Sweet Southern Yoga is my new favorite thing.

Linda is more of a ray of sunshine than
the actual rays of sunshine.

Linda Leseberg is like a steaming bowl of bread pudding. She's sweet and warm, and fills you up with happy satisfaction. My kids know her as Yoga Linda, as in yogalinda.net, and Brody almost squirms completely out of his car seat to wave excitedly at her when he sees her driving her spunky VW around town, a smile on her face even behind the wheel. 

    She is the heart and soul of the Camden, Arkansas yoga community. When I first heard of her classes, I wasn't sure what to think. My friend attended a Saturday class and told me I should check it out, said there were hardwood floors and stained glass windows. She also said it was "Jesus Yoga." Come again? I've done yoga for a long time, and Jesus was never part of the program nor did I see how He could be. The reviews were all SO good I had to give it a try.

Froggy pose?

     And so I wound my way through the streets of historic homes and parked in front of the beautiful old Jewish Synagogue where Mason and I would spend the most happy hour of the week raising our hands to Jesus and swinging to "Amazing Grace" in a perfectly modified sun salutation under the glow of stained glass menorahs. 

     I realized that morning on the mat that I, like many Americans my age, was used to a certain "flavor" of yoga. In fact, I thought yoga only CAME in one flavor. My yoga experiences consisted of the same main ingredients EVERY TIME: 

Recipe for yoga

1 gym

19 young moms with braided hair and bird tattoos

19 pairs of Lulu Lemon stretchy pants

1 grandma who can do a double deluxe back bend

20 designer yoga bags purchased from Saturday Markets

2 men, one tall, sleek and very agile, the other elderly yet attractive with salt and pepper hair

22 glass water bottles lined up against the wall with the cell phones and Earthing flip-flops

Hardwood floors

Essential oils

Exotic music tinkling from Bose speakers

Lots of sacred foreign words I never remember no matter how much yoga I do

Chanting chanting chanting followed by meditating

*optional: gongs, bowls, and little jingly finger bells

     

     Linda wrote her own yoga cook book, and it's the yummiest yoga experience I've ever had. The whole experience is the perfect union of world cultures: yoga, in a Jewish synagogue, to rousing Southern worship music. In her sun salutations, she asks the Holy Father to bless us, Holy Spirit to direct us, and Holy Son to forgive us. Frankly, I've never had yoga with a southern accent, and I'm not sure I can ever do it any other way after being verbally hypnotized by Linda's lilting drawl. Her voice alone makes me feel like I'm napping lazily in the bottom of a sunny row boat in June. 
     Sometimes the front doorbell rings itself, and she jokes that the spirit of the old rabbi has come to say hello. I know it's all in good fun and the the old rabbi is probably still alive in a Little Rock retirement home. But I think that there's a bit of truth to it, that the sacred Sabbath happenings of yesteryear have left their shadows on the walls all around the gorgeous mural, that all those whispered prayers and pleadings and praises, once left in the air above the altars, can never really be erased. 

     And now whenever possible I sit at Linda's feet for an hour of smiles and encouragement and sunshine. I carry my sister's Yo Bagga Bagga bag, sewn so lovingly when I was sick and broken. As Linda's CD player belts out contemporary worship music and the occasional classic Elvis gospel tune, I bury my forehead against my sweet BFF AH'ndrea's yoga mat with my grandma's necklace dangling against my collarbone, and I laugh and cry and thank Jesus for inspiring someone to invent yoga. And it all feels very RIGHT and natural, not at all as confusing as it may sound. A perfect, harmonious juxtaposition of ideas melded together by a smiling Southern Sage. 

      

Saturday praise and worship class is free, Tuesday evening is really great, and Linda's membership is only $40 for a month with great family discounts. You will leave feeling both loved and flexible, guaranteed. And may I say that it's a beautiful thing for suburban yogis like me to try ALL the different flavors of yoga. You might find that your favorite is sweet tea, or strawberry bread pudding.

Beautiful 1938 Jewish Synagogue

Stained glass spills light onto the serene mural by Terry, our local famous artist

Real life frugal living!

"Use it up,

Wear it out,

Make it do,

or do without."

This gorgeous vintage Dodge is still good enough for Mr. Broome to haul leaves and
 branches every day of the year. Runs great.

     It's funny how disposable so many things were in our city life. Phoenix has a population pushing 7 million, and that population brings with it lots of amenities. We were a 20 minute drive from Broadway shows, major league baseball, science museums, zoos, world class golf, ice skating, indoor and outdoor water parks, tantalizing restaurants, and all the shopping we could ever want. I personally never thought twice about losing a shoe, or inadvertently breaking a dinner plate. It was no big deal to run to the skate shop for repairs to Mason's longboard, or the bike shop for new tires on the mountain bikes. School shopping was easy, sitting in the dressing room sipping my Jamba Juice while the Nordstrom sales ladies fetched sizes and colors and whisked the too long skinny jeans off for alterations. And with a Target on every corner, we never wanted for Burt's Bees lotions or furniture polish or batteries. Running out, wearing out, breaking down, getting lost were very inconsequential happenings.

