Recently, I’ve felt unexpectedly called by the water, and in particular the ocean. This is a big surprise as I’ve always felt the call of mountains and deserts, but not so much by the sea. However, when beckoned by nature, I heed her call. Two weeks ago, I traveled to be with and in the ocean, to receive what she was trying to offer and whisper into the ear of this land lover. To quote Jimmy Buffett, “Mother mother ocean, I have heard your call.”
For a few days, I sat on the sand watching the waves; I snorkeled for the first time, and on the ferry ride back to Long Beach, I experienced something I’d always dreamed of—a whale making itself known to us. During these days, my thoughts and heart turned to the Gulf of Mexico and the epic tragedy that is unfolding there. In particular, my thoughts turned to sea turtles and the many ancient stories from far flung cultures—stories from the Americas, Northern Europe, even India– tell us that the world is carried on the shell of a tortoise. Yoga mythology’s offering of this idea comes in the character of Kurma, the tortoise avatar of world sustainer Lord Vishnu. Kurma makes his appearance in the story of the Churning of the Ocean of Milk.
I began to ponder the story I’ve heard so many times, and how it can help us in our response to the disaster that is the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. No, it doesn’t suggest sending golf balls or airbags or anything else into the spewing mess. Yoga never hand feeds us, but invites us to make the leap and to engage the ancient tales into our world and our lives as they are today. Perhaps there was no BP, but, conveniently there are demons!
The tale of the Churning of the Ocean of Milk finds the gods distraught at the loss of Amrit, the nectar of immortality. The gods, at one of the grand council meetings they so love, decide to ask the help of the demons in churning the great Ocean of Milk from which the treasured elixir would spring. Having been promised half of the nectar, the demons agreed to help. They helped to dig up the great Mount Madura to use as the churning stick, and placed it upon the back of the tortoise god Kurma (the fate of the world on the back of the turtle). Then, Vasuki, a sea serpent, was enlisted as the churning rope, and wrapped around the mountain. Vasuki’s tail was held by the gods and his head by the demons (this positioning, of course, was no coincidence, but an advantage Vishnu concocted through trickery). Through the violent churning, Vasuki’s breath began to steam and the demons were nearly suffocated by the noxious heat.
As the constant churning continued, poor Vasuki began to feel quite queasy, and soon began to vomit a poison that threatened not only the Ocean of Milk, but all life, and all the Amrit. At this moment Lord Shiva, drinks in the spewing poison, holding it in his throat, causing it to turn blue. As Shiva held the poison, it began to be transformed by the powers of yoga. As it transformed in the blue throat of the yogin, amazing treasures, including the Amrit began to arise from the ocean. The sea bounty continued spewing forth, just as before the poison had seeped and stained the waters, but now, the offering arose on a lotus as the Goddess of Beauty and Abundance, Laksmi.
Shiva, the yogin, drinks the poison that is spewing into the ocean. The Ocean of Milk is restored, and beauty and abundance in the form of the Divine Feminine arise. Now this is a story, that’s starting to look like it might have a good ending . . .
I’ve been going over and over the story and our current situation. I’m not here to offer some sappy Pollyanna story of how this will all work out … my heart is breaking for the Gulf. But, how can I, as the yogin, do as Shiva did, and drink the poison, hold it in the realm of my expression, so that nothing less than a massive shift of Consciousness can happen and the Goddess can arise from it? Will we finally enter the age when we return to the Mother? Can we transform the poison into the very nectar of life?
I was born and raised in the South, and have felt sad and puzzled for a long while that so little interest is paid to environmental concerns there, despite a deep sense of home and the land from which we sprung. For many in my home region, environmental issues are for Liberals. If the spill had happened off the coast of California, would it have gotten the attention of those not inclined to notice? Being green really has nothing to do with being from a blue or red state. Some may not care about sea turtles, but not only are the magnificent creatures of the ocean threatened, whole ways of life are threatened. People who have worked the sea for generations are seeing their livelihoods poisoned by the spewing vomit of Vasuki. Has Consciousness given a wakeup call that cuts across divisive lines of politics?
You see, as a tantrika, I can’t just align to Consciousness when she offers herself as the Amrit. To Open to Grace, as we say in Anusara Yoga, is to open to Consciousness as it offers itself in all forms—even in the form of the spew of millions of gallons of oil into the sea. I do not have to like it. I do not have to pretend that all is well, or that one way that the Universal offers itself is as good or as pretty or as life affirming as the next. It’s not, and it would be ludicrous to imply that it is. But, the unlikeable and ugly IS an offering nonetheless, and my opportunity and invitation as another form of that offering is to open to the possibility held within it, and then to engage with it.
