abhyasa (part 1) ("to throw toward".... consistent, diligent practice...)
There are days when you just can't. I can't. When the still, petaled voice urges you to nudge up to the basin of the well and gaze inside. Urges you to stare past the still, calm surface of the water and find what depths and hidden treasures lay inside. To stir shit up, plumb the depths and emerge victorious, a string of diver's pearls clung victoriously in your tenacious fist.
And then there's Monday. The tongue-tying, heart-stomping, effort-squashing bitch of the week. Where all one's heartfelt efforts are rewarded by prematurely sore muscles, a slight headache, and nothing but useless SPAM in your inbox. There is never enough coffee. You are almost always on your damn period. The cavities of the house greet you with unwashed sheets and foreign, desultory smells. And whatever glorious vistas you imagined yourself scaling over the freewheeling, punch-drunk weekend turn to dog-eared postcards in your flailing, inept palms. Glories only glimpsed, never realized.
Today you know you must not do the following: Start a diet. Scrutinize your bank statement. Begin training for that marathon. Master crow pose. Give up wheat. Call your Mother and lovingly inquire as to her health. You must not paint your bathroom red in an attempt to keep from cleaning out the bottom drawer you've been avoiding these past 6 months, its contents starting to collect a white sheen of dust and mold. This is not the day that, after a toddler-induced, 3-month long dry spell, you decide you and your husband are going to become adept practitioners of Tantra, beginning each day, (after oil-pulling, many cups of herbal tea and vippassana, of course) with a pre-dawn bout of passionate love-making, your chakras and auras entwined, while the cooperate munchkin obediently snoozes. Today is not the day to stand on your hands in the middle of the room for five whole minutes and it is not the day to spearhead a large political uprising or start a revolution.
Neither major nor minor.
Or maybe it is....
Cuz maybe you will forgo pancakes for breakfast. And that will be that. You will jog around your neighborhood for 12 whole minutes, noticing the change of the light as the fog makes echoes through the ancient, greenery of trees. You will hold your breath and diligently dial your Mama, then thank the gods for the sweet invention of voicemail as you deliver her your best, most shiniest Good Daughter message, whilst patting yourself on the back. Today is the day you will fold half of that tower of laundry, and maybe slip your hubbie some tongue into the usual workaday smooch on your way out the door, where the gym and precisely 13 seconds of handstand await.
Today's revolutions will be like any other. Small, consistent, unremarkable in either breadth or distance. In the grand scheme of things, they will rise to the height and audacity of a hill of beans.
But maybe some of them are magic. Maybe some of them will sprout. Through the lackluster sweat of your day-in-day-out effort, one day shall arise those glorious, fabled mansions in the sky. A hulk of vivid, mythic vine unfurling itself skyward from the humble spot in the ground you've been toiling all the while. And you will gaze upward at its mystic majesty, wonderingwhat celestial realms await you at its end. And then you will reach out your hand and position your feet once more, and once again begin to Climb.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Monday, August 25, 2014
yogi by design.
There is no time I am more fond of being in my own skin than after the sweaty, heady, gleeful and grueling experience of leading asana. Standing before a group of twenty or so stretchy-pant clad bodies, familiar to me in form and face by now; doing by best to convey the particular play with gravity, the insistent handprints as they float up into handstands, reminding them to breathe, stay present, smile and welcome whatever sensations are floating up to meet them on that breath, that moment, dripping down in that morsel of sweat. Laying there, tired little corpses, I thumb through my latest book of poems or pithy tidbits, the final frosting on this lovely cake we've come and baked together, once again. And in that, and the few moments or hours that follow, I feel most like myself. I like myself. This me. This version who stands before a full-length mirror, sweaty, covered in my own salty dew, energized, awakened: viscerally reconnected to a deep well of gratitude, grace, strength, wisdom, even a little bit of verve. She is the woman I most want to inhabit. I want to wear this particular sheath and skin all damn day, every day.
When I studied theater, in what seems like several lifetimes before, I can recall certain moments upon the stage, a hit of transcendance; those infinitesmal windows where the work you'd so painstakingly put in the weeks, months, yeras previous - coalesced in a breath of pure Grace. you'd hit the mark: embodied the thing you set out to embody; raised these humble bones and tissues to a place of otherworldly greatness and design. Shakespeare's tragic heroine, Isben's calm, statuesque epiphany, Glinda the effervescently giddy and Good, or a gospel-singing waitress -- each, in turn, however fleetingly, sprung to life inside your humble cells, occupying your voice, manners, fingers, hips and ways. Through humble entreatry, tenacious grit and dumb repetition -- You'd made them live. And perhaps a soul or two in the tiny audience caught sight of it too. And you silently thanked them for witnessing your humble, fleeting but glorious transformation.
