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Jen Pastiloff’s The Manifestation Workshop: On Being Human. Seattle April 26th.

April 26, 2015

beauty-hunting-jen-logo-black1-300x88*Please note that I am doing TWO workshops in Seattle. Saturday April 25th a nd Sunday April 26th.

Book Sat here.

Book Sun here.

You do NOT have to be a yogi or know yoga.

I led 4 sold-out workshops in Seattle in 2014 and I am headed back April 2015. I love my Seattle tribe so much!

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Here is a little blurb I just wrote on my Facebook page:

Vulnerability alert: Let me tell you about stepping out of your comfort zone and fear and being ballsy and what that looks like to me. A few years back I started doing these workshops which have since morphed into something else entirely. I have no idea what to name this thing. What to call it. It’s not really a “yoga” thing but I do it at yoga studios and we sit on yoga mats. It’s not really a writing thing because you don’t have to be a writer or even like writing but we write. And we share. And we laugh. And we cry. And it’s heavy but also really really light. And like, how do you describe that? How do you say, call up a studio in Chicago and say, “Hey, I want to come do this thing I do there at your place. I can’t really describe it. You’ll just have to see for yourself. People will come. Trust me.”

And I mean, there’s a deep knowing that I will sell it out (but there’s also the other part of me that’s like, “OMG, you have never been to Chicago or Vancouver or whatever city it is. Who do you think you are?”

But

I do not listen to that voice for very long. I put on my big girl panties and shut that voice up and carry on with my cup of coffee and hush that little voice that says, “How dare you create something that is not definable and expect people will show up?”
Why do I hush that voice?
Because I did do that. I am doing that.
Is it scary as f*ck? Yes.
I do this ALL BY MYSELF. I have no team of agents or managers or bookers. Just some balls. (Well, not really. Betty White says a vagina is tougher than balls, but whatever.) I pull my bootstraps up and carry on.
My word right now is TRUST.
I do not fit into any mold or any “yoga” box or literary box or self-help (it ain’t that, nor is it ‘woo-woo’ or airy-fairy) so I simply have to trust that I am on the right path. That people will keep coming.
A couple weeks ago at my Miami workshop, people drove from all over the state and country. I had a moment where I thought, “This is what trust looks like.”
It’s like that line from the movie Field of Dreams. Maybe that is what I am saying in my long-winded Jen Pastiloff way, “If you build it, they will come.”
They will. they do.
Nonetheless, it’s so nerve-wracking and scary and exciting and all of that, each time I book a workshop. It’s terrifying and exhilarating to stand up there and be totally vulnerable and naked and well, human.
That is why it’s called The Manifestation Workshop: On Being Human.

I know some of you are new to this page as it’s grown quite a lot in the last few weeks and are probably all, “Who the eff is this Jen?” I’m just a human being (as wayne Dyer says, “I am a human being, not a human doing.”) I’m just a human being who is trying to make her way in the world. I bump into a lot of things, I drop a lot, I mess up, I curse. Sometimes I am an asshole (thus, I created the “Don’t be an asshole” series) but every day I am trying to be a better human. I am trying to listen more, to be more open, to be less afraid. That is what my workshop is about. And I intend to take it all over the world. I am.
Is it scary? Yes.
Do I need to trust? Yes.
Do you need to trust more? I have no idea.
Do you? Only you can answer that. I am not going to sit here with my coffee and make blanket statements about you. You need this. You need that. I have no idea. Only you do.
I just know that no matter how freaked out I get that I am going to another country or another city to do my wacky indescribable workshop, I will go anyway. I will lead it as best as I can, with as open of a heart as I can, with my deaf ass ears as open as they can be, with my sense of humor intact. And I will do my best to show you what it looks like to do something even when you are shitting bricks of fear. I love you guys. Here’s to forging into the unknown with grace. xo
Jennifer Pastiloff

Take that, fear!♥

There’s beauty in being afraid, ya know? What does it look like? It looks like doing it anyway.

**Bring a journal and an open heart. There is yoga but you do not have to be a yogi. All levels welcome!

Read this to get an idea of what my workshop is like. 

ps I will also be in Seattle at Hauteyoga’s sister studio shefayoga Saturday April 25th. Book that one here. 

 

Jen Pastiloff’s Manifestation Workshop: On Being Human. Seattle April 25th.

