memorial Day holiday to let them know whether I would be coming back. Was this really happening?

I returned home to meet up with a former co-worker who happened to be visiting from Rochester. A year ago, I had comforted her when she lost her job. Now, she stared at me with a worried expression as I scanned the Internet for news of my fate.

And finally it came. Around 6 p.m., I spotted an article on CNN online. I read it aloud. “The final version (of the bill), approved by a 215-204 vote, extended the deadline to file for unemployment benefits through November, but jettisoned sending $24 billion in Medicaid assistance to the states and extending the 65% federal subsidy for COBRA health insurance premiums.” The article went on to explain that Republicans and moderate Democrats had balked at the price tag of the proposed bill.

Suddenly, my mind went blank. “What does ‘jettison’ mean?’ I asked, somewhat embarrassed. We were both professional writers. “I think it means to propel or push forward,” she replied with some reticence. We both really wanted it to mean that. But the conjunction separating “approved” from “jettisoned” suggested otherwise. I handed her an old Random House dictionary.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, locating the entry. “I was wrong. It actually means to discard or throw out.” I looked up at her in disbelief. “I just lost my job,” I said. “Yeah,” she replied, “and you found out in the dictionary.”

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The Difference Between a Monologue and a Dialogue

Once in a while, when a conversation with someone I care about takes an unexpected turn that is not to my liking, I am tempted to stand up and yell “C-U-U-U-U-T!”

“Excuse me,” I imagine myself saying, leaning over the person’s shoulder, megaphone dangling at my hip. “But you are not following the script. Your lines are, ‘Yes, of course, you are right. I agree wholeheartedly. I will do (such and such). Anything to make you happy.’”

“Oh,” they respond, slowly emerging from a daze. And they repeat the lines I have fed them. “Great, that’s more like it,” I reply. “Now say it with feeling.”

Of course, my fantasy conversations are usually just that – fantasies. And they’re not dialogues either; they are monologues…between me and my ego.

Although a monologue is technically defined as a “prolonged talk or discourse by a single speaker,” conversations between two parties who are not really listening to each other are essentially monologues masquerading as dialogues.

Most people spend their time vacillating between monologues and dialogues – the latter being far less frequent. At least, this was the theory postulated by early 20th century existentialist philosopher Martin Buber in his signature work “I – Thou.”  http://buber.de/en/

Buber described the difference between monologues and dialogues as an “I – It” vs. “I – Thou” dynamic. In each case, the “I” represents the self – essentially, the totality of our feelings, values, and perceptions that comprise our personal daily universe.

According to Buber, the essence of existence lies in how we interact with others. The “I – It” relationship is about objectification. We relate to people as “its” every time fear and self-interest interfere with our being able to fully experience the exquisite reality of another human being. At its worst and most obvious, “I-itting” is responsible for all genres of human atrocities – genocide, homicide, domestic violence, racism, and sexism. In modern terms, “I – it” would perhaps best describe the paralysis between Republicans and Democrats, Israelis and Palestinians, gays and fundamentalists.

In our intimate or collegial relationships, however, “I-itting” can be much more insidious. Monologues can easily creep into and potentially corrupt the most innocent of conversations, often unintentionally. This usually occurs when we ignore other people’s boundaries, focus too much on making a good impression, or engage with someone based on our perceptions of how well they can serve our personal needs.

Over time, “itting” can lead to feelings of alienation. Most people turn to psychotherapy either because they feel someone else is “itting” them or because they are “itting” others. Perhaps they’re feeling tuned out by a spouse, engaging in empty sexual relationships, neglecting their children, or living as strangers (“its”) to their authentic selves. Even as a therapist, I must monitor my own tendencies to “it” my clients by imposing my values, judgments, expectations, or need to feel competent.

That’s why authentic dialogue, not dueling monologues, is the healing aspect of the therapeutic relationship – or any relationship for that matter. To experience the full-bodied richness of an encounter with another person without motive or guile is what Buber describes as the “I-Thou” relationship.

The “I-Thou” relationship is about letting go of agendas. It’s about authenticity, mutuality, witnessing, and truth-telling. It respects differences and embraces separate but equally valid realities, which requires the courage to take risks and trust the process.