And then the curtain closes. The lights go dim. Cinderella removes those damned awful, cramping glass slippers. And it seems, once more, that everything becomes just as it was.
The glamour and passion of the moment faded. What shimmered mere seconds ago retreats to a dismal, faded gray. Only the memory remains.
And this is how I feel with this practice sometimes. That in that consecrated space of wood floors, light, sticky magic rubber carpets and a sweet mist of perspiration: I get a tiny picture window with a view:of the woman I'd like to be, the world I want to inhabit, the thing I am aching to create.
And then it shuts.
By the wind, or my own doing, there it goes. A gorgeous vista once more shaded from view.
So, it occurs to me, perhaps, I am done fucking around with windows. I want to build a whole damn house. Repair the one I'm in or be ready to smash the wrecking ball through an entire wall, kitchen, bedroom, or bathroom; be ready to move plumbing, light fixtures, stairs and electrcity. I may have to camp in the backyard for a while, whilst this Dream House 'o mine is being built. With these two hands. This heart. Humble stack of bones and fascia and flesh.
For, as we know, as the sages,both modern and ancient have told us:
Yoga is not a means of self-improvement.
Yoga is not a means of self-improvement.
If all you ever gain from the practice is a round, high ass and a few gravity-defying party tricks to show your friends..... you're doing it wrong.
Missing the point.
Far from a product to be consumed, it is a presciption for work. A blueprint, which, when painstakingly, humbly, seekingly, devotedly employed: will shape the raw materials of your heart and life into a thing of unflappable Beauty. The window becomes a door, and then a hearth, a home: a solid spot to knead some bread, retreat from the storm, invite others to bask in its warmth, the glow, a spot to crank up the tunes and dance.
And I am told, the longer this practice continues to call to me, its sages and seekers: the ever-growing wave of wisdom continuing to wash over me: that this place does, in fact, already exist. This beatific, imagined inner real estate I catch snippets and glimpses of, stand upon its threshold whenever I pause to breathe, move, stretch, get quiet and reflect. It's in me. and the mat, and the chants and the four corners of my hands and feet, the ancient texts and modern re-visions, they're just part of the Map. Coalescing in a giant arrow - directing me to my True North. Words, acts and symbols: guiding me home.
When I studied theater, in what seems like several lifetimes before, I can recall certain moments upon the stage, a hit of transcendance; those infinitesmal windows where the work you'd so painstakingly put in the weeks, months, yeras previous - coalesced in a breath of pure Grace. you'd hit the mark: embodied the thing you set out to embody; raised these humble bones and tissues to a place of otherworldly greatness and design. Shakespeare's tragic heroine, Isben's calm, statuesque epiphany, Glinda the effervescently giddy and Good, or a gospel-singing waitress -- each, in turn, however fleetingly, sprung to life inside your humble cells, occupying your voice, manners, fingers, hips and ways. Through humble entreatry, tenacious grit and dumb repetition -- You'd made them live. And perhaps a soul or two in the tiny audience caught sight of it too. And you silently thanked them for witnessing your humble, fleeting but glorious transformation.
And then the curtain closes. The lights go dim. Cinderella removes those damned awful, cramping glass slippers. And it seems, once more, that everything becomes just as it was.
The glamour and passion of the moment faded. What shimmered mere seconds ago retreats to a dismal, faded gray. Only the memory remains.
And this is how I feel with this practice sometimes. That in that consecrated space of wood floors, light, sticky magic rubber carpets and a sweet mist of perspiration: I get a tiny picture window with a view:of the woman I'd like to be, the world I want to inhabit, the thing I am aching to create.
And then it shuts.
By the wind, or my own doing, there it goes. A gorgeous vista once more shaded from view.
So, it occurs to me, perhaps, I am done fucking around with windows. I want to build a whole damn house. Repair the one I'm in or be ready to smash the wrecking ball through an entire wall, kitchen, bedroom, or bathroom; be ready to move plumbing, light fixtures, stairs and electrcity. I may have to camp in the backyard for a while, whilst this Dream House 'o mine is being built. With these two hands. This heart. Humble stack of bones and fascia and flesh.