April 25, 2015

*Please note that I am doing TWO workshops in Seattle. Saturday April 25th a nd Sunday April 26th.

Book Sat here.

Book Sun here.

You do NOT have to be a yogi or know yoga.

I led 4 sold-out workshops in Seattle in 2014 and I am headed back April 2015. I love my Seattle tribe so much!

Here is a little blurb I just wrote on my Facebook page:

Vulnerability alert: Let me tell you about stepping out of your comfort zone and fear and being ballsy and what that looks like to me. A few years back I started doing these workshops which have since morphed into something else entirely. I have no idea what to name this thing. What to call it. It’s not really a “yoga” thing but I do it at yoga studios and we sit on yoga mats. It’s not really a writing thing because you don’t have to be a writer or even like writing but we write. And we share. And we laugh. And we cry. And it’s heavy but also really really light. And like, how do you describe that? How do you say, call up a studio in Chicago and say, “Hey, I want to come do this thing I do there at your place. I can’t really describe it. You’ll just have to see for yourself. People will come. Trust me.”

And I mean, there’s a deep knowing that I will sell it out (but there’s also the other part of me that’s like, “OMG, you have never been to Chicago or Vancouver or whatever city it is. Who do you think you are?”

But

I do not listen to that voice for very long. I put on my big girl panties and shut that voice up and carry on with my cup of coffee and hush that little voice that says, “How dare you create something that is not definable and expect people will show up?”

Why do I hush that voice?

Because I did do that. I am doing that.

Is it scary as f*ck? Yes.

I do this ALL BY MYSELF. I have no team of agents or managers or bookers. Just some balls. (Well, not really. Betty White says a vagina is tougher than balls, but whatever.) I pull my bootstraps up and carry on.

My word right now is TRUST.

I do not fit into any mold or any “yoga” box or literary box or self-help (it ain’t that, nor is it ‘woo-woo’ or airy-fairy) so I simply have to trust that I am on the right path. That people will keep coming.

A couple weeks ago at my Miami workshop, people drove from all over the state and country. I had a moment where I thought, “This is what trust looks like.”

It’s like that line from the movie Field of Dreams. Maybe that is what I am saying in my long-winded Jen Pastiloff way, “If you build it, they will come.”

They will. they do.

Nonetheless, it’s so nerve-wracking and scary and exciting and all of that, each time I book a workshop. It’s terrifying and exhilarating to stand up there and be totally vulnerable and naked and well, human.

That is why it’s called The Manifestation Workshop: On Being Human.

I know some of you are new to this page as it’s grown quite a lot in the last few weeks and are probably all, “Who the eff is this Jen?” I’m just a human being (as wayne Dyer says, “I am a human being, not a human doing.”) I’m just a human being who is trying to make her way in the world. I bump into a lot of things, I drop a lot, I mess up, I curse. Sometimes I am an asshole (thus, I created the “Don’t be an asshole” series) but every day I am trying to be a better human. I am trying to listen more, to be more open, to be less afraid. That is what my workshop is about. And I intend to take it all over the world. I am.

Is it scary? Yes.

Do I need to trust? Yes.

Do you need to trust more? I have no idea.

Do you? Only you can answer that. I am not going to sit here with my coffee and make blanket statements about you. You need this. You need that. I have no idea. Only you do.

I just know that no matter how freaked out I get that I am going to another country or another city to do my wacky indescribable workshop, I will go anyway. I will lead it as best as I can, with as open of a heart as I can, with my deaf ass ears as open as they can be, with my sense of humor intact. And I will do my best to show you what it looks like to do something even when you are shitting bricks of fear. I love you guys. Here’s to forging into the unknown with grace. xo

Jennifer Pastiloff

Take that, fear!♥

There’s beauty in being afraid, ya know? What does it look like? It looks like doing it anyway.

**Bring a journal and an open heart. There is yoga but you do not have to be a yogi. All levels welcome!

Read this to get an idea of what my workshop is like. 

ps I will also be in Seattle at shefayoga‘s sister studio Hauteyoga Queen Anne Sunday April 26th. Book that one here. 