Of course, letting go of appearances and attachments to outcomes is often easier said than done. “I – Thou” thus requires a fully present “I.” What does that mean? A wise friend of mine has the same birthday wish every year – to have greater intimacy with himself. Without that, he explains, he cannot be intimate with anyone else. Such is the “I – Thou” ideal.

One of the hardest things we can ever do, and the greatest act of love, is to put aside our own agendas and really listen to another person.  That’s why my fantasy monologues are never quite as satisfying as real-life dialogues, when the mutual exchange of feelings and perspectives can deepen, heal, and cement the bonds of friendship, partnerships, and familial relationships.

So while I may be tempted to redirect conversations that make me nervous, I know what I must ultimately do – put down my megaphone, toss out the script, take a deep breath, and say, “yes, I am listening.” And mean it.

Step Back from the Same Old Story….and Check Out the Landscape

Part Two of a Two-Part Series

Imagine walking into a neighborhood bookstore and discovering a novel with a familiar picture on the cover. Flipping through the pages, you are struck by the eerie sense that you’ve read this before. As you begin to recognize characters and scenes, wincing at some and smiling at others, you realize this is the story of your life.

Would you feel love and compassion for the main character, or would you think “what a schmuck?’ According to the latest psychological research, you are likely to view your life more favorably at a distance than up close.

A 2005 study reported in the Journal of Psychological Science illustrated that people who described previous scenes in their lives in the third person narrative (“he” did this and “she” did that) spoke about their past with more confidence and optimism than those who recalled similar scenes in the first person (“I” did such and such).

The study was described in a May 2007 New York Times article entitled “This is Your Life (and How You Tell It).” http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/22/health/psychology/22narr.html
An excerpt from this article illustrates that, not only are human beings natural storytellers, but also that how we tell a story influences how it unfolds:

“Psychologists have shown just how interpretations of memories can alter future behavior. In an experiment published in 2005, researchers had college students who described themselves as socially awkward in high school recall one of their most embarrassing moments. Half of the students re-imagined the humiliation in the first person, and the other half pictured it in the third person.’

‘Two clear differences emerged. Those who replayed the scene in the third person rated themselves as having changed significantly since high school — much more so than the first-person group did. The third-person perspective allowed people to reflect on the meaning of their social miscues, the authors suggest, and thus to perceive more psychological growth. And their behavior changed, too.”

In my Writing from a Novel Perspective workshops, I ask participants to write about the current chapter in their lives in the third person voice the way an author would sketch a main character, freeing them to see beyond their usual point of view. The third-person gives them an elevated perspective on their personal narrative, as if the were watching their lives on a movie screen, reading their story in a book, or having an out-of-body experience.

While some participants give me strange looks when I ask them to describe a chapter of their life in the third person, the results are always affirming. Everyone is always surprised at how much easier it is to express themselves.

Why is this technique so effective? Our challenge often lies in getting past our ego – the big “I.”  While a good, healthy “I” gives us a sense of our place in the world, which is necessary to successfully navigate changes, the very letter itself oozes subjectivity and creates the illusion of permanence.

When we begin a sentence in the first person with “I am this” or “I think that,” we become automatically attached to the descriptors that follow. This can be potentially problematic. Statements like “I am a rich, successful stockbroker” or “I am a professional athlete” may evoke powerful emotional attachments that, if challenged by external circumstances like the market crashing or getting permanently injured, can trigger an identity crisis.

In psychological terms, writing in the third person essentially sneaks past our defenses by tricking the censoring ego into thinking that we are describing someone else’s life, even though we’re describing our own.

Being able to see our stories from an unfamiliar perspective can open our eyes to new insights that can transform ingrained behaviors. From the perch of the third-person narrative, we can step out of our stories, check out the landscape, and determine whether the roads we’re taking are navigable or need to be rerouted. And from there, who knows what we’ll discover?

Who’s Writing Your Script? You May Be Surprised.

Part One of a Two-Part Series

In the movie Stranger than Fiction, Harold Crick is a robotic IRS agent who begins to question his mundane existence when he hears a mysterious voice narrating his life and foreshadowing his untimely death. When he discovers that he is not the master of his own destiny, but rather a fictional character dreamed up by an eccentric female author, Crick tracks down his creator and convinces her to rewrite the ending of his story.

While both strange and fictional, Crick’s journey speaks to our capacity to question the scripts we’ve been given and reclaim our personal narratives.