Like Shiva, I can take the poison and hold it. I can hold it, and churn it, and engage with it. I can hold the poison in the throat of my expression, so that I offer my energy towards healing. I can hold the poison in my throat to make way for the beauty and abundance of the shift that will happen as the Divine Feminine arises again, on her lotus, out of the Ocean that was poisoned by the convenience of cheap oil and a forgetfulness of the natural world.
May we as a community of hearts, as a community of engaged yogins, as creatures of this Universe, remain open to the world as it offers itself. May we turn towards that which is life affirming, aligned to the Highest, and an expression of the Divine Love which embodied us. May we offer our love to the creatures of the deep, the fluency of water, and to all who are hurting.
“Mother Mother Ocean. I have heard your call…”
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Friday, July 24, 2009
Ah Yes! I remember!
Sometimes I get really tired of talking and writing about yoga.
In fact, I started this blog as a way to talk about something else.
I created a blog to not talk about yoga.
Pretty much all I talk about is yoga.
And, on top of that, I've never even told anyone I have a blog, so I could write anything I want because there are no followers!
I could talk about junk food and t.v.
Now that's freedom.
So why do I keep going down that path of writing?
"Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!" (That is a Brady Bunch reference from my brain archives)
But for me it's "Yoga, Yoga, Yoga"
Am I one-dimensional?
Sometimes I wonder, but then I remember two things.
First, I'm not one dimensional. In fact, to be the yogin is to grow yourself to greater dimensions, NOT to narrow yourself to the one. There are SO many other things to think about, talk about, and do!
The second thing I remember is: Spiritual Life. There's not a difference. I hate the question "do you have a spiritual life?" Duh. Life is the embodiment of spirit. Can't be alive without a spiritual life.
So, yes, I do have the freedom to write about anything I want, and out of that absolute freedom, I tend to always come back to "yoga." And yet, reading through my archives (someone has to!), I note that I never write about "yoga." I just write about stuff in my life, which is a yoga, and the very reason I forgot and thought I only was writing about yoga. (It may take a few passes at that sentence to get it. Gotta keep all those following the blog on their toes!)
To forget is one of the terms of our embodiment.
To remember is to get a glimpse of our absolute, empowered freedom.
The fourth R of Spaciousness: Remember
(R's 1-3 are release, receive, and relax)
Remember the bigger picture.
Remember you are the empowered embodiment of Consciousness
Remember that there's more to life than "yoga"
Remember that there's nothing more to life than yoga.
No, it's not all yoga.
But it all can be.
Why? Because all yoga is is to be bring things into relationship. I bring my "life" and my "spiritual" together. That's why there's no difference--but there is, because life and spiritual are two things that are yoked together through the practice of yoga. That's why it seems like I'm always practicing yoga.
So, I just write. And you can call it yoga or not.
In fact, I started this blog as a way to talk about something else.
I created a blog to not talk about yoga.
Pretty much all I talk about is yoga.
And, on top of that, I've never even told anyone I have a blog, so I could write anything I want because there are no followers!
I could talk about junk food and t.v.
Now that's freedom.
So why do I keep going down that path of writing?
"Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!" (That is a Brady Bunch reference from my brain archives)
But for me it's "Yoga, Yoga, Yoga"
Am I one-dimensional?
Sometimes I wonder, but then I remember two things.
First, I'm not one dimensional. In fact, to be the yogin is to grow yourself to greater dimensions, NOT to narrow yourself to the one. There are SO many other things to think about, talk about, and do!
The second thing I remember is: Spiritual Life. There's not a difference. I hate the question "do you have a spiritual life?" Duh. Life is the embodiment of spirit. Can't be alive without a spiritual life.
So, yes, I do have the freedom to write about anything I want, and out of that absolute freedom, I tend to always come back to "yoga." And yet, reading through my archives (someone has to!), I note that I never write about "yoga." I just write about stuff in my life, which is a yoga, and the very reason I forgot and thought I only was writing about yoga. (It may take a few passes at that sentence to get it. Gotta keep all those following the blog on their toes!)
To forget is one of the terms of our embodiment.
To remember is to get a glimpse of our absolute, empowered freedom.
The fourth R of Spaciousness: Remember
(R's 1-3 are release, receive, and relax)
Remember the bigger picture.
Remember you are the empowered embodiment of Consciousness
Remember that there's more to life than "yoga"
Remember that there's nothing more to life than yoga.