 

Birthday, Guest Posts, Self Love

Happy Birthday To Me

December 22, 2014

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By Ellyn Oaksmith

I don’t know why I picked 47. Maybe, just maybe, I am getting wiser. This was the year I made my birthday about love. All kinds of love: sisterly, romantic and that most important love, that shores up women approaching the rocky shoals of middle age: my friends. My sister kicked it off by quietly asking me if she could throw a mid-week gathering for me. Wine and cake, six o’clock to eight o’clock. At first my mind scrolled through a list of motherly duties: homework patrol, soccer, carpool, piano lessons, riding lessons… How could I carve out time on a weeknight to drink wine with my girlfriends?

It was as easy as saying “Yes.” Keeping the guest list small was easy: it would just be a small group of women with many connections: book group, volunteering at the school, our children, all living on the same suburban hill. My sister baked a cake and opened wine. There would be cheese and crackers for those who would miss dinner. She’d keep it simple. I was surprised at how excited I was. Little did I know the reserves of joy this gathering would unleash.

Each day I logged onto the Evite.com to see who had responded, my heart warming with each yes. By the weekend every single woman who had been invited was coming. I was Sally Fields at the Academy Awards. “You love me. You really love me.” My inner eleven year old, terrified that no one would come to her party, was silenced. Bring on the cupcakes.

My birthday was on a Sunday, the party, the Wednesday before. By Monday I was aglow, smiling at strangers, buying treats for my kids at the grocery store, paying attention to the things I love about my husband, enjoying dinner together instead of living for lights out. I was Gene Kelley in “Singing in the Rain,” spinning my umbrella over my shoulder, enjoying the slap of raindrops on my face. Did I mention that I live in Seattle?

Continue Reading…

Abuse, courage, Guest Posts

The Seat: On Domestic Violence.

December 9, 2014

beauty-hunting-jen-logo-black

By Candace Roberts.

“Somehow I’ll manage to get through this day, too.” I thought to myself. It was a Monday. I had a full day of blocked lecture hours ahead of me. Ancient Greek History—8:30-10:20a.m., Women and Law—10:30-12:20 and Buddhism—12:30-2:20pm.

“Please, God, let this go by quickly.” I said under my breath. I knew it wouldn’t though and the day’s forecast was adding to my anxiety.

Seattle has flippant weather, sometimes. People that don’t live here usually have a grim view of the Northwest. No thanks to the media, Washington has the reputation of a dreary, depressing, state with consistent downpour. One day I’ll write about the beauties of this weather as they are magnificent and are never given enough credit. But this Monday’s ambience lived up to all of Hollywood’s generalizations. There wasn’t a break of sunlight as it was January and there was a constant airy midst that throughout the day would, at random, turn nasty for a minute. What a little tease, pouring for just a minute. Aside from the rainfall, it was freakin’ cold to the bone.

I looked around and saw that almost everyone, at least the girls anyway, were dressed like me- going for the standard wardrobe pick for Seattle winters. Ugg boots sloshing about, velour sweats tucked in, and a big Northface rain coat with the hoodie tied up under neck. No matter how rough the night before was for the typical college girl, no one really cared about committing fashion faux pas because no one wanted to feel the cold rain. Oh yes, and everyone was bookin’ it to class as fast as they could without looking like that one idiot actually running. Let’s be realistic, we have all been “that guy” before and probably not for the last time either. Whether we were running or not, it was the combination of wet, cold Seattle winter and sweaty college kid that inevitably created a class room environment that was simply gross.

Seated and feeling a hot mess in my unbearably hard, public University, sad excuse for a desk-slash-chair, I realized that the dang chair was actually kind of a problem underneath my bum. Early Greece at 8:30 am was not on my prioritized list of troubles, in fact I don’t remember a single thing that was said in class that day. My body was there…my mind was not. It was traveling methodically through the day that lay ahead of me. This day of scheduled sitting.

“Okay 570 minutes of class—did it before, I can do it again. Forty-five minute commute to work,—same shit, different day…totally do-able. Sitting in my wheelie chair at work for 5 hours— you’re getting paid, deal with it.”

My self-talk that day was not inspirational. It was hardly the usual positive vibe I mentally set myself up with, but it was completely necessary because I needed to distract myself. Continue Reading…

Guest Posts, Inspiration, Sex

Sex & Sickly Girl.

June 11, 2014

By Litsa Dremousis.

I stood nude in my doorway and laughed.

