What is the fabric of your skin like today?
Perhaps, like mine, the skin of the elbow is rough like burlap, hungry for moisture and warmth. What about the skin of the throat, the under side of the heal, the palms? Where is it tight, itchy, smooth, glossy, folding over onto itself? Does the skin of the front body drape down like a heavy woolen cape or is it more like spandex, springy, taught, and rising up from the belly?
The skin perceives, embraces, feels what is inside and out. It gives the illusion of separateness and armor but in fact is permeable and as changeable as the atmosphere. The surface of the skin vibrates microscopically when touched, in the presence of beauty, by your baby's tears.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Too Old
Now that you are getting older, what are you too old to do?
Fiction writer Barb Johnson published her first book More of This World or Maybe Another when she was 52. (My hero!) Before entering the MFA program at the University of New Orleans at 50 she had worked as a carpenter for 20 years. Her closets filled with scraps of writing (like my own) called out for loving attention but for a long while she was hard of hearing. She writes, "And this is the thing: the almost universal fear that an endeavor will take too long, that we will be way past our primes, our social usefulness, before we get to whatever we long for. And lurking underneath is the larger fear of not being good enough."
What is it you have longed to do but fear it is too late, that you are "past your prime", won't be "good enough"? What obstacles do you place in the way of your soul's deepest desires?
I struggle with deafness to my soul's callings. "Its just too late; there is no time; better to make more money, clean the bathroom, feel badly than do what it is you long to do just for the sheer pleasure of it."
Where I finally find the grace to give my soul what it craves is a mystery; could be sheer misery that finally drives me to try something different, to stop banging that head against that wall.
And the soul is so kind. The more she is loved the more ease I find in my body, the more grace there is to follow her lead. Surprisingly, I do not find grace through effort but in letting go. Letting go is what the soul gently prods me to do, of ever single thing (beauty, strength, money, control, joy, sorrow, love, hate, the breath) things we really don't "have" in the first place even though the mind would tell you this is not so.
Surely, I will drown in this tumultuous river, be drawn under for good, if I don't cling to the raft, the splintered fragment of wood, this shard of a life raft. "Just let go a little," my soul sings to me. There are sharp rocks, falling waters, places that are deep, cold, unfamiliar. How can it be that the more I let go the easier it gets, the less work I need to do? The river moves me away from all that I know to surprising and mysterious places. I survive, thrive even.
I see, in small glimpses, why this is so. I am the river. There are no hands for gripping, no pieces of wood to grab, no being unchanged.
Thanks Barb for your lovely reminder of this!
Fiction writer Barb Johnson published her first book More of This World or Maybe Another when she was 52. (My hero!) Before entering the MFA program at the University of New Orleans at 50 she had worked as a carpenter for 20 years. Her closets filled with scraps of writing (like my own) called out for loving attention but for a long while she was hard of hearing. She writes, "And this is the thing: the almost universal fear that an endeavor will take too long, that we will be way past our primes, our social usefulness, before we get to whatever we long for. And lurking underneath is the larger fear of not being good enough."
What is it you have longed to do but fear it is too late, that you are "past your prime", won't be "good enough"? What obstacles do you place in the way of your soul's deepest desires?
I struggle with deafness to my soul's callings. "Its just too late; there is no time; better to make more money, clean the bathroom, feel badly than do what it is you long to do just for the sheer pleasure of it."
Where I finally find the grace to give my soul what it craves is a mystery; could be sheer misery that finally drives me to try something different, to stop banging that head against that wall.
And the soul is so kind. The more she is loved the more ease I find in my body, the more grace there is to follow her lead. Surprisingly, I do not find grace through effort but in letting go. Letting go is what the soul gently prods me to do, of ever single thing (beauty, strength, money, control, joy, sorrow, love, hate, the breath) things we really don't "have" in the first place even though the mind would tell you this is not so.
Surely, I will drown in this tumultuous river, be drawn under for good, if I don't cling to the raft, the splintered fragment of wood, this shard of a life raft. "Just let go a little," my soul sings to me. There are sharp rocks, falling waters, places that are deep, cold, unfamiliar. How can it be that the more I let go the easier it gets, the less work I need to do? The river moves me away from all that I know to surprising and mysterious places. I survive, thrive even.