No, it's not all yoga.
But it all can be.
Why? Because all yoga is is to be bring things into relationship. I bring my "life" and my "spiritual" together. That's why there's no difference--but there is, because life and spiritual are two things that are yoked together through the practice of yoga. That's why it seems like I'm always practicing yoga.
So, I just write. And you can call it yoga or not.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Summertime and the Living is Easy
Last Friday evening, I found myself in New York's Central Park. It was an incredible day. Blue skies prevailed above the towering skyline, the temperature was comfortable, and everywhere I looked, New Yorkers were . . .
relaxed.
Huh?
It's true. In the city of all that is hip, stylish, and, fast fast fast, I found leagues of the trendy playing organized kickball in the park. Yep, that kickball. The one from grade school with the really bouncy ball and running around bases until you make it home or get pegged. There was laughter, playfulness, and a feeling as if there wasn't a care in the world. Forget the economy. We're playing kickball.
We stood and watched mesmerized for a long while, and then, heading out of the park, walked to Times Square, haven of frenetic energy. After a very relaxing week in a tent in the Catskills, I was a bit nervous even thinking about the energy in Times Square.
As we approached this epicenter of stimulation, we noticed something very odd. Outdoor lounge chairs in the middle of the streets. Tourists sitting down and staring up. Querying one of the Times Square Association Guards (or Guides a little of both I suspect) as to the nature of the lawn chairs, the reply was,
"Didn't you ever just want to sit down and relax?"
This was the perfect answer and a maha aha moment.
I was at the tail end of my third week of the Spacious Breath of Summer project that I concocted for myself. I was there in the week of the 3rd R--RELAX, and a brawny security guard was offering an all too simple answer to my question. I tell you, this Northern Californian yoga teacher has a lot to learn.
As I too joined the throngs of tourists sitting in the middle of the street in Times Square (I hear that real Manhattanites find this new situation absurd, but maybe they just haven't taken the time to sit there yet.), I looked out at the lights, the ads, the still very present taxis and their requisite horns. My eyes had a hard time taking in all the sights, my ears the sounds, my body the energy . . . and yet, I felt totally relaxed.
To relax is actually something quite different than we tend to think of it. To relax means to "make less firm or rigid" to "ease up or back off." And, all of these definitions imply that there is still engagement happening. To relax is not to be lazy, but to find an easeful effort. To relax is to be able to take a moment to "just sit down." The world doesn't stop, but can you just watch if for a moment? As yogins, the very point is to be able to be in the world in an easeful way--not to run and hide from it. Not to turn our noses at the craziness of Times Square, but to sit right down in middle of it and relax. This is the yoga of course. To be at our ease amid the chaos.
Over the course of the next day and a half, we found ourselves returning to the sitting areas--our favorite was a permanent installation--risers that were lit from underneath looking over the length of Broadway. Sitting there, my son (who turned 13 that day) looked across at an enormous billboard of our ancestor, the missing link hominid dubbed Lucy, whose fossils were resting close by in an exhibit. Having a moment to spare, and a nice place to sit and have conversation, we explained what/who Lucy was and then again, rested back into the pause among the wildness.
A bit later, first gesturing towards the rendered eyes of Lucy and then down at the thousands who walked or sat in Times Square, and then gesturing even to the cars, the lights, the buildings, he stated, "It's amazing. From her, all of this."
What if we hadn't sat down in the middle of Time Square to relax?
An aha moment denied?
It's summer.
The living is easy . . . even when it's hard.
Sit down and relax.
You never know what revelation may be waiting for you.
relaxed.
Huh?
It's true. In the city of all that is hip, stylish, and, fast fast fast, I found leagues of the trendy playing organized kickball in the park. Yep, that kickball. The one from grade school with the really bouncy ball and running around bases until you make it home or get pegged. There was laughter, playfulness, and a feeling as if there wasn't a care in the world. Forget the economy. We're playing kickball.
We stood and watched mesmerized for a long while, and then, heading out of the park, walked to Times Square, haven of frenetic energy. After a very relaxing week in a tent in the Catskills, I was a bit nervous even thinking about the energy in Times Square.
As we approached this epicenter of stimulation, we noticed something very odd. Outdoor lounge chairs in the middle of the streets. Tourists sitting down and staring up. Querying one of the Times Square Association Guards (or Guides a little of both I suspect) as to the nature of the lawn chairs, the reply was,
"Didn't you ever just want to sit down and relax?"
This was the perfect answer and a maha aha moment.