For, as we know, as the sages,both modern and ancient have told us:
Yoga is not a means of self-improvement.
Yoga is not a means of self-improvement.
If all you ever gain from the practice is a round, high ass and a few gravity-defying party tricks to show your friends..... you're doing it wrong.
Missing the point.
Far from a product to be consumed, it is a presciption for work. A blueprint, which, when painstakingly, humbly, seekingly, devotedly employed: will shape the raw materials of your heart and life into a thing of unflappable Beauty. The window becomes a door, and then a hearth, a home: a solid spot to knead some bread, retreat from the storm, invite others to bask in its warmth, the glow, a spot to crank up the tunes and dance.
And I am told, the longer this practice continues to call to me, its sages and seekers: the ever-growing wave of wisdom continuing to wash over me: that this place does, in fact, already exist. This beatific, imagined inner real estate I catch snippets and glimpses of, stand upon its threshold whenever I pause to breathe, move, stretch, get quiet and reflect. It's in me. and the mat, and the chants and the four corners of my hands and feet, the ancient texts and modern re-visions, they're just part of the Map. Coalescing in a giant arrow - directing me to my True North. Words, acts and symbols: guiding me home.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
...sing me a Love song....
So i'm spending lots of time with Durga these days. ya' know. that lovely Hindu deity who straddles tigers and lions as her primary form of transportation, fights demons in her spare time, knows her way around a sword and can counter all resistance with the heat and concentration of pure, unadulterated LUUUUVVVV. not that ooey-gooey saccarchin shit but the type that can Move MOUNTAINS. Yeah. that kind.
so. we're hanging. she and me. she's occupying a little corner of my schmancy roll-top desk my parents just bequeathed me. casting me a sidelong glance with that celestial glimmer of hers' each time i look up to take a breath, or take a look around. incline my head for a mini burst of inspiration. and she meets me. this paper depiction of righteousness, beauty and strength. and we do a breathy little tango, she and I.... me inhaling her image, her symbols, her reminders and remembrances... maybe even a smidgeon of her girly-hurly-burly strength.... her guts and grandness. borrow a snippet of her generosity. and grace. and she emits a low Hummmmm..... somewhere between Eartha Kitt and Muddy Waters.... cuz any goddess -pal 'o mine, she knows her way around the blues.... and she lends me her freedom, her heaven, touching down to my earth... a small sip of her air... reminding me that it's the same stuff I've got swirling in and around me. if only i would care to remember. once more.
the great Natalie Goldberg does this lovely thing to combat the naggings, war-mongering, and endless oscar-the-snappy-ass-drunken-grouch rumblngs of the Inner Critic. Craft yourself a sweetheart. A person, real or imagined, or a gorgeous compilation of all the high holy aspects you can name of all the souls of this world, or any other, who fill your heart with JOY. Give 'em gusto. Give 'em balls. Or better - tits. and a fabulous caboose. grant them the voice of a young and hopeful Judy Garland, an aged to perfection Nina Simone, a sinewy Martha Graham, Mother Theresa and your dear Aunt Marilyn. Roll them into some holy, omnipotent alchemy - able to combat the demons of inadequacy and fear, impotence and anxiety - melt them with a single honeyed tone or crumbling, benevolent glance. Infuse them with all the Mirth and Gusto they could want, in order to lay that cat-calling jerk-face wildebeast you've been taking orders from these umpteen years past in a bed of its' own shame. She can tell 'em all to go to hell. and you can help them pack their bags.
Cuz that Chorus of Woe - who've been humming their endless tune of mockery and smug mediocrity - turns out they're just sitting there. chain-smoking and squinting atop creaky, fold-up metal chairs. Their seats are cold and hard. Their feet chained to where they lay. And they're always more than happy to have you in the mix. mired in your own thick shit. or theirs'.
And so you choose a Singer - whose voice can drown out all the rest. A song so sweet and flowing, your feet begin tap-tapping.... your heart again to beat... the breath coming heavy in your chest, your stomach and toes.
And She drives a sweet ride, this Singer of Yours - maybe a lion or tiger - my oh my - a cherry moped or a ten-speed bike - and she beams and offers you a LIFT. and quietly extends a HAND....
and maybe it's not all so very grand as Myths and Deities. Maybe your Honey prefers jeans and Top 40. and maybe rides the Bus.