I see, in small glimpses, why this is so. I am the river. There are no hands for gripping, no pieces of wood to grab, no being unchanged.
Thanks Barb for your lovely reminder of this!
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Three Women Walk into a Cafe
They came in together, burst through the door with a blast of cold air. Three, friends, that is what they looked like, together out for coffee and breakfast muffins. There was a young woman with a German accent and a white haired one with a tired look in her eyes. Young and Whitey peeled a plaid scarf off of the third woman who had brown dyed hair, high cheeck bones, large brown eyes, a smile.
“There is a couch over there, we can sit,” Young said. Young and Whitey led the third friend over to the couch, by the hand since she was shaky on her feet and looked lost.
Whitey sat next to Shaky, close, thigh touching thigh, like long time companions would. She clasped a paper cup filled with coffee and warmed her hands. Then she took Shaky’s hands in hers to warm them as well.
“Feels good doesn’t it Irene,” Whitey asked Shaky.
“Yes, feels good,” Shaky said back.
Young brought a mug of hot chocolate over along with a thick slice of freshly made coffee cake. There were three forks.
Whitey fed Shaky small pieces from a fork. One for herself, one for Irene.
“Buttery,” Irene said licking her lips.
Young blew on the skin of hot chocolate and tested it with her tongue. When it was cooled she held the mug to Shaky's lips.
"Very nice," Shaky told Young politely.
They didn’t stay long. Shaky had slippers on and didn't take her long purple down coat off. She had forgotten where she was.
“Is it cold out?” she asked.
“Yes, we had that scarf on you when you came in.” Whitey said.
“Oh,” Irene replied.
“I don’t like it on, though,” Irene frowned.
“We won’t put it on tightly, not too tightly,” Young said. “Up we go,” Young helped Shaky to her feet.
“Wo, Wo,” Irene wobbled but there was a soft blue couch behind her to catch her if she fell But she didn't fall. She held tight to Young's hands and Whitey had her back.
“I don’t know where I am going,” Shaky told Whitey and Young.
“It’s okay,” Young said, “We will follow the leader.”
“Okay,” Shakey said. She was laughing and laughing now. The scarf had fallen off her neck and was hanging down towards the floor.
“What is this? What is this?” she asked when Whitey pulled the scarf up from the floor and wrapped it back around Irene's head.
“I won’t do it too tight,” Whitey told her.
“There is a couch over there, we can sit,” Young said. Young and Whitey led the third friend over to the couch, by the hand since she was shaky on her feet and looked lost.
Whitey sat next to Shaky, close, thigh touching thigh, like long time companions would. She clasped a paper cup filled with coffee and warmed her hands. Then she took Shaky’s hands in hers to warm them as well.
“Feels good doesn’t it Irene,” Whitey asked Shaky.
“Yes, feels good,” Shaky said back.
Young brought a mug of hot chocolate over along with a thick slice of freshly made coffee cake. There were three forks.
Whitey fed Shaky small pieces from a fork. One for herself, one for Irene.
“Buttery,” Irene said licking her lips.
Young blew on the skin of hot chocolate and tested it with her tongue. When it was cooled she held the mug to Shaky's lips.
"Very nice," Shaky told Young politely.
They didn’t stay long. Shaky had slippers on and didn't take her long purple down coat off. She had forgotten where she was.
“Is it cold out?” she asked.
“Yes, we had that scarf on you when you came in.” Whitey said.
“Oh,” Irene replied.
“I don’t like it on, though,” Irene frowned.
“We won’t put it on tightly, not too tightly,” Young said. “Up we go,” Young helped Shaky to her feet.
“Wo, Wo,” Irene wobbled but there was a soft blue couch behind her to catch her if she fell But she didn't fall. She held tight to Young's hands and Whitey had her back.
“I don’t know where I am going,” Shaky told Whitey and Young.
“It’s okay,” Young said, “We will follow the leader.”
“Okay,” Shakey said. She was laughing and laughing now. The scarf had fallen off her neck and was hanging down towards the floor.
“What is this? What is this?” she asked when Whitey pulled the scarf up from the floor and wrapped it back around Irene's head.