I was at the tail end of my third week of the Spacious Breath of Summer project that I concocted for myself. I was there in the week of the 3rd R--RELAX, and a brawny security guard was offering an all too simple answer to my question. I tell you, this Northern Californian yoga teacher has a lot to learn.
As I too joined the throngs of tourists sitting in the middle of the street in Times Square (I hear that real Manhattanites find this new situation absurd, but maybe they just haven't taken the time to sit there yet.), I looked out at the lights, the ads, the still very present taxis and their requisite horns. My eyes had a hard time taking in all the sights, my ears the sounds, my body the energy . . . and yet, I felt totally relaxed.
To relax is actually something quite different than we tend to think of it. To relax means to "make less firm or rigid" to "ease up or back off." And, all of these definitions imply that there is still engagement happening. To relax is not to be lazy, but to find an easeful effort. To relax is to be able to take a moment to "just sit down." The world doesn't stop, but can you just watch if for a moment? As yogins, the very point is to be able to be in the world in an easeful way--not to run and hide from it. Not to turn our noses at the craziness of Times Square, but to sit right down in middle of it and relax. This is the yoga of course. To be at our ease amid the chaos.
Over the course of the next day and a half, we found ourselves returning to the sitting areas--our favorite was a permanent installation--risers that were lit from underneath looking over the length of Broadway. Sitting there, my son (who turned 13 that day) looked across at an enormous billboard of our ancestor, the missing link hominid dubbed Lucy, whose fossils were resting close by in an exhibit. Having a moment to spare, and a nice place to sit and have conversation, we explained what/who Lucy was and then again, rested back into the pause among the wildness.
A bit later, first gesturing towards the rendered eyes of Lucy and then down at the thousands who walked or sat in Times Square, and then gesturing even to the cars, the lights, the buildings, he stated, "It's amazing. From her, all of this."
What if we hadn't sat down in the middle of Time Square to relax?
An aha moment denied?
It's summer.
The living is easy . . . even when it's hard.
Sit down and relax.
You never know what revelation may be waiting for you.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Thank You Notes
Growing up in the South, manners were everything. From an early age, my mother emphasized us saying "may I," "please" and "thank you." These were everyday things. Then there were those big league manners. The manners of receiving a gift! Because this, my friend was an entire process--with steps! And these steps were to be followed no matter what when you a gift came your way--whether you liked it or not!
I think back on many a Christmas and birthday gifts that I actively detested. I had my 8-year-old mind on Barbie's Dream House, and I ended up with a new scratchy, poly-knit turtleneck. An abomination! What person in their right mind would EVER think I would want THAT?
But that was never ever never to show. In fact, not only was I taught to receive the gift with a smile on my face when in the presence of the giver, the ultimate in misery was yet to come--the thank you note. A verbal "thanks" was not enough, oh no no no. The time-honored practice of sitting down and taking the time to thank someone--with specifics--for what they had given was "the least you can do, for them taking the time, effort and money to give you a gift." Writing those notes was the bane of my existence in December and my birthday month of January! Though it could have taught me to be a really good liar (and I won't pretend that there weren't flat out lies and exaggerations at times), what it began to teach me over the process of my growing up was to receive the offering's intention and to look for the good--even in that scratchy poly turtleneck.
Finally, after the thank yous, there was the dealing with what to was become of the unwanted gift. There was never waste. I had to first think of someone who might like it or benefit from it. Mostly, they were sent to donation centers, or in someway re-purposed. Sometimes, at the end of January, we would take the things we weren't going to keep, as well as to go shopping for brand new gifts that we would like and . . . what?! . . . take them to a little girl our age at a nearby orphanage. Many years, I resented that, feeling like I got the raw end of the deal, and that she was getting all the gifts that I had wanted. Then, we would take her back to that big institutional building, and I would remember, "oh yeah. She got the raw deal here."
All that was a long time ago. What about those less tangible offerings? Life's curve balls? The unexpected and unwanted gifts of the Universe? How am I receiving those and am I offering back a thank you note?
Two weeks ago, I cultivated the first R of spaciousness, release. I let go of a long-held habit pre-anticipating outcomes (and the inevitable let downs and frustrations when what showed up was different than my vision of it). The spacious breath of summer continues and I've just spent 7 days cultivating the next R of spaciousness: RECEIVE.
