Something Is Always on Fire

by Measha Brueggergosman

  Because what’s the benefit of coming to the end of your day with energy to spare? A life half lived? Opportunities lost? Problems ignored? Why run from your problems? Success is attached to problems. And yes. Matching the tough question with the right answer may require taming the beast and killing the dragon. You’ll likely come home bruised and bloody from battle. But it’s that kind of courage, resolve and innovation that earns you a seat with the elders—surrounded by people who know more than you and are more accomplished than you. (If you look around you and realize you’re the most accomplished person in the room, you need to find a new room.) To again quote Bishop T. D. Jakes: “Seize every opportunity to look forward.” Your reward isn’t behind you. Everything that matters is ahead of you, so don’t let the pain of your past obscure the brilliance of your future. Use every scrap of strength and resolve you have to fill in the blank cheque of your destiny.

  I can sleep when I’m dead. I’ve had people watching me my whole life and I choose to be grateful for how preoccupied I’ve been able to be with the creative process. On the mornings when I can actually hear my bones telling me not to move, I think not only of the people who sacrificed for me to be where I am but also those who would hungrily take my place. Sometimes my strength comes from a place of faith, and other times all I have is the belief of a few and the envy of a few more to spur me forward. Whatever my motivation, I always somehow manage to get my young bones moving.

  If it’s not already abundantly clear, I’m a Christian. In this day and age, I feel like it’s almost something I have to apologize for, since the persecution of Christians has become the accepted position for the “intellectual” or the “scientifically minded.” Like the belief in God is synonymous with abandoning all reason.

  Don’t get me wrong—Christians can give as good as they get it. (And they have for centuries.) But I’m talking about my own right to exercise my personal faith and then being made to feel naive or stupid for wanting to live my life for Jesus. You have your business and I have mine. As a Christian, I am taught to not judge, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the urge to punch you in the esophagus if you roll your eyes at me when I confess to constructing my home and career according to biblical principles. I’m also human and I want to be liked. Thankfully, I have Jesus to get me out of that kinda trouble more often than I’m willing to admit. And He is the source of wisdom and energy that I tap into daily. Do I always get it right? If there were a word stronger than NO, I would use it here. But do I know I can always go back and be enveloped in boundless grace and perfect love? Unquestionably.

  I have made so many mistakes and endured so much self-inflicted hardship I’m wondering how I’m still even here. But if the attacks and demands on my life weren’t personal, they wouldn’t mean nearly as much. I’m not here to be comfortable; I’m here to be effective. If I’m not hit where it hurts, how will I claim victory when I get back to running my race?

  This is the memoir of an incredibly flawed individual. But I’m not going to cut off my nose to spite my ear. I’m not going to render myself ineffective because there are parts of my life I’m not proud of. Sure, sometimes I “fake it to make it.” There’s nothing wrong with that, so long as I make it. What I’m saying is that the end doesn’t have to be pretty. It rarely is. I stumble and fart and drool and stutter myself to victory every single day. The granola bars I find in the bottom of my purse might be in pieces, but my kids still get fed. I may not have had the time to shower or brush my teeth, but I’m on time for rehearsal, with my music learned. It’s not pretty, but it is what it is.

  We are sometimes faced with impossible decisions. Compromises take new shapes and we tell ourselves we have failed our friends, our family, our colleagues and whoever else will listen. But take heart. They’re thinking the Exact. Same. Thing. So fail forward. Because failing forward is still forward! He truly is a great theologian and preacher, so I’ll quote him again. T. D. Jakes talks about “stumbling into place.” He also says that there’s no way to be effective and pretty. The flies are swarming; I’m swearing and cursing the world, thinking horrible thoughts; I haven’t showered for days; and still I find a way to steal a chuckle or put things into perspective, because really, I know how crucial it is to have this time away from my kids to do my job or to concentrate on writing this book in order to share the life I’ve lived so far, along with the lessons I’m still learning and un-learning.

  My life can sometimes feel like an open wound, but I’m not called to be pretty—I’m called to be effective. God, in His perfect time, is the one who does the stitching, and when, bruised and bloody from the war of life, you stumble into place, you still end up where you’re supposed to be. God directs the traffic; you sit back and enjoy whatever ride you’re on, knowing that you’re loved, blessed and worthy of good things.

  DATE: SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 2010, 2:37 PM

  FROM: MEASHA BRUEGGERGOSMAN

  TO: NEARESTS AND DEARESTS

  SUBJECT: LAST POSTURE!

  My faithful Beloveds,

  End of week 8 and I delivered my last posture last night!! All I can say is that after my last update, which I have lovingly titled “Pressing On,” I had to make a conscious effort to refocus my energies into positivity because although I never doubted I’d see this through, it was tough going there for a while . . .