“I won’t do it too tight,” Whitey told her.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Little Deaths
"Equanimity allows for the mystery of things: the unknowable, uncontrollable nature of things to
be just as they are." Frank Jude Bocco
When the ego (the small I) in desperate need of purpose, of permanence, asserts control, we die, just a little. In these little deaths, silence creeps into the body; there is less tenderness in the heart space, more stiffness in the spine, numbing of the tailbone. In these silences, we loose our connection to God (Soul, Self) which can only be experienced in the body and turn outside of our anesthetized selves for feeling, for the unconditional love we long for. But nothing outside is permanent so anxiety and ambiguity erupts. Still, we can continue to grip even tighter the reins of the wild horse which can't be tamed.
Yoga shows us a different way, to come more fully alive (our birthright afterall). Through the practice of asana (poses), devotedly, steadfastly, with vigor and great compassion, the threads binding the ego to the Soul loosen. We get glimpses of a divine spark deep in the bones, an experience of completeness that remains even as everything we love leaves us. In asana practice, after a long time, there can come (I am told, I am hoping) an effortless effort; movement for the pure experience of movement towards the soul's embrace and guidance that we long for.
Once when I felt quite lost in life a yoga teacher told me, "Just keep doing yoga." How could that possibly help me to figure out where to live, who to love, what kind of work would satisfy? I continued my practice because it felt good to be less anxious and stiff. I noticed, over time, that my body became noisy, louder, more awake. I began to listen, naturally, to my body about what it needed in each moment (for the body, the soul, god speaks to us only in the moment); a nap, a friend, a walk in the woods. Because it hurt not to, I began to follow my body's wishes and make choices that felt deeply nourishing. My life unfolded without so much effort. Not without pain, sadness, loss, and regret, but with less fear, anxiety, anticipation, little deaths.
As yoga guru BKS Iyengar tells it, with a devoted yoga practice we may be able to tie our shoes when we are 85; and more importantly live fully until we die.
When the ego (the small I) in desperate need of purpose, of permanence, asserts control, we die, just a little. In these little deaths, silence creeps into the body; there is less tenderness in the heart space, more stiffness in the spine, numbing of the tailbone. In these silences, we loose our connection to God (Soul, Self) which can only be experienced in the body and turn outside of our anesthetized selves for feeling, for the unconditional love we long for. But nothing outside is permanent so anxiety and ambiguity erupts. Still, we can continue to grip even tighter the reins of the wild horse which can't be tamed.
Yoga shows us a different way, to come more fully alive (our birthright afterall). Through the practice of asana (poses), devotedly, steadfastly, with vigor and great compassion, the threads binding the ego to the Soul loosen. We get glimpses of a divine spark deep in the bones, an experience of completeness that remains even as everything we love leaves us. In asana practice, after a long time, there can come (I am told, I am hoping) an effortless effort; movement for the pure experience of movement towards the soul's embrace and guidance that we long for.
Once when I felt quite lost in life a yoga teacher told me, "Just keep doing yoga." How could that possibly help me to figure out where to live, who to love, what kind of work would satisfy? I continued my practice because it felt good to be less anxious and stiff. I noticed, over time, that my body became noisy, louder, more awake. I began to listen, naturally, to my body about what it needed in each moment (for the body, the soul, god speaks to us only in the moment); a nap, a friend, a walk in the woods. Because it hurt not to, I began to follow my body's wishes and make choices that felt deeply nourishing. My life unfolded without so much effort. Not without pain, sadness, loss, and regret, but with less fear, anxiety, anticipation, little deaths.
As yoga guru BKS Iyengar tells it, with a devoted yoga practice we may be able to tie our shoes when we are 85; and more importantly live fully until we die.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Where Art and Science Meet
I find it intriguing to think how we rely on metaphors to describe chemical, physical, biological processes. Metaphors allow us to “see” and come to understand processes that are otherwise unknowable by our senses. We come to knowing through our imagination, using math, poetry, pictures, stories as metaphors. Metaphors, precisely because they come from our imagination and are fed by our subconscious selves, pack a powerful punch to both the brain and the heart.
Metaphors are sticky because they allow us to build new knowledge from what is already known and, in this way, allow us to make new neural connections or ways of knowing. Since they come to us unbidden, metaphors are necessarily subjective; the images that move us do so because they resonate with (in harmony or dissonance) our deep selves. Does the sperm penetrate the egg or does the egg receive the sperm? Is gravity bent by planets or curved from its own weight/forces? Does the protein merge with the cell or is the cell destroyed by the protein? There is no right or wrong metaphor but only a different perspectives or pathways into the cell, into space.