What doe it mean to receive anyway? I spent some time contemplating the verb early in the week. To receive something indicates a few things. First in order for something to be received, something has to be offered. Secondly, to receive indicates an action. There is actually an engagement in receiving. Being offered a gift, I must reach out and open my hand to actually accept it. I could see something I don't like and refuse by never reaching out, or even closing my hand. Even if a gift is left on the doorstep I have to bend down and bring it to me. I'm making a free choice to receive what's being offered--or not.
And, while everyday is not Christmas or my birthday, my life makes lots of offerings, how am I receiving or refusing them? After spending a week practicing (and the practice continues) releasing expectations, I had tilled the soil for receiving. My hands were already open having let go of what I expected was going to be placed in them. I got Barbie Dream House gifts from my life, and I got some scratchy turtlenecks, but you know what? (My mom would be so proud!) I started writing mental--and sometimes even verbal--thank you notes for what life was serving up. I even came up with specifics of how the gift might be of value to me and how I might use it (or re-purpose it).
And this time . . . the "Sincerely, Abby" was heartfelt, with not a lie in sight! After all, manners and sincerity have to go hand-in-hand!
The 10 Rs of Spaciousness:
Release
Receive
You'll have to wait for the rest.
I think back on many a Christmas and birthday gifts that I actively detested. I had my 8-year-old mind on Barbie's Dream House, and I ended up with a new scratchy, poly-knit turtleneck. An abomination! What person in their right mind would EVER think I would want THAT?
But that was never ever never to show. In fact, not only was I taught to receive the gift with a smile on my face when in the presence of the giver, the ultimate in misery was yet to come--the thank you note. A verbal "thanks" was not enough, oh no no no. The time-honored practice of sitting down and taking the time to thank someone--with specifics--for what they had given was "the least you can do, for them taking the time, effort and money to give you a gift." Writing those notes was the bane of my existence in December and my birthday month of January! Though it could have taught me to be a really good liar (and I won't pretend that there weren't flat out lies and exaggerations at times), what it began to teach me over the process of my growing up was to receive the offering's intention and to look for the good--even in that scratchy poly turtleneck.
Finally, after the thank yous, there was the dealing with what to was become of the unwanted gift. There was never waste. I had to first think of someone who might like it or benefit from it. Mostly, they were sent to donation centers, or in someway re-purposed. Sometimes, at the end of January, we would take the things we weren't going to keep, as well as to go shopping for brand new gifts that we would like and . . . what?! . . . take them to a little girl our age at a nearby orphanage. Many years, I resented that, feeling like I got the raw end of the deal, and that she was getting all the gifts that I had wanted. Then, we would take her back to that big institutional building, and I would remember, "oh yeah. She got the raw deal here."
All that was a long time ago. What about those less tangible offerings? Life's curve balls? The unexpected and unwanted gifts of the Universe? How am I receiving those and am I offering back a thank you note?
Two weeks ago, I cultivated the first R of spaciousness, release. I let go of a long-held habit pre-anticipating outcomes (and the inevitable let downs and frustrations when what showed up was different than my vision of it). The spacious breath of summer continues and I've just spent 7 days cultivating the next R of spaciousness: RECEIVE.
What doe it mean to receive anyway? I spent some time contemplating the verb early in the week. To receive something indicates a few things. First in order for something to be received, something has to be offered. Secondly, to receive indicates an action. There is actually an engagement in receiving. Being offered a gift, I must reach out and open my hand to actually accept it. I could see something I don't like and refuse by never reaching out, or even closing my hand. Even if a gift is left on the doorstep I have to bend down and bring it to me. I'm making a free choice to receive what's being offered--or not.
And, while everyday is not Christmas or my birthday, my life makes lots of offerings, how am I receiving or refusing them? After spending a week practicing (and the practice continues) releasing expectations, I had tilled the soil for receiving. My hands were already open having let go of what I expected was going to be placed in them. I got Barbie Dream House gifts from my life, and I got some scratchy turtlenecks, but you know what? (My mom would be so proud!) I started writing mental--and sometimes even verbal--thank you notes for what life was serving up. I even came up with specifics of how the gift might be of value to me and how I might use it (or re-purpose it).
And this time . . . the "Sincerely, Abby" was heartfelt, with not a lie in sight! After all, manners and sincerity have to go hand-in-hand!
The 10 Rs of Spaciousness:
Release
Receive
You'll have to wait for the rest.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Release or Re-Lease?
A week or so ago, on these very pages, I committed myself to taking a spacious summer breath; to remembering how to let myself go with the current that the world--my world-- is offering me rather than to struggle against it. Becoming spacious, opening up space in your life can be tough. It's hard letting go of things, people, ways of relating in your world.