  This year, I’ve really committed to seeing and experiencing as much as I possibly can. Because let’s face it, I’ve been so very many places and seen so very little. This brings me to my next reason to celebrate: June 10th marked the one-year anniversary of my dissected-aorta surgery. At exactly this time last year, I had come out of the post-surgery haze, after having had my chest torn open, and was recovering in Toronto General. Although I was mainly concentrating on staying alive, the thought did cross my mind that I wouldn’t make it here, or that I wasn’t meant to make it here. But it’s poetic (and preordained) that I did, and I am truly grateful.

  I can’t believe the end is so quickly approaching. I have mixed feelings about it because this “yoga bubble” has been the exact right thing for me given what the past year has been for me. I know my life priorities and direction will undoubtedly change after this, but what I do need you to pray for is the music I’m preparing for the gigs I have this summer. I hit the ground running to Norway this Sunday for concerts in Risor, so I’m pretty focused on that rep. After that I have concert perfs of Carmen (Bizet) in Caracas with Sir Simon Rattle and the Simón Bolivar Orchestra. Should be fun. And after that I’m in Verbier for two concerts before hitting the Rheingau Festival for a recital with the incomparable Justus Zeyen. Then a bit of time off before playing Jenny in Weill’s Mahagonny in Madrid at the Teatro Real for 2 months. A bit insane, but I agreed to it and I’ll make it through somehow. But your prayers and support would be greatly appreciated. I can feel the pressure of the “real world” slowly closing in and I’m hopeful I’ll be able to keep my head once I leave here.

  In other news, I’ve so enjoyed the outpouring of support and mail and well-wishes that have come from you all over the past weeks. I GOT SO MUCH MAIL!!!! You have no idea how encouraging your kind words and prayers are to me. Proverbs 16:24 says, Pleasant words are like a honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the bones. Well, my soul has been sweetened by your words this week. It really does do me a world of good to see your handwriting and feel you’re with me. And yes, with all the encouraging Bible verses I’ve written down on Post-its, YOU surround me in my room: on the fridge, the bathroom mirror, the walls, on my bedside table. You’re everywhere and I love it!

  Big love to you all, and Namaste,

  Yogeasha

  Before my emergency heart surgery in June 2009—after I’d painstakingly freed up nine weeks for teacher training—my biggest worry was that my exploding aorta had ruined my chances of becoming a Bikram yoga teacher. Among other things, the surgery taught me how important achieving that goal actually was to me.

  As evidenced by the ex
cerpts from the emails I’ve included in this book, the course was the hardest, most rewarding journey I’d ever undertaken. I knew it would be a gruelling nine weeks, physically and mentally, and I was going to need help. When I arrived at teacher training, my husband and I were still separated (for the first time), I’d remortgaged my house to pay for teacher training, I couldn’t really summon the energy to even have a desire to sing and I was convinced I was destined to retire from classical music and open a yoga studio in my hometown. I was grasping at straws and looking for strength wherever I could find it. Although I had a pretty good idea of “who” had gotten me to Las Vegas, I wasn’t ready to be confronted by my Christian faith—which I had lapsed on. When I say I “prayed” for help, it was more of a blithely wishful conjuring that I sent vaguely upward into the ether. I was also taking the time I needed to actually question my own faith by looking at other systems of belief.

  My three literary sources for strength during this harrowing process were The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching by Thich Nhat Hanh, Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda (whom some would call “the original yogi”) and the Bible. Since I knew that some (non-confrontational) strength from the Bible could be helpful, I chose to read one chapter of the book of Proverbs (for the adages and subjective wisdom) and one chapter from Psalms (for the positivity and poetry) daily. Every night before I went to sleep, and every morning after I woke up, I would tap into all three resources to refill my tank.

  We were strongly discouraged from having contact with the outside world. We were told repeatedly:

  Don’t let anyone or anything intrude into your yoga bubble.

  Avoid emailing or going online.

  Give yourself the benefit of total immersion in this nine-week journey of self-construction and betterment.

  Trust the process.

  As the weeks pressed on, I took to writing little passages on Post-its and taping them to the lampshade by my bed so I would see them first thing in the morning, on the bathroom mirror so I could meditate on them while I brushed my teeth, on the TV so I wouldn’t be tempted to turn it on. I began to see a pattern in the succinct practicality of the Bible verses:

  In the day when I cried out, you answered me, and made me bold with strength in my soul. (Psalm 138:3) This one was on the lampshade beside my bed.

  Let the wise hear and increase in learning, and the one who understands obtain guidance. (Proverbs 1:5) On the mirror in the bathroom.

  A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands, and poverty will come upon you like a robber, and want like an armed man. (Proverbs 6:10–11) Bedside lampshade.

  The Lord is my light and my shadow; whom shall I fear? The Lord is my strength and my life; of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1) On the inside flap of my yoga dialogue book.

  Blessed is the one who finds wisdom, and the one who gets understanding, for the gain from her is better than gain from silver and her profit better than gold. (Proverbs 3:13–14) On the TV.

  A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones. (Proverbs 14:30) Bathroom mirror.

  For the Lord gives wisdom; from His mouth come knowledge and understanding. (Proverbs 2:6) Bathroom mirror.

