How Wonderful to be Free: The Dallas Museum of Art

Photo Courtesy of Dallas Museum of Art

I love Sundays, don't you? Savoring the last sweet drops of weekend freedom by sleeping in and generally having a lovely lazy day before the toils of the work week truly begin. I love going on long walks on Sundays. Maybe that doesn't sound very lazy, but I feel very relaxed when I do it. There's no set pace, no route, just me and my headphones wandering the neighborhood in the sunshine. 

A couple of Sundays ago, I felt unusually motivated to take my walk somewhere new, so I decided to head over to the Dallas Museum of Art to lose myself for a few glorious hours among the great artists of the world. I hadn't been to the museum in a few years, and I have heard rumors of new and wonderful things. 

I didn't have to wait long to find out what has been happening at my old stomping ground. I handed my credit card to the lady at the front desk to pay for my ticket only to find she wouldn't take it. 

"General admission is free," she said.

Free? What does this word mean? 

"Free?"

"Yes, ma'am. Free."

"As in I don't have to pay?"

"No."

"Free?"

This went on for quite some time. In case you haven't already figured it out, general admission to the museum is free. Special exhibitions are still subject to admission fees, but the entire rest of the museum is free. Let that sink in for a moment. Nothing in Dallas is free. Nothing. 

Feeling like I had stepped into a magical alternate dimension, I was then led to a small kiosk by a very nice lady in a red jacket who told me I could earn free stuff by signing up for the DMA Friends program. I automatically declined, as I do for all so-called rewards programs, but she insisted I would not regret it. She entered in all of my information, and then started describing the points and badges part of the program. 

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Museum of Art

Small red badges with codes can be found throughout the museum, and you earn points by entering the codes into the DMA Friends kiosk computer. My first visit, I earned 10% off the museum cafe and a free book on Vincent van Gogh from the gift shop. That's kind of the most basic reward, though. You can earn everything from a free special exhibition ticket to a tour of the DMA's art storage facilities to a pass to join the Overnight at the Museum slumber party. I don't know about you, but I want that slumber party pass. 

I had to be physically pulled away from the kiosk so that I could do what I actually came to do in the first place--see the art. 

Oh right, yeah, I forgot about the art. 

Walking through the museum takes hours. I was there for three before being kicked out for closing time, and I still did not see everything. It's designed to be a great place for walking, for being lost in thought. There's no physical interruption except to pass from one era to another. You lose track of time and location and become completely immersed in the experience. I saw my old favorites: Frederic Edwin Church's The Icebergs, Andrew Wyeth's That Gentleman, and Nicolas Mignard's painting of Faustulus bringing Romulus and Remus to his wife. 

While wandering from room to room, I couldn't help but think that this is the way art should be. Art should be free and accessible to the public. Money shouldn't stand in the way of the sheer emotional outpouring that comes from being struck dumb, dwarfed by The Icebergs, in awe of what is in front of you. It doesn't even have to be that particular painting. Everyone has one piece of art that speaks to them, and finding it shouldn't be contingent upon the ability to pay.

A very hearty "bravo!" to the Dallas Museum of Art. 

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Museum of Art

The Wanderlust Festival

Photo taken at Wanderlust Austin

I was drifting around on the Austin events page a few weeks ago when I stumbled upon something called Wanderlust.  It's is a three-day yoga and music bonanza (yes, bonanza) that travels all over the world, and it sounded way too interesting to pass up. I run and practice yoga regularly, but lately I have been feeling like I'm in a bit of a workout rut. Like most normal, average, everyday humans I get bored with my workouts. Especially gym workouts. Elliptical, free wights, treadmill, stationary bike, stair step machine, rinse and repeat. Over and over again. Oh, how bored I get! Can I get an Amen? Heck, I'll give myself an Amen for that.

AMEN!

Why do we do it? Why do we keep pushing ourselves to do something that we hate? Physical benefits, of course--lower risk of heart disease and diabetes, the all-too-impressive ability to take the stairs out of the subway, and (let's be honest) perhaps a trimmer figure. Aren't we forgetting something, though? Oh right, that gray squishy thing that lives in our heads. What was his name again? B-something. Hmm. 

What's the deal? You know who sticks with things that are boring? Nobody, that's who. I don't know about you, but I need some mental stimulation up in here. Enter the Wanderlust Festival.

I bought my one day only pass (three days of yoga would be insane), and set about trying to figure out the rest of the trip expenses. A friend of mine lives in Austin and invited me to stay with her. Turns out, she recently got her yoga teaching certification and would also be attending Wanderlust, but when I told her about my driving plans she brushed them off.

"Just take the Megabus."

Megabus? I did a quick Google search and instantly regretted how much I had spent in gas over the years driving around Texas. An international bus service with hundreds of stops to choose from, I found I could go from Dallas to Austin and back for $37. Holy yoga pants, Batman. I packed my bags, climbed aboard the blue double-decker Megabus, and was on my way.

A couple of points about Megabus: free wifi, comfy seats, power outlets, restroom, and express service (we got to Austin in three hours flat). The driver also asked everyone to turn their phones on silent or vibrate as a courtesy to other passengers. There were the inevitable rude rebels of the group, but what can you expect? One caveat: bring your own movies. The wifi is free, but it's way too slow for Netflix or Hulu.