I've noticed that people often replace the word "space" with "time" in their way of thinking. I've certainly done it. "I need to free up some space in my schedule," No, you need to free up some time in your schedule. They actually aren't synonymous. Time is linear. Space is circular if anything.
So what is space to me, and why am I devoting my summer to creating more of it? Space, to me, is about having some breathing room, options, possibilities, angles, and, okay, time too. Time in the form of pause.
The Spacious Breath of Summer and its 10 Rs, was conceived by me on Thursday, June 18 during a long personal writing session. Rather than jumping right into the practice of it, I decided to start on a Sunday. Sunday's are good starting days . . . I suppose that notion goes back to my Protestant upbringing. But, no matter, it felt right to weave in a few days to just sit with the idea to see if I would actually step into it. For three days, I just sat back and began recognizing what was what (and I suppose this could have been the preliminary R: recognition), I proceeded, last Sunday to RELEASE. To let go of anything and everything that no longer served me or enhanced my life.
I actually love the word release, because it implies a sensitivity, a caring, even a degree of love, as much as it empowers you to active role in parting with something, someone, or a way of being in the world. To release something is not to look back and judge, but to look forward and acknowledge. To release is to not place things in the category of good or bad, but rather to see what is enhancing or diminishing your life.
The key for me in this release week was to not anticipate what needed or wanted to be released but to allow it to arise as self-evident. I tried not to think about it so much as to feel it and even to wait for these intimiate strangers to announce themselves to me. A few days in, there came a moment when a pattern that I've been habituating for a year or so tapped me on the shoulder, "Excuse me. I somehow seem to have gotten attached to your coat, and although you are great company, this really isn't my direction, nor is mine yours. Can you release me from your hold so that we can both go our own ways?"
And just like that, I knew I was done with that. Five days later, the pattern hasn't surfaced once. And so it went every few days, another shoulder tap, another ,"Excuse me," followed by my acknowledgement, "Yes, you're right. Thanks for what you brought to the table. I am glad to have known you despite the fact that yes, you are right we truly are tangled up, and I, too, am feeling stuck and bound by you. I release you."
My patterns and I were having a breakup conversation. A very mature one. No tears. When the time is right, it's right.
Now, as my release week comes to its close, I have a new ease. I actually feel better than I have in quite awhile. I feel better in me and the perspective from which I'm viewing things. Do I dare say, I feel more spacious? As the saying goes, I have a new lease on life . . .
or is it a re-lease on life?
I've noticed that people often replace the word "space" with "time" in their way of thinking. I've certainly done it. "I need to free up some space in my schedule," No, you need to free up some time in your schedule. They actually aren't synonymous. Time is linear. Space is circular if anything.
So what is space to me, and why am I devoting my summer to creating more of it? Space, to me, is about having some breathing room, options, possibilities, angles, and, okay, time too. Time in the form of pause.
The Spacious Breath of Summer and its 10 Rs, was conceived by me on Thursday, June 18 during a long personal writing session. Rather than jumping right into the practice of it, I decided to start on a Sunday. Sunday's are good starting days . . . I suppose that notion goes back to my Protestant upbringing. But, no matter, it felt right to weave in a few days to just sit with the idea to see if I would actually step into it. For three days, I just sat back and began recognizing what was what (and I suppose this could have been the preliminary R: recognition), I proceeded, last Sunday to RELEASE. To let go of anything and everything that no longer served me or enhanced my life.
I actually love the word release, because it implies a sensitivity, a caring, even a degree of love, as much as it empowers you to active role in parting with something, someone, or a way of being in the world. To release something is not to look back and judge, but to look forward and acknowledge. To release is to not place things in the category of good or bad, but rather to see what is enhancing or diminishing your life.
The key for me in this release week was to not anticipate what needed or wanted to be released but to allow it to arise as self-evident. I tried not to think about it so much as to feel it and even to wait for these intimiate strangers to announce themselves to me. A few days in, there came a moment when a pattern that I've been habituating for a year or so tapped me on the shoulder, "Excuse me. I somehow seem to have gotten attached to your coat, and although you are great company, this really isn't my direction, nor is mine yours. Can you release me from your hold so that we can both go our own ways?"
And just like that, I knew I was done with that. Five days later, the pattern hasn't surfaced once. And so it went every few days, another shoulder tap, another ,"Excuse me," followed by my acknowledgement, "Yes, you're right. Thanks for what you brought to the table. I am glad to have known you despite the fact that yes, you are right we truly are tangled up, and I, too, am feeling stuck and bound by you. I release you."