“Thomas! Come here!” I called to my dog, a willful Pomeranian who’d jetted into my building’s hallway on the heels of my new boyfriend Greg. So much for my sultry goodbye. Greg burst out laughing, too, scooped up the wriggling Thomas and set him behind my door jam, where I nudged him back with the red lacquered toes of my left foot. Still giggling, Greg and I kissed again, once more wrapping up a delightfully carnal twenty-four hours in which we only stopped for Thai food and cherry-almond pie.

I shut the door, hobbled to my bedroom and collapsed on my disheveled bed. The surrounding terrain resembled a Motley Crue video, with all manner of sex detritus strewn about, minus the drugs and hairspray. Thomas yelped and looked at me with pleading eyes, so I sat up, scooped him onto Greg’s pillow, then resumed lying flat, as joyful as I was immobile.

Greg had arrived at noon the previous day, ostensibly to see a documentary playing up the hill. It was our fourth date and when he kissed me hello as I reached for my purse, we kept kissing and soon were horizontal and writhing, despite Thomas’ unbroken barks of protest. I kept apologizing that my dog was losing his mind and Greg kept assuring me he didn’t care. And based on his performance, I believed him.

Our first time was free from the awkwardness that often hovers over such encounters, as each of you figures out who likes what and where and how. Greg and I simply clicked: we made wonderful discoveries, but felt like we’d known each other forever. He had the wisdom of an older man, but the parts of a younger one and while this wasn’t why I soon fell in love with him, it certainly didn’t hurt.

Thomas fell asleep and I wrapped the bedspread over myself and basked in post-coital giddiness. I was happy. Pure, undiluted happy. Greg was brilliant, compassionate, hilarious, had read my work before we’d met and was as handsome with his glasses off as he was with them on. (I have a thing for glasses.) My longtime partner had died four years prior and it’d taken me a long time to feel like a sexual human again, as opposed to a decaying lump of seaweed. The man I’d dated previously had helped me navigate this complex transition, but with Greg, I was starting off wholly libidinous and feeling like myself. My life was good. Great, even.

Then I tried to stand up.

I assumed, perhaps naively or maybe prematurely, that because my sex drive was fully recharged and because Greg already knew I have both a dead partner and Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, a chronic, incurable, degenerative illness that presents similarly to M.S., our sex life would be relatively uncomplicated. Which sounds counterintuitive, but all the weird stuff I can’t control was already out in the open and Greg still pursued me. He shared tales of his past to level the playing field, as such, and I still very much wanted him. I’m 47 and he’s 51 and as he sagely noted, it’d be so much stranger if neither of us had shades of color to our past. If you make it to middle age without some deep wounds but, also, a greater perspective and richer appreciation for joy, well, you’ve likely padded yourself in bubble wrap or just haven’t been paying attention.

So, traveling along merrily, I didn’t see the upcoming speed-bump. We’re engaged now, and our sex life largely consists of perpetual lust, food and dog appeasement. With no disrespect to our previous loves, Greg and I sometimes hold each other, laugh and ask, “Where the hell *were* you?” There’s an old Greek adage, “The pot rolled down the hill and found its lid” and we’ve heard it from my family a dozen or so times now. I’m the master of complicated relationships, but this one is as easy as it is loving. Unfortunately, though, no amount of love cures an incurable illness. And over time, any amount of illness will impact your sex life.

At first, the effects weren’t evident.

Greg and I reveled in each other’s minds and wit and this prompted still more disrobing. We remained devoted to our respective jobs–each of us is fortunate to love what we do–but quickly adjusted our schedules to see each other as much as possible.

And that’s when the speed-bump rose, forcing me to slow down. Because adhering to deadlines for two books and several essays, all while constantly seeing the love of your life and boffing him with vigor will, it turns out, lead to some immuno mayhem. The ceaseless activity and lack of sleep, i.e. frequent components of a super-fun new relationship, quickly led to less fun things like falling and fevers and secondary infections. (No, not those kind.) Nausea, chronic pain and near paralytic levels of exhaustion, all hallmarks of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, began kicking the crap out of me more so than is usual.