Scripts are conditioned responses to recognizable situations. They are the subtle, often unconscious, cues we pick up from society about how we should be living our lives. If we were computers, scripts would be our software.

According to behavioral psychology, we begin to assimilate scripts as young children, when we are most susceptible to messages from parents, siblings, peers, teachers, the media, and other powerful influences in our communities. Although adolescence is a time when children typically begin to question the powers that be, many of us still continue to be influenced throughout our lifetimes by incompatible scripts without questioning whether they make sense, who’s really writing them, and whether or not we’re right for the roles.

When we neglect to examine our scripts carefully, we run the risk of living perfunctory or  fictitious existences that leave us feeling like strangers to our authentic selves. This can manifest in the following two ways:

Playing an Ill-fitting Role (or “Why There are So Many Unhappy Lawyers ”)
Familial expectations and societal values may lead us to choose a career, lifestyle, or partner that is out of sync with our authentic talents and interests.

Poorly Written Scripts (or “When Screenwriters Lack Vision”)
Internalized negative messages – “You’ll never succeed at anything” or “I must do everything perfectly or not at all” – may prevent us from stepping into and mastering roles that highlight our natural abilities.

What do we do if we begin to suspect the authenticity of our scripts? The first step is to observe them. Psychotherapy, writing, meditation, art, and prayer are all paths that help quiet our noisy inner narrators so that we can hear the whisper of  “the still quiet voice” that tells us our truths. Once we  tune into this voice, we can begin to engage in a meaningful dialogue with the scripts that potentially undermine our well-being.

In my Writing from a Novel Perspective workshops, I help students identify self-defeating scripts by writing imaginary dialogues with their antagonists, whether it be a troubling person or situation, a negative script, or an obstacle to success.

Using the literary technique of personification – endowing an inanimate object or abstract notion with human qualities – I ask them to imagine what their antagonist might say in a heart-to-heart conversation about a problematic situation. For example, someone who identified fear as an obstacle to personal progress might initiate a dialogue as follows:

Student: Fear, I know you well. Whenever I’m on the brink of making serious changes in my life, you show up to try to convince me of all the things that could go wrong.

Fear: I’m just trying to protect you. I don’t want you to make a mistake and get hurt.

Student:
I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but I need you to cut me some slack so that I can take the steps I need to move. I may make mistakes, but I will learn from them.

Such inner-personal dialogues can be extremely revealing, especially when we give ourselves permission to follow the classic Freudian directive and “say whatever comes to mind.”

And here is the beauty of this process:  once we tune into the voices influencing our lives, we can begin, like the fictional Harold Crick, to engage in a meaningful dialogue with self-defeating scripts and transform them into life-affirming mantras. By reclaiming the power to author our own life stories, we discover  that the most important conversation we’ll ever have is with ourselves.

Part Two:  Step Out of Your Story and Check out the Landscape

Character Development: The Heart of Any Story Worth Living

A friend of mine who’s had a disproportionate number of struggles in her 45 years on earth, bristles whenever I try to comfort her by espousing the virtues of character development. “Great, another f-ing personal growth experience,” she says.

While I completely empathize, I sometimes wonder whether we can ever really know how much character-building is too much. From Friedrich Nietzsche to Carl Jung, to the Vilna Goan, many philosophical and spiritual luminaries have subscribed to the belief that adversity cultivates character, challenging the forces of  inertia so that we may face a fear, strengthen emotional muscle, eradicate self-defeating thoughts, or break an unhealthy relationship pattern.

Personally speaking, character development is why I became a psychotherapist. It is also one of the reasons I go to the movies or pick up a book – I want to witness personal transformation, and be transformed in the process. I want to help the chronically timid woman discover previously untapped reserves of strength and courage. I want to read about the political refugee who finds salvation in friendship and small, meaningful acts of humanity.

Unfortunately, character development doesn’t occur in a vacuum. Life typically presents us with circumstances that bump up against our rougher edges. These circumstances, which we might call conflicts, present us with opportunities to refine these growth edges or run the risk of becoming, well…even edgier.

Of course, no one ever consciously desires conflicts. Most of us will go out of our way to avoid them, the fight-or-flight response being hard-wired into our DNA. However, in the world of novels and film, not ony do we expect conflicts, but also we recognize, consciously or not, that they are an important part of any story worth telling.