But how good to know... you've got a Sweetheart - in there - out there. Somewhere. Ready. Whenever you decide to look.....
so. we're hanging. she and me. she's occupying a little corner of my schmancy roll-top desk my parents just bequeathed me. casting me a sidelong glance with that celestial glimmer of hers' each time i look up to take a breath, or take a look around. incline my head for a mini burst of inspiration. and she meets me. this paper depiction of righteousness, beauty and strength. and we do a breathy little tango, she and I.... me inhaling her image, her symbols, her reminders and remembrances... maybe even a smidgeon of her girly-hurly-burly strength.... her guts and grandness. borrow a snippet of her generosity. and grace. and she emits a low Hummmmm..... somewhere between Eartha Kitt and Muddy Waters.... cuz any goddess -pal 'o mine, she knows her way around the blues.... and she lends me her freedom, her heaven, touching down to my earth... a small sip of her air... reminding me that it's the same stuff I've got swirling in and around me. if only i would care to remember. once more.
the great Natalie Goldberg does this lovely thing to combat the naggings, war-mongering, and endless oscar-the-snappy-ass-drunken-grouch rumblngs of the Inner Critic. Craft yourself a sweetheart. A person, real or imagined, or a gorgeous compilation of all the high holy aspects you can name of all the souls of this world, or any other, who fill your heart with JOY. Give 'em gusto. Give 'em balls. Or better - tits. and a fabulous caboose. grant them the voice of a young and hopeful Judy Garland, an aged to perfection Nina Simone, a sinewy Martha Graham, Mother Theresa and your dear Aunt Marilyn. Roll them into some holy, omnipotent alchemy - able to combat the demons of inadequacy and fear, impotence and anxiety - melt them with a single honeyed tone or crumbling, benevolent glance. Infuse them with all the Mirth and Gusto they could want, in order to lay that cat-calling jerk-face wildebeast you've been taking orders from these umpteen years past in a bed of its' own shame. She can tell 'em all to go to hell. and you can help them pack their bags.
Cuz that Chorus of Woe - who've been humming their endless tune of mockery and smug mediocrity - turns out they're just sitting there. chain-smoking and squinting atop creaky, fold-up metal chairs. Their seats are cold and hard. Their feet chained to where they lay. And they're always more than happy to have you in the mix. mired in your own thick shit. or theirs'.
And so you choose a Singer - whose voice can drown out all the rest. A song so sweet and flowing, your feet begin tap-tapping.... your heart again to beat... the breath coming heavy in your chest, your stomach and toes.
And She drives a sweet ride, this Singer of Yours - maybe a lion or tiger - my oh my - a cherry moped or a ten-speed bike - and she beams and offers you a LIFT. and quietly extends a HAND....
and maybe it's not all so very grand as Myths and Deities. Maybe your Honey prefers jeans and Top 40. and maybe rides the Bus.
But how good to know... you've got a Sweetheart - in there - out there. Somewhere. Ready. Whenever you decide to look.....
Friday, January 10, 2014
...step-ball-change...
I'm in the market for a teacher. For a few in fact. On this, the tenth day of the 14th year of the century, I find myself in a unique and possibly brilliant place. I am admitting my finite skills, knowledge, my lack of expertise. Although there are days when I believe myself to be posessed of some greater intuition which renders actual practical learning secondary, I am determined that this year is the one to say poo-poo to that notion. Get my butt back in the learner's seat, my head back in the beginner's mind schoolyard, momentarily set aside all I think I know about walkin' and get down on the floor - and crawl. Nice and slow like. Inhale the carpet, notice the texture in between the tiles, re-acquaint myself with the ground.
chart a slow course to the sky ...
There is something incredibly liberating about this willing self-abasement. By positing the notion that perhaps, I do not know everything... I once again open a window, a big, creaky door, or hell, I might just be blowing the whole damn roof off my now too-small hobbit hole. There may be a great open sky right above me - filled with light and stars and galaxies my mind has never to explore. I only needed the proper hands to direct my sight. The proper set of spectacles rendered by an expert opthamologist.
I guess it all depends on where you want to go. If I'm happy to stay enmeshed in my little hillside hovel, crouched down beneath the same dank ceiling, vacuuming the same damn floor day and again, re-arranging the furniture and acquiring a new plant or two to brighten the dump then hey. More power to me. But if, like now, at the dawn of this new Gregorian juncture, when newness beckons its' opportunites on each corner, and I feel the urge to let the the codes and catechisms I've put to memory move aside in favor of a few (hundred) new folds in the brain...it's time.
a none too original cry but again...