I’ve had M.E. for 23 years and excel at symptom management. But I’ve grown sicker since the last time I spent this much time with a partner, and Greg is now my fiance, no less. I genuinely like partaking in his world. So, despite his culinary wizardry, I’m learning to make dishes with more than four ingredients and figuring out how to use his NASA-level coffee maker. I like watching him teach at the University of Washington or listening to him explain the finer points of his photography equipment. Not because Greg is pressuring me. Far from it. Indeed, he’s incredibly understanding that I do some of the aforementioned while lying flat on his couch. And he has immersed himself in my worlds, spending much time at literary events and with my friends and family. Basically, to poach Cole Porter, we get a kick out of each other.

The unavoidable fact, however, is that for the first time in my life, and much to my chagrin and occasional humiliation, there are brief times I’m simply too ill for sex. And then I feel like an idiot. Because I love Greg and we consistently have great sex. Saying no, however temporarily, is like declining the steak and ice cream right there on the table before me.

He and I can approach this in the touchy-feeliest way possible, but barring a fetish, there’s nothing sexy about illness. I have friends who don’t like to shag when they have a cold, for god’s sake. If I waited ‘til I felt well to have sex, I’d die celibate. So, I’m always ill when I have sex; it’s just a question of degree. Mildly symptomatic? “Fire down below!” Extremely symptomatic? “Can we wait ‘til morning, honey? In the meantime, can I have a shoulder rub because it kind of hurts to breathe?”

Greg loves me and has wryly noted it won’t fall off if he has to wait a few hours. He has lead the way in figuring out new and creative ways to make gravity work for us. In the best way, our bed has become a sort of laboratory. And because all sexual experimentation, sick or well, requires trust and communication, in a roundabout way, my illness has brought us even closer. I’m not fabricating a silver lining, but that is pretty wonderful. Especially as we plan to spend the rest of our lives together and all.

Of course, should there be a cure, start a pizza fund for us and please donate generously because we’re leaving the house again never.

 Litsa Dremousis' work appears in The Believer, Esquire, Hobart, Jezebel, McSweeney's, MSN, Nerve, New York Magazine, The Onion's A.V. Club, Salon, Slate, The Weeklings, on KUOW, NPR, and in sundry other venues. She’s completing her first novel, assuming it doesn't complete her first. On Twitter: @LitsaDremousis. Photo: Trent Hill


Litsa Dremousis’ work appears in The Believer, Esquire, Hobart, Jezebel, McSweeney’s, MSN, Nerve, New York Magazine, The Onion’s A.V. Club, Salon, Slate, The Weeklings, on KUOW, NPR, and in sundry other venues. She’s completing her first novel, assuming it doesn’t complete her first. On Twitter: @LitsaDremousis.
Photo credit: Trent Hill

 

Jen Pastiloff is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Join her in Tuscany for her annual Manifestation Retreat. Click the Tuscan hills above!

Jen Pastiloff is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Join her in Tuscany for her annual Manifestation Retreat. Click the Tuscan hills above!

Join Jen Pastiloff, the founder of The Manifest-Station, in The Berkshires of Western Massachusetts in Feb of 2015 for a weekend on being human. It involves writing and some yoga. In a word: it's magical.

Join Jen Pastiloff, the founder of The Manifest-Station, in The Berkshires of Western Massachusetts in Feb of 2015 for a weekend on being human. It involves writing and some yoga. In a word: it’s magical.

5 Most Beautiful Things, Self Image, Travels, Video

Video: Me, Christy Turlington, Dr. Zucker & More. Plus, a Little Seattle Love.

September 20, 2013

Hello my Tribe!

What a couple of days! Last night I went to see The National here in Seattle with my friend Rachel, who is the lead singer’s sister. It truly was a remarkable performance that left me speechless.

Thanks Matt!

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Then, this morning, I did a video conference on body image and why every body counts with the founder of Every Mother Counts, Christy Turlington, as well as Dr. Jessica Zucer, Jeanne Faulkner and Erin Thornton. It was so inspiring that I wanted to share with you all here. Please continue this dialogue!

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In case you missed my essay on Every Mother Counts, click here.

After that chat, I went to the Snoqualmie Falls. Holy wow!

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Upon entering Seattle I saw a heart made of flowers, so of course, I had to stop. Definitely one of my #5mostbeautifulthings.

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Here’s to wishing you all an amazing beauty filled weekend.

Love, from Seattle, Jen

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