As many of us recall from high school English class, conflict is a basic element of a story that results from the interaction between the protagonist (the main character) and the antagonist, typically a person (boss), group of people (government), situation (hurricane) or personal shortcoming (addiction).

Conflicts in novels and films shape the plot and move the story forward, presenting the main character with opportunities to overcome inner obstacles, potentially leading to epiphanies, life lessons, and psychological rebirth.

Just like in novels, the chapters of our lives often present us with opportunities to strengthen areas within ourselves that haven’t been fully developed. In my Writing from a Novel Perspective workshops, I ask participants to explore through writing character traits that might be cultivated through a conflictual encounter with an antagonist in a recent episode of their personal narrative.

I tell participants that “conflict” can be interpreted literally as a person who is giving them grief, or as loosely as ambivalence about making an important decision. Once they have identified their antagonist, I encourage them to imagine how the conflict with their antagonist might help them develop personal strengths in areas where they haven’t historically felt so strong.

For example, a successful executive with a history of being judgemental about the less fortunate may, upon losing his job, find himself developing a greater degree of compassion for himself and for others. Similarly, a newly divorced woman who took a passive role in her relationship with an alcoholic spouse may need to become assertive to move forward in life and secure the welfare of her children.

And here is the beauty of this process:  once we accept that our antagonist has something valuable to teach us, we can begin to mine the gems of of the situation whether or not our story unfolds to our liking. Suddenly responding to conflict with anger and resentment or, alternatively, with  introspection and empowerment, becomes a conscious choice. This new awareness can transform our personal narratives into paeans to the triumph of the human spirit over adversity, reminding us that character development is not only the heart of any story worth reading, but also worth living.

Feeling Stuck? It’s Just a Chapter, Not Your Life Story

Every life is an unfolding story with plot twists and bright spots. When people become depressed, it is usually because they mistake one or more difficult chapters in their lives for the entire plotline, and fail to embrace lessons that can help them move their story forward.

Take the 2006 Blockbuster, “The Pursuit of Happyness.” The true rags-to-riches film chronicles exactly 28 chapters in the life of Chris Gardener, a suddenly single father who battles homelessness and ridiculous odds to earn a coveted entry-level position at a major San Francisco brokerage firm. The genius of this film is that 27 of the chapters, wrapped into gritty little headings like “Locked Out,” “Being Stupid,” and “Riding the Bus,” are about the “Pursuit” part of the equation. Only the last chapter, as the narrator points out, is entitled “Happiness.”

If Mr. Gardener had gotten stuck in one of these chapters, misinterpreting his temporary difficulties as a never-ending story of struggle and victimization, he may have failed to muster the courage and resilience to succeed. Consequently, the film might have been called “Giving Up,” and its message – that the seeds of happiness are often sown with toil – would have been lost.

Of course, it’s so much easier to accept the meaning of difficult chapters and heart-wrenching scenes when it’s happening to someone else, and we’re virtually assured of a positive outcome.

In my workshop series, Writing from a Novel Perspective http://www.novel-perspective.com/Workshops.html, I invite participants to imagine themselves as protagonists of their own life stories with the power to interpret, transform, and reclaim their personal narratives.

One of the first exercises I give the class is to assign a title to the current chapter of their lives and write a brief description. The exercise is helpful in several respects: 1)  it allows participants to reflect on and begin to identify current trends and themes in the lives; 2) it helps them consider these trends within a framework with a defined beginning and ending; and 3) it empowers them to interpret the meaning of their own experiences.

This exercise also speaks to the power of naming and interpretation. There are many ways to tell a story. But how we interpret our stories affects how we feel about our stories, and how we feel about our stories often determines how they unfold.

Perhaps that’s why one of the primary goals of psychotherapy is to help clients name their problems; the idea being that once something is named, it can be examined, claimed, and interpreted. The power of naming is further emphasized in the first acts of the biblical account of Creation, when God divides light and darkness, and names them “day” and “night.” It is perhaps no coincidence that the Hebrew noun for “word,” dvar, shares a root with the verb “to cut.” Thus words sculpt and shape our reality.