  Ponder the path of your feet; then all your ways will be sure. Do not swerve to the right or to the left; turn your foot away from evil. (Proverbs 4:26–27) This I’d taped to the door so it was the last thing I saw before I left my room to start the day.

  By the end of the course I had quotations on Post-its everywhere and, for the most part, they were Bible verses. The ones that actually helped me, anyway. These little notes to myself reminded me who I was, how I was loved and what my purpose was. I grew to be stable in accordance with God’s plan, not to be blown around by emotional storms, and I felt that my hot-yoga practice was a part of God’s plan for my life.

  When I completed the course, it was a relief and an accomplishment to have survived, but I wanted to get back to my real job. I wanted to pack and get to my recital in Norway. I knew that being a certified Bikram yoga teacher was a huge achievement, and that everywhere I went in the world, I would seek out a Bikram studio, like finding a church. I also knew that after nine weeks of sweating it out together, my fellow teachers had become my cohorts for life. I could call anyone in my class anytime in the future and find a friend, because that was the nature of our teacher training experience. We had forged an unbreakable bond, like ex-cons who’d been in the joint together.

  I was in the best physical shape of my life, but better yet, the process, gruelling though it was, had given me back my faith and my sanity, along with a clarity I’d never known before. I was definitely awake and I wanted to get back to singing.

  It’s difficult to describe the circuitous route back to my career as a classical singer. From the outside looking in, it probably didn’t seem like I’d taken any time off or veered off course at all. But in my soul, I’d really lost faith in my pursuit of singing. I’d lost the fire in my belly. Somehow, through rigorously training myself in another profession, all indications pointed back to my birthright as Singer.

  I was both stretched out and locked down, and definitely where I was meant to be. Like I said at the very beginning, I was born to this. In the way you can neither decide nor influence your own DNA, I was, more than ever, the animal possessing the compelling predisposition to be Singer.

  As the cyclical nature of my life rounds the next seven-year corner from that moment after Bikram training to today, I find myself right where I was seven years ago. That’s not to say I am back where I started. I know more and have the capacity for so much more. I have more faith in myself, I’m closer to my Creator and I don’t spend my time trying to avoid hardship at all costs. The confessions I’ve made and the difficult conversations I’ve had with myself have resulted in understanding that I am worthy of contentment. I won’t be kept shackled by my inequities, because shining a light on our sins and imperfections is the best way to rob them of their power.

  Although it may be cute to say that I know less now than I ever have, the fact of the matter is, I actually know even less about my finances and how to manage them than I did seven years ago. True, I became a mother in the interim, but the challenges of that job pale compared with all the other jobs I’ve had or will have—including being my own financial manager and disciplinarian.

  I’m a big ol’ cliché when it comes to being inspired by my babies to be more. More prepared, more aware, more honest, more present, more patient, more loving. The “Mama/Papa Bear” instinct is real (and it is strong with this one). I would rather starve and go naked than have my children experience one iota of anxiety. This attitude is parental and in no way unique to me, although I’ve always felt like my husband never really believed I was capable of being more than an artist. And I may have wanted to believe him because it meant I wouldn’t have to work harder and sleep less to have it all. Finding the appropriate things to sacrifice to make my boys a priority was a big part of my learning curve. But the fire of ambition that burns in my belly got an extra source of heat when my boys came into this world. That’s just what happens when you contribute to the creation of another human. That human is quite literally grown out of you, and you will do anything to keep that human safe and healthy. My sons are flesh of my flesh.

  You don’t have to have children, of course, to tap into a deeper sense of purpose. I know I’m where I am because of how I’ve reacted this time around to the same circumstances: I’m not lying to myself, and I’m willing to take responsibility for how I got here, because I understand the ripples and consequences that are cast into your life from action—and inaction. The nature of the work you put in reflects the desired result. But beyond that, I know that no one but me can execute the plan God has planted for me of forgiveness, money management, joy renewal and faithfulness.

  I’ve said that the measure of ourselves is found in our response to hardship. When trouble comes, do you immediately go on the defensi
ve? Do you hole up in the fetal position and wait for the trouble to blow over? Or do you assess the damage and rally? Do you identify the enemy and acknowledge his hold over you so you can break it? Are you willing to stop the bleeding at the source, or just be satisfied with a bandage?

  Markus and I might not be married anymore, but the years we spent healing our marriage prepared us to be parents. I would never speak for him, and I will always love him as the great love of my life and wonderful father to my sons that he is. Those years are some of the greatest years of my life. They defined and groomed me. I learned that I could be someone’s wife and mother. It’s no accident that that realization came in the same way that I learned I could be a Bikram yoga teacher, possessing the strengths required but not necessarily being what I am called to. It’s empowering to have options, but there is a difference between your gifts and your calling. I believe that the two should support each other, but I also believe that we can have conflicting, though complementary, roles that underline our individuality and teach us to be better, more expansive and compassionate contributors to other people’s lives. In my capacity as wife, I excelled as a provider and nurturer. Those are attributes I value and have learned are not meant to be consumed by the unappreciative—or the undeserving.