New animation technology makes this intersection of art and science more apparent. A recent NYT article on the subject highlights the new science animation taking hold in the field of cell biology. “The ability to animate gives biologists a chance to think about things in a whole new way,” says Janet Iwasa, a cell biologist who now works as a molecular animator at Harvard Medical School. “Just listening to scientists describe how the molecule moved in words wasn’t enough for me,” she said. “What brought it to life was really seeing it in motion.” At the “Inner Life of the Cell” (http://multimedia.mcb.harvard.edu/media.html) you can see animation of how, for example, “cells internalize molecules on its surface; the three-legged white protein, clathrin triskelions forms a latticelike cage that causes the membrane to deform and form a vesicle.” Someone should put in music and other sound effects!
Here science is revealed through art; metaphor, images, stories and shown to be the imaginative practice that it is.
Metaphors are sticky because they allow us to build new knowledge from what is already known and, in this way, allow us to make new neural connections or ways of knowing. Since they come to us unbidden, metaphors are necessarily subjective; the images that move us do so because they resonate with (in harmony or dissonance) our deep selves. Does the sperm penetrate the egg or does the egg receive the sperm? Is gravity bent by planets or curved from its own weight/forces? Does the protein merge with the cell or is the cell destroyed by the protein? There is no right or wrong metaphor but only a different perspectives or pathways into the cell, into space.
New animation technology makes this intersection of art and science more apparent. A recent NYT article on the subject highlights the new science animation taking hold in the field of cell biology. “The ability to animate gives biologists a chance to think about things in a whole new way,” says Janet Iwasa, a cell biologist who now works as a molecular animator at Harvard Medical School. “Just listening to scientists describe how the molecule moved in words wasn’t enough for me,” she said. “What brought it to life was really seeing it in motion.” At the “Inner Life of the Cell” (http://multimedia.mcb.harvard.edu/media.html) you can see animation of how, for example, “cells internalize molecules on its surface; the three-legged white protein, clathrin triskelions forms a latticelike cage that causes the membrane to deform and form a vesicle.” Someone should put in music and other sound effects!
Here science is revealed through art; metaphor, images, stories and shown to be the imaginative practice that it is.
Friday, November 5, 2010
My devotion
Devotion: (v) 1. feelings of ardent love;
2. commitment to some purpose;
This morning I was thinking "to what I am devoted". This question did not come out of the blue. E, my yoga teacher, asked us all to consider this in the coming week. Patanjali's Sutra 1.23 states that devotion to god can lead to enlightenment, which in the yoga tradition, is a freedom from the fluctuations of an unruly mind.
I can tell you what I have ardent love for; my daughter's small soft hands, Red's fur, my grandmother's cheeks. I love the cold darkness of the mornings, catching a heron in flight, seeing the wild geese, bellies flecked with morning sun, flying low overhead. I can hear their wings beating the air. While surely love is part of devotion, love does not always come easily. So devotion can require hard work, repetition, daily practice.
I practice yoga, cultivating a writing life, being kind to bring me back to that ardent love space or compassion. These practices feel devotional not solely because they offer me so many gifts but because I practice even when it feels hard to do so, when I am faithless. In this way, perhaps, devotion entails a certain kind of hopelessness and surrender, letting go of things turning out this way or that way.
Practicing yoga when I feel very tired, heavy, anxious teaches me how such feelings change and move, are of my body but not my body. Writing when I hear voices that tell me "This is a waste of time, not very good, presumptuous of you," shows me compassion, humility, and courage. Being kind when I am angry, tired, afraid shows me that I am always connected to my heart even when the lines are frayed.
Devotion to something more than myself brings me gratitude and compassion for my body, mind, life just as it is and a greater acceptance of another's struggle. Where is god in all of this? For me, god resides in that restful, quiet, infinite space right beneath my breast bone, waiting to greet me whenever I return from straying; my devotional practices helping to bring me back, bring me back, bring me back to this home.