And here is the beauty of this process:  once we have identified the chapters and deciphered their meaning, we can begin to weave the fragments of our lives into a meaningful narrative that values the subtle, often unrecognized personal victories that build character – facing a fear, changing an attitude, or kicking a bad habit. Thus, difficult chapters like unemployment and divorce become opportunities for personal transformation. This new awareness can help us write new scripts for old stories while embracing life’s inevitable trials and tribulations as purposeful experiences that won’t last forever.

Emotional Yoga: Why Stretching is Good for Relationships

For the second week in a row, I stood shivering outside my boyfriend’s  apartment, waiting for him to come home. I saw his lateness as symptomatic. I knew he cared for me. Yet I wondered if he anticipated the consequences of his actions on my feelings.

“What do you want me to do?” he said in exasperation.

His question hung in the air for several seconds. Then I spotted his yoga mat, and the answer slipped off my tongue.

“Emotional yoga,” I said.

“Emotional what?” he replied, perplexed.

“Emotional yoga,” I repeated. “I want you to mindfully stretch a little for the sake of our relationship and see what that does for you…and for us.”

Today, when there is practically one yoga studio for every two Starbucks, I find it ironic that people often fail to make the connection between yoga’s mind and body-enhancing effects and its metaphorical potential for sustaining healthy relationships.

According to Wikipedia, the word “yoga” is derived from the Sanskrit word for “unite.”  An asana is a pose that helps “restore and maintain a practitioner’s well-being, improve the body’s flexibility and vitality, and promote the ability to remain in seated meditation for extended periods.” Asanas include “Child’s Pose,” a simple relaxation posture where the body faces the floor in fetal position, and “Downward Facing Dog,” a position that mimics a dog stretch by requiring a person to kneel with hands and knees on the floor, and push his hips toward the ceiling to form an inverted V-shape. These positions must be done with proper body alignment in order to reap the benefits and avoid injury.

Like an asana, a healthy relationship requires flexibility, commitment, and alignment with our internal sources of vitality and well-being – loving ourselves unconditionally, for example – even while enduring periods of discomfort. I am always grateful when my yoga teachers push me to stretch beyond my comfort zone, but stop if I encounter pain.

This is an important lesson for relationships. Many people confuse discomfort and pain and, consequently, their relationships suffer.

Those who mistake pain for discomfort are often unwilling to do things for or with their partner that are unfamiliar, not to their liking, or personally inconvenient. In refusing to put themselves into a moderately uncomfortable position, they miss out on an opportunity to experience the pleasure that comes with overcoming perceived limitations, and giving of oneself for the benefit of the relationship.

In this way, yoga is aligned with the premise of cognitive-behavioral psychology, which holds that one’s internal state can change by manipulating his or her environment. An example of this might be the husband who begrudgingly accepts a dinner invitation at his in-laws, only to discover that the benefits of making his wife happy outweigh the discomfort of eating over-cooked steak and listening to his mother-in-laws incessant nagging about having more grandchildren.

The positive reinforcement he receives from pleasing his wife, especially if it occurs more than once, may ultimately alter his attitude about visiting the in-laws the next time he is asked. The less tension there is around planning a trip to the in-laws, the better they’re relationship will be. At the same time, his ability to experience himself as a giving, flexible person will enhance his own self image, and such an improvement in his self esteem will ultimately be good for their marriage.

It’s reminds me of something a dance teacher once told me. “Sometimes, when you begin to stretch, your muscles scream “no, no, no” – they don’t think they can handle the tension because it’s never been asked of them before,” she explained. “But as you gradually ease into the pose, they relax and discover an untapped capacity for elasticity.”

The danger, of course, is pushing beyond one’s limits and straining a muscle, especially if the alignment is off. Unable to perceive or accept their own limitations, some people push themselves to assume postures that are too advanced, or continue to hold asanas that are causing them pain, either because they haven’t learned the correct alignment, or because their own ego equates personal limitations with failure.

This describes the predicament of those who mistake pain for discomfort. In the language of relationships, this might explain the woman who stays in an abusive relationship, telling herself that it really isn’t all that bad, or the man who endures constant criticism from his wife because he believes he deserves it, or he is too afraid to leave.

Constant pain is a sign that something is amiss. However, discomfort, if experienced in proper alignment, can eventually give way to flexibility and even pleasure. That’s why making yourself a little uncomfortable for someone you love from time to time will stretch the relationship into new levels of health and vitality. Such is the yogic way.


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