...If not now then When?....
For there are books I want to write. Languages my tongue is tickling acquire. I want to not be a big dummy about money. I want to know what it's like to have a strong circle of really, truly rad, radical, deeply human and gorgeous girlfriends. I want to stand in the middle of the living room on my own damn head. And then stand on my hands, an elbow and maybe the delicate skin of a forearm or two. Rinse, wiggle, Repeat.
I want to write dialogue that doesn't suck.
I want standing up in front of a crowd, reading a snippet of my songs or wails or storms or poetry, with a well-tuned ukulele in my hand - I want it to be commonplace, like taking the dog out for a walk, peanut butter sandwiches and saying, "I Love You". Just another shade of thread in the ever-rich, developing tapestry of my One Wild Life.
I want to speak French beyond the level of a drunken kindergartener.
I want to know what it is to be a woman of strength, beauty, great character, tenacity and grit. And maybe it'd be nice to have a couple folks or so see me rock that role for a minute or two. ...
I want to throw away the playbook and the script I've been sloggedly-monkey-type-typing for the last 30-sum years and step out into the wide open place where maybe Anything.. can happen.
I wannna stand there in the middle and throw out a hand to someone, anyone else - who maybe needs a little nudging in the direction of that Beautiful, Bright Beyond-ness... and maybe share a dance step or two I've learned along the way...
But for now.
My feet are tapping. My heart is ready.
I am holding out my hand.
Ready to foxtrot, tango, tapdance or fly.
And I'm on the lookout for those someones who can come and show me how.
I'm trolloping the pavement. I'm knockin' on doors. I'm sounding the call. But in the meantime...
If you see them out there, positing their particular brand of brilliance, oh won't you please...
Send 'Em Down My Way.
chart a slow course to the sky ...
There is something incredibly liberating about this willing self-abasement. By positing the notion that perhaps, I do not know everything... I once again open a window, a big, creaky door, or hell, I might just be blowing the whole damn roof off my now too-small hobbit hole. There may be a great open sky right above me - filled with light and stars and galaxies my mind has never to explore. I only needed the proper hands to direct my sight. The proper set of spectacles rendered by an expert opthamologist.
I guess it all depends on where you want to go. If I'm happy to stay enmeshed in my little hillside hovel, crouched down beneath the same dank ceiling, vacuuming the same damn floor day and again, re-arranging the furniture and acquiring a new plant or two to brighten the dump then hey. More power to me. But if, like now, at the dawn of this new Gregorian juncture, when newness beckons its' opportunites on each corner, and I feel the urge to let the the codes and catechisms I've put to memory move aside in favor of a few (hundred) new folds in the brain...it's time.
a none too original cry but again...
...If not now then When?....
For there are books I want to write. Languages my tongue is tickling acquire. I want to not be a big dummy about money. I want to know what it's like to have a strong circle of really, truly rad, radical, deeply human and gorgeous girlfriends. I want to stand in the middle of the living room on my own damn head. And then stand on my hands, an elbow and maybe the delicate skin of a forearm or two. Rinse, wiggle, Repeat.
I want to write dialogue that doesn't suck.
I want standing up in front of a crowd, reading a snippet of my songs or wails or storms or poetry, with a well-tuned ukulele in my hand - I want it to be commonplace, like taking the dog out for a walk, peanut butter sandwiches and saying, "I Love You". Just another shade of thread in the ever-rich, developing tapestry of my One Wild Life.
I want to speak French beyond the level of a drunken kindergartener.
I want to know what it is to be a woman of strength, beauty, great character, tenacity and grit. And maybe it'd be nice to have a couple folks or so see me rock that role for a minute or two. ...
I want to throw away the playbook and the script I've been sloggedly-monkey-type-typing for the last 30-sum years and step out into the wide open place where maybe Anything.. can happen.
I wannna stand there in the middle and throw out a hand to someone, anyone else - who maybe needs a little nudging in the direction of that Beautiful, Bright Beyond-ness... and maybe share a dance step or two I've learned along the way...
But for now.
My feet are tapping. My heart is ready.
I am holding out my hand.
Ready to foxtrot, tango, tapdance or fly.
And I'm on the lookout for those someones who can come and show me how.
I'm trolloping the pavement. I'm knockin' on doors. I'm sounding the call. But in the meantime...
If you see them out there, positing their particular brand of brilliance, oh won't you please...
Send 'Em Down My Way.
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