My patterns and I were having a breakup conversation. A very mature one. No tears. When the time is right, it's right.
Now, as my release week comes to its close, I have a new ease. I actually feel better than I have in quite awhile. I feel better in me and the perspective from which I'm viewing things. Do I dare say, I feel more spacious? As the saying goes, I have a new lease on life . . .
or is it a re-lease on life?
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Spacious Breath of Summer
The summer solstice approaches in days. The growing light is beginning to shed light onto the landscape of my life. Sometimes the summer sun is harsh. It's at full power. It burns. That which has been veiled by the shadow of wishful thinking, is revealed for the reality of what is.
Last night, the light took the form of the proverbial lightening flash. In the dark, a flash of recognition flashed so bright and with such declaration that my whole world seemed revealed to me in a new way . . . not as I was wanting it to be, but as it was. The illumination of the lightening against the dark night was as terrifying as it was life giving. There it was. The "aha" moment. The world revealed in all its splendour, not as the Disneyland dream vacation, but the realness it tries so hard to evoke. And since when did reality take on such a negative connotation anyway?
It doesn't matter the dream versus the reality. Apply your own. Ideas that don't match with what the world is offering. Expectations that disappoint or veil us from seeing what's before us to the point that we reject or refuse what's being offered rather than receiving it.
Following the lightening revelation of my night, I, as I often do, went to walk with my dog near the water, to get more clear on my vision. As the bay waters lapped rhythmically onto the rocky shore, I committed myself to something. I committed myself to a spacious summer. I mean, isn't that the very idea of summer? Isn't that what we are seeking in the sort of elusive holy grail of our idea of what summer should be? Summer is that brilliant pause. The pause between "years" (because, don't we all in some way still operate on the school year so ingrained in our nature at a young age?) And what is a pause but space?
With our cells calling out for this pause in the year, we plan our vacations; attend our picnics; scoot out of work early; dream of heat and lightening bugs and lazily passing the time on a porch swing with a bell jar of lemonade watching distant storm clouds gather.
What do all those notions point to? A need for space. Space between obligations and responsibilities. Space to dream, think, sit, play, remember our freedom. Space to slow down and see our world and and our life as it is and as we desire it to be. But to really give space to something, we have to know where we are beginning. Really.
I'm committing my summer to spaciousness. To "opening to Grace." To softening up the preconceived of what I want; the preconceived of what anything is "supposed" to look like; the preconceived notion that I can bulldoze anything into submission; the preconceived that I can engage something without feeling it out first.
So, it is to this pause, this spaciousness, that I commit my attention this summer. In other words, I'm committed to taking a symbolic breath. I'm taking a 10-week breath in fact. Interestingly, when we take in our breath, we're adding something in that creates a spaciousness. You would think that a feeling of spaciousness would be associated with the exhale. We are, after all, emptying ourselves, and yet, the physical act of exhaling draws us in and compacts us a bit, even as we are releasing something. And what of the pause between the two. Space. So my summer? One big spacious breath made up of many parts.
Contemplating this, I've created The 10 R's of Spaciousness for myself. Each week, beginning on a Sunday, I'll write about that week's focus for opening myself up to what the world and my life are offering me. Because opening myself to that will truly be the only way that I can begin to step into those currents in ways that are affirming in my life; in ways that enhance and expand me rather than diminish me.
Welcome to my summer.
Last night, the light took the form of the proverbial lightening flash. In the dark, a flash of recognition flashed so bright and with such declaration that my whole world seemed revealed to me in a new way . . . not as I was wanting it to be, but as it was. The illumination of the lightening against the dark night was as terrifying as it was life giving. There it was. The "aha" moment. The world revealed in all its splendour, not as the Disneyland dream vacation, but the realness it tries so hard to evoke. And since when did reality take on such a negative connotation anyway?
It doesn't matter the dream versus the reality. Apply your own. Ideas that don't match with what the world is offering. Expectations that disappoint or veil us from seeing what's before us to the point that we reject or refuse what's being offered rather than receiving it.
Following the lightening revelation of my night, I, as I often do, went to walk with my dog near the water, to get more clear on my vision. As the bay waters lapped rhythmically onto the rocky shore, I committed myself to something. I committed myself to a spacious summer. I mean, isn't that the very idea of summer? Isn't that what we are seeking in the sort of elusive holy grail of our idea of what summer should be? Summer is that brilliant pause. The pause between "years" (because, don't we all in some way still operate on the school year so ingrained in our nature at a young age?) And what is a pause but space?