     Not so in a small town. The rest of America cannot even imagine how hard it is to get little things like shoes or lawnmowers or (sorry to keep beating a dead chicken in every article) organic free range eggs. Our little town is hours away from Sam's Clubs and malls. What we do have is so limited that I recently ran into a friend who was wearing a dress that I had tried on from the clearance rack at the Stage store that afternoon. I knew exactly where it was from, and so did anyone else in town who wore my size and had a penchant for yellow. You know you're backwoods when the Duck Dynasty guys seem "big city" to you. Monroe has a mall and Five Guys burgers. Willie and those guys can buy new bandanas any day of the week without spending hours on Amazon.com.

     Replacing anything in our small town takes a lot more effort, and I've seen a wonderful shift in the attitudes of my family as a result. I used to nag at my kids for treating EVERYTHING like it was replaceable, like money grew on trees and nothing had real value. But I see now that it wasn't their fault. Everything WAS easily replaceable. Now I love to see how my little Mr. Brodes hoards his Trader Joe's snacks, knowing that he has to sit in the car for 6 hours to buy more in Dallas when those are gone. And how my girls find new ways to mix and match and accessorize the school outfits we bought so many months ago, knowing that Nordstrom and TJ Maxx and Tilly's  and Target are unreachable from here. We all reuse and recycle and upcycle everything now. 

    It makes me wonder if it's really healthy for anyone to be raised in a big city like that where there's no need anymore to squeeze that last little blob of organic toothpaste from the bottom of the tube. It doesn't seem like a perfect way to raise kids. It sort of numbs your natural instinct toward frugality and robs one of appreciation for what they have. I'm glad my girls rush home from school and head outside to find the neighbors for an afternoon on the trampoline instead of hunting for new shoes at the mall.  The simple life wins this battle for sure.

     

A treasured collection of toy planes.

Sunday afternoon in Arkansas

National Guard keeping our streets safe 

1 Kings 19:11&12

11"And he said, go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord, and behold, the Lord passed by and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and break and pieces the rock before the Lord;

but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind, an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake. 

12 "And after the earthquake, a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice."

Ouachita 164

Lights out in Camden at the Old Walmart parking lot

Small town Camden survives a huge storm

FULL DISCLOSURE: I am NOT a local, nor am I from anywhere around here. I'm an outsider from the other side of America, staying for a couple years in this lovely little spot of the country. My family is new to the South, new to storms and small towns. This is my outsider perspective from my first-hand experience.

Camden, Arkansas is one of those towns that sometimes struggles to keep going. The proportion of middle-class incomes to poverty is sadly skewed and too many people are barely holding on. It's a little town full of the sweetest, most honest and humble people in the country, but too many of them have worry lines from the corners of their eyes to the tips of their toes. Holding on, raising kids, looking for work, struggling for good health and trusting Jesus to make all the ends meet.

    So Thursday night was a punch in the gut for our little town. I couldn't sleep at all, mostly because I had subscribed to FIVE, yes five separate storm alerts, and the iphone under my pillow kept buzz buzz buzz buzz buzzing to flash me FIVE individual tornado warnings and watches and thunderstorm upgrades. I've never heard nor do I have words to describe the air-sucking, mountain-shattering ungodly winds that pushed and bullied our helpless house and the miles of black forest outside. Around midnight the frenzy paused, then a pile of papers was catapulted from the headboard inside our air-tight room with all the windows closed. Paper flying across the room without a visible cause. I wrapped up in my husband's grandma's hand-stitched quilts while God commenced with His version of the Grand Finale at the Fourth of July fireworks show. Lightning crackled and sizzled across the whole horizon followed by thunder on the decibel level of a nuclear blast, inverted geisers of water drowning the ground, and above it all the tops of massive oaks and phone lines flipping through the neighborhood like terrible tumbleweeds. We don't have a shelter, and I'm trained in rattlesnake safety but unfamiliar with tornado warning protocol. In hindsight I should've stuffed the kids under mattresses in the hallway, but Jason assured me that everything was fine. 

     And so he thought until he went out for his Friday morning walk and found the world torn apart in our poor little town. Now the community who barely keeps up has been working to get back the power, and mend the windows and doors and roofs of our homes and schools. Camden was blessed to have very little injury considering the destruction. This was a tiny storm on the scale of storms, but a huge hole in the wall of a home you could barely afford is, well, HUGE to the family that had nothing extra to begin with. God bless our little town as they rebuild and help neighbors rebuild, all with smiles and faith and a humble can-do attitude.

Laci's shirt says "Got Hope?" She sure does after TWO big oak trees hit her house right over her bedroom after midnight. She walked out unscathed.

The house is under there somewhere

Laci's tree

Standing in a yard full of trees, his mind is really on Lockhead Martin and his young family who survived wi

Brynna in front of a giant root-ball

Where's the roof?

Oh, it blew across the highway

Camden Fairview HIgh School

Camden Fairview High School Principal Burton talks about optimistic plans to repair and rebuild

The backside of Cardinal Stadium

Every yard has at least 6 people working together, friends and neighbors helping each other

Hundreds of workers labor in dangerous and cold circumstances to give the town power and to
clean up all the debris.

Twisted boat

No power, no problem. Thank heaven for Chelle's catering truck
so we could have tummies full of catfish.

Still smiling after a long day of work.