2. commitment to some purpose;
This morning I was thinking "to what I am devoted". This question did not come out of the blue. E, my yoga teacher, asked us all to consider this in the coming week. Patanjali's Sutra 1.23 states that devotion to god can lead to enlightenment, which in the yoga tradition, is a freedom from the fluctuations of an unruly mind.
I can tell you what I have ardent love for; my daughter's small soft hands, Red's fur, my grandmother's cheeks. I love the cold darkness of the mornings, catching a heron in flight, seeing the wild geese, bellies flecked with morning sun, flying low overhead. I can hear their wings beating the air. While surely love is part of devotion, love does not always come easily. So devotion can require hard work, repetition, daily practice.
I practice yoga, cultivating a writing life, being kind to bring me back to that ardent love space or compassion. These practices feel devotional not solely because they offer me so many gifts but because I practice even when it feels hard to do so, when I am faithless. In this way, perhaps, devotion entails a certain kind of hopelessness and surrender, letting go of things turning out this way or that way.
Practicing yoga when I feel very tired, heavy, anxious teaches me how such feelings change and move, are of my body but not my body. Writing when I hear voices that tell me "This is a waste of time, not very good, presumptuous of you," shows me compassion, humility, and courage. Being kind when I am angry, tired, afraid shows me that I am always connected to my heart even when the lines are frayed.
Devotion to something more than myself brings me gratitude and compassion for my body, mind, life just as it is and a greater acceptance of another's struggle. Where is god in all of this? For me, god resides in that restful, quiet, infinite space right beneath my breast bone, waiting to greet me whenever I return from straying; my devotional practices helping to bring me back, bring me back, bring me back to this home.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Subtle Body
I spent the weekend studying yoga with Matthew Sanford. At 13, Matthew was in a car accident which killed his father and sister and left him with a broken spine. In learning how to embody, move, breath in his body - and after many many years of yoga practice and training (along with failure, giving up, pain, anger, love, and surrender) - Matthew has cultivated a remarkably sensitive, engaging, and profound connection to the body, the self, the soul and an amazing ability to show us all how to connect more deeply to ourselves.
Learning from Matthew was transformative. That there is an energy in the body that transcends muscles, bones, the hard wiring of nerves became apparent. Awareness of this energy offers great ease in the body, the psyche, the emotions, offers us a place to rest deeply and find comfort even for the most hard to love and dark inner places.
That this energy is the bodily experience of the divine which inspires us is something our culture or way of life can keep us from knowing; pushing us as it does relentlessly to look outside of ourselves, to the material world, for sustenance.
Allowing for this possibility of an embodied spirit can change the entire fabric of your life including the way you sit, eat, see the sky, touch your child, contemplate literature and death, make love, pray. From this perspective, God, cannot be conjured in the mind but is a lived and ever changing experience of the body, the skin, organs, bones, muscles, arteries, and blood.
Matthew has found the divine in his body (as his body) - even as it is broken, paralyzed, disfigured. Since all of us have "paralyzed" or "silent" parts in our bodies, along with pain, disfigurement, shame, and weakness, his experience and teaching can help us to find a way back to all those places we have abandoned and retreated from and in this way know our "unseparateness" from God (or wholeness, soul, truth, love, you put in your word for this).
Learning from Matthew was transformative. That there is an energy in the body that transcends muscles, bones, the hard wiring of nerves became apparent. Awareness of this energy offers great ease in the body, the psyche, the emotions, offers us a place to rest deeply and find comfort even for the most hard to love and dark inner places.
That this energy is the bodily experience of the divine which inspires us is something our culture or way of life can keep us from knowing; pushing us as it does relentlessly to look outside of ourselves, to the material world, for sustenance.
Allowing for this possibility of an embodied spirit can change the entire fabric of your life including the way you sit, eat, see the sky, touch your child, contemplate literature and death, make love, pray. From this perspective, God, cannot be conjured in the mind but is a lived and ever changing experience of the body, the skin, organs, bones, muscles, arteries, and blood.
Matthew has found the divine in his body (as his body) - even as it is broken, paralyzed, disfigured. Since all of us have "paralyzed" or "silent" parts in our bodies, along with pain, disfigurement, shame, and weakness, his experience and teaching can help us to find a way back to all those places we have abandoned and retreated from and in this way know our "unseparateness" from God (or wholeness, soul, truth, love, you put in your word for this).
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