With our cells calling out for this pause in the year, we plan our vacations; attend our picnics; scoot out of work early; dream of heat and lightening bugs and lazily passing the time on a porch swing with a bell jar of lemonade watching distant storm clouds gather.
What do all those notions point to? A need for space. Space between obligations and responsibilities. Space to dream, think, sit, play, remember our freedom. Space to slow down and see our world and and our life as it is and as we desire it to be. But to really give space to something, we have to know where we are beginning. Really.
I'm committing my summer to spaciousness. To "opening to Grace." To softening up the preconceived of what I want; the preconceived of what anything is "supposed" to look like; the preconceived notion that I can bulldoze anything into submission; the preconceived that I can engage something without feeling it out first.
So, it is to this pause, this spaciousness, that I commit my attention this summer. In other words, I'm committed to taking a symbolic breath. I'm taking a 10-week breath in fact. Interestingly, when we take in our breath, we're adding something in that creates a spaciousness. You would think that a feeling of spaciousness would be associated with the exhale. We are, after all, emptying ourselves, and yet, the physical act of exhaling draws us in and compacts us a bit, even as we are releasing something. And what of the pause between the two. Space. So my summer? One big spacious breath made up of many parts.
Contemplating this, I've created The 10 R's of Spaciousness for myself. Each week, beginning on a Sunday, I'll write about that week's focus for opening myself up to what the world and my life are offering me. Because opening myself to that will truly be the only way that I can begin to step into those currents in ways that are affirming in my life; in ways that enhance and expand me rather than diminish me.
Welcome to my summer.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The Moment the SOL stands STILL
I woke up yesterday morning to see the last full moon of the solar year (the Cold Moon) still hanging in the sky. At 5 a.m., the dark was still unpenetrable but for the silver light raining down from Grandmother Moon. A few hours later, as the daylight begins to emerge, I know that the darkness will recapture today surprisingly quick, and once again, Grandmother will reveal herself once more but for a little piece she'll cloak until January.
I adore this time of year. In one short week, we'll reach what the Celts called Midwinter (did you know that in the Celtic calendar, winter begins November 1?). The Winter Solstice. The moment the "sol stands still."
Sol, of course, means sun, but as the days wain, I've been contemplating the idea of a moment when the SOUL stands still. Is it, in fact, possible or even desirable?
When our sun hangs for that one moment seemingly unmoving, we know that it is a constantly throbbing orb of fire. In every moment there is the pulsation of expansion and contraction. Likewise, even in the stillest, quietest moment, even in the deepest meditation, our spirit dances with the delight of this divine and playful dance.
Last year, I spent the Winter Solstice in Ghana, West Africa. Ghana is so close to the equator that the sun seems to stand still all year. It's either up or down. You miss out on the middle places. Twelve hours of light. Twelve hours of dark. There you go.
You never notice light waining from day to day, or the blessed moment when it begins to make its return. I really missed that.
So, this year, there's that extra relishing. I'm spending extra time savoring the darkness as it grows this week towards the inevitable and equally savory moment that the light begins to recapture the darkness until the cycle starts all over again in June.
The day the SOL stands STILL is a perfect opportunity to create ritual around your own inner renewal; to exhale with the year; to notice the pause; and then, to inhale the light once more.
I adore this time of year. In one short week, we'll reach what the Celts called Midwinter (did you know that in the Celtic calendar, winter begins November 1?). The Winter Solstice. The moment the "sol stands still."
Sol, of course, means sun, but as the days wain, I've been contemplating the idea of a moment when the SOUL stands still. Is it, in fact, possible or even desirable?
When our sun hangs for that one moment seemingly unmoving, we know that it is a constantly throbbing orb of fire. In every moment there is the pulsation of expansion and contraction. Likewise, even in the stillest, quietest moment, even in the deepest meditation, our spirit dances with the delight of this divine and playful dance.
Last year, I spent the Winter Solstice in Ghana, West Africa. Ghana is so close to the equator that the sun seems to stand still all year. It's either up or down. You miss out on the middle places. Twelve hours of light. Twelve hours of dark. There you go.
You never notice light waining from day to day, or the blessed moment when it begins to make its return. I really missed that.
So, this year, there's that extra relishing. I'm spending extra time savoring the darkness as it grows this week towards the inevitable and equally savory moment that the light begins to recapture the darkness until the cycle starts all over again in June.
The day the SOL stands STILL is a perfect opportunity to create ritual around your own inner renewal; to exhale with the year; to notice the pause; and then, to inhale the light once more.
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