Passion flower in Austin's Hyde Park

So let's talk yoga; I'm weird about it. Yoga is so much more than the physical practice. You could spend a lifetime studying and exploring both the mental and physical elements and you would still not know everything. Unfortunately, I am only interested in the physical practice. I have a tendency to close my ears at the first mention of "heart rhythms" and go, "La, la, la, la!" I don't want to chant, I don't want to use the egg shakers, and I don't want to talk about my chakras. The fact that the people who usually talk about that kind of stuff also appear to share the same disdain for eating meat as they do for good personal hygiene doesn't help their case. My dear friends excepted. I really do listen, but I'm not into it. Maybe I'll be more interested in the spiritual side in ten or twenty years, but for now I just want to get moving. 

That being said, I slept through my first class. Sorry. I went out to Drink. Well. for girls' night and stayed out way too late. The second class however, Kula Flow with Schuyler (pronounced "Skyler") Grant, thoroughly kicked my butt. I've never tried the Kula style before, which made it the perfect class to wake me up from my workout coma. Super powerful poses melting into deep stretches, all on the rooftop of Brazos Hall in downtown Austin. Schuyler doesn't demonstrate any of the moves, preferring to give precise instructions, and in doing so she forces you to take responsibility for your body. The whole class I wasn't focused on anything except my body and what it was doing. If something didn't feel right, I wiggled around until it did. Making yoga work for your own body. What a concept!  I left feeling like a wet noodle and vaguely dreamy. I had been so focused on what I was doing for the past ninety minutes that I needed a moment to adjust to reality. Looking at my watch--oh, crap! I had to get to my next class. 

Getting ready for Kula Flow on the rooftop of Brazos Hall

Turns out, I shouldn't have bothered. I chose what I thought would be a familiar style of yoga--Vinyasa with Shiva Rea--for my last class of the day, and it was a total bust. Chanting? Egg shakers? "We're leaving our egos behind!" No. These are my yoga phobias. I bit my tongue and stuck with it, praying we would get to sun salutations fairly soon. Standing at the back of a crowded, hot room being led by an instructor I couldn't see who merely barked out the names of poses was frustrating to say the least. The final straw came when she stopped the session to ask everyone to move so that her brother could place his mat at the very front because "he couldn't see." At that point, I decided to take my ego and leave. 

Mac n' Cheese BLT from the Whole Foods food truck

Ok, so you can see from that yum-azing photo what I did next. After two hours of yoga, I was hungry, and the Whole Foods food truck was parked right outside. I breezed past the stands selling overpriced beads and organic soaps, marched up to the food truck and ordered the Panko-crusted mac n' cheese BLT. Delicious, but not something you want to eat in front of other people. One bite and the whole shebang just falls apart. I felt completely unattractive picking stray macaroni off my yoga pants until I realized the ninety pound girl on the curb next to me had wolfed down her entire banh mi before I had even started on the second half of my sandwich. That's the thing about Wanderlust--no one cares what you look like, and it's oddly freeing.

Even so, it was with mixed feelings that my friends and I sat down with Schuyler Grant at the nearby Houndstooth Coffee shop to talk some yoga, but I was pleasantly surprised to learn that her yoga B.S. meter was almost as finely tuned as my own. 

"I think 'Yoga and' anything is retarded," she said, "but don't tell anyone that." 

Oops. Forget what you have seen... She's referring to the new idea of pairing yoga with unlike things: yoga and music, yoga and golf, yoga and etc. Yeah, it seems like forcing yoga to be more accessible to me. She also (yay!) hates yoga competitions. 

"That's not what yoga is about!"

Yoga competitions originated in India as a way of advertising so that yogis could build their practices, but it has become more of a spectacle in America. She does acknowledge that, much like the yoga competitions, Wanderlust is trying to cast a wider net. Yes, they have corporate sponsors; yes, they attract well-known yogis like Seane Corn to teach classes, but she insists the festival is more about bringing people into the practice of yoga than anything else. 

"Everyone should try to find that mind-body practice. Have a relationship with your breath. I don't care what you do to get there, just find that connection." She laughs and shrugs. "I guess I'm less of a purist now."

I like that idea. Any athlete will tell you how important it is to know how to breathe. I don't care if you run, lift weights, swim, do yoga, play tennis, anything. Breath is a key part of what you are doing. As a runner, my breath is a focal point of my activity, and I actually understand what she means by engaging in a "mind-body practice." There have been times right after a run that I suddenly noticed not only my breath but the inflation of my lungs. I've stood there, feeling my ribs expanding with my breath, and thought, "I'm alive." 

I didn't sleep on the ride home. I watched Texas go by and thought about everything Schuyler said. I felt relaxed but awake. Actually, more than awake. I felt like I had jump-started my brain, which was exactly what I had been looking for the whole time. Why not keep exploring? Strive to challenge your brain and body simultaneously every day. Do something new. If you're a runner, sign up for a yoga class. If you're a swimmer, see what it's like on dry land. If your shin splints are back, try some aerial silks. Make your workout your practice. Take responsibility for your body, and make your practice work for you.

~Namaste~

Acro-Yoga at Wanderlust Austin

Aerial Yoga at Wanderlust Austin