Resolving that Antsy Feeling

A small remnant of a dream remembered from last night held fast to consciousness this morning, so I've been thinking about it over coffee. Something like this: the large (think super-size) skeleton of an ant fell on the floor after I extracted it from my ear, along with some other debris. I thought it might be the skeleton of a scorpion. With curiosity I touched it, and it was indeed the skeleton of a large ant--dead, decaying, and unraveling. The end of its life cycle. I'm pleased but a little sad, this letting go of something many have told me to do. Let's get to the core. I took yoga teacher training for the purpose of deepening my practice. I never aspired to teaching, and always put that out there and made that clear. Still, others who I very much admire and respect kept telling me that I should teach, that I would be good at it, that it would benefit both myself and others. This kind of positive but instructive feedback was good to hear even though it contradicted my original thinking. I began to question my lack of aspiration to teach. I began to turn it over and over in my mind. Again and again I would come back home to my own thoughts and feelings that teaching yoga is something I GREATLY admire in others, something that has benefited me beyond words. But me teach? Such a new, unexplored arena. So in a way, I gave in to the idea and signed up to be a substitute teacher. I had many doubts--not so much about my ability to teach (but yes, definitely some of those doubts), but more about my desire to teach, and how it would fit into my lifestyle, my time schedule, my commitment to my personal practice, my time constraints. More importantly, is this something I want to do? So I have been doing some teaching, and for a beginner teacher it is challenging, time consuming, and at first pretty scary. But I've done it and while it has dramatically increased my appreciation and admiration for the art and discipline of teaching this sacred practice, I have come round full circle and again have come to the confirmation that it is not something I want to do. And I need to be at peace that this is okay. I need to know that no matter what others tell me (and the vast majority of those who encourage me to teach are teachers themselves), I am ultimately the one who decides what my heart is asking me to do. So I've been a busy ant for a significant portion of my life, then I stopped and was no longer a busy worker ant always with a demanding job in front of me. I will not feel the sting of the scorpion by NOT doing what others tell me, I will not be punished, there will be no consequences to suffer, only that which I impose on myself. So I have given notice to the place where I teach, and this notice was received with total acceptance, understanding, and love. Sometimes my intuition isn't clear, it isn't black and white. Before we truly know what's best for us, we need to get out there and explore, and do it. Go through the fear, move through the action. And then we are far better equipped to move forward in our lives with discernment. And, this may need to be repeated. It is important to listen to what others say, and allow for change and a multitude of possibilities, but ultimately we chose our own paths.

Engagement in the Many Journeys

After yoga Sunday night a small group of us were having sandwiches at The Great Outdoors Cafe: Paul had recently traveled to New Mexico and his roommate has/had a house in Santa Fe, Jim is going to the Bodhi Zen Center in Jemez Springs, his friend is going to meet him for a stay in Santa Fe, Bo was recently there...and all this got me thinking along these lines:

It began with a woman in art therapy giving me a rock that was precious to her. Take it, she said, hold it and feel the magic, let it transport you, it comes from the banks of the Chama River in Northern New Mexico.

Fifteen years ago I had a house in Canones, northern New Mexico, at the end of a four mile long dirt road that began as a forest trail and evolved into a two lane, deeply rutted, narrow, and at times harrowing road to the house and the surrounding four acres. It was a beautiful four mile drive that took thirty minutes to traverse in good weather, in a four wheel drive vehicle or pickup truck. At the crest of a hill to the left was an ancient Anasazi Indian village rarely seen except by the occasional villager and visiting archaeologist. To the right was a tiny Greek Orthodox Monastery that kept me amply supplied with the best locally made bees wax candles in exchange for taking in their cats during short sabbaticals. I had no telephone, no television, and in the winter, no neighbors. Delicious, sweet water flowed through the property from a mountain stream that also brought piped water into the house all year long--a rare commodity for most in this region. Near the corner of a large field behind the house were the remnants of a log cabin from long ago, shaded by an apple tree that was a prolific producer of small, sour apples. Horses loved the apples and with an old fashioned recipe could be made into the best apple pie I've ever tasted. A lone pinon pine towered mightily at the front gate while groves of cottonwoods lined the banks of the icy cold Canones Creek and colored the landscape with brilliant colors in the fall season. Surrounding the house was a root cellar, a tack room, a greenhouse, two large screened porches, one attached and the other some distance from the house as part of a guest room and an old abandoned trailer house that smelled of dead mice. There was a free standing carport adjacent to the small shed that housed the firewood. A giant propane tank stood out like a sore thumb near the entry gate and foretold of long, harsh winters that visited each year with deep snows and subfreezing temperatures. An old fashioned swing hung from the rafters of a small gazebo next to the wooden foot bridge that crossed the creek. The house itself had an exterior covering of split logs made shiny with regular linseed oil applications and was well insulated against the cold. Inside were two bedrooms, a sleeping porch/studio, an open kitchen and living room with fireplace, one bathroom, and a sizable utility room containing the defunct baseboard heating system, washer, dryer, hot water heater, and large freezer. I painted most of the interior walls, applied yet another coat of linseed oil diluted with turpentine to the exterior planks, and painted the trim of the house a colorful Indian red. I gardened, hauled rocks, mowed, chopped firewood, mended fences and gates, cleaned the tall chimney like a chimney sweep, went for long walks in the adjacent state and national forest lands, visited the Anasazi ruins, made friends with the monks and some of the villagers and used tools my hands had never before touched. I added extra panes of glass to the windows of the added-on sleeping porch which was intended for summer use and not well insulated against the blowing winds of winter. I learned to keep it closed off from rest of the house during cold winter nights, then would open it up during sunny days as I sat in front of my easel or took lazy afternoon naps. I added two propane heaters as emergency back-up. I settled in for winter. I was happy and contented. I was doing exactly what I wanted to do, I was following my dream. I had moved to my oasis, my utopia in the remote deserts, forests, mountains and valleys of Northern New Mexico.


I barely made it for a year. The winter turned the landscape to infinite shades of dull, depressing gray. The roads became worse. There was always the possibility of the pipes freezing which would result in the loss of water until spring. I fell off a ladder injuring my wrist with no one to hear my screams for assistance. I drove two hours to get groceries and stood outside in the freezing snows and blizzard-like winds making phone calls home, beginning to question my decision to move here in the first place. As winter wore on and isolation set in, I became desperately lonely. Night after night was yet another dark night of the soul. I would retreat to the Benedictine Monastery about 30 miles away for company, all the while worried about leaving my cats alone. I would walk out to the front gate under a brilliant cast of stars the likes of which I had never seen before or since and call out to some god to bring an end to my loneliness, my fear, my isolation. I spent day after day contacting and visiting various bureaucratic agencies in an attempt to get a telephone installed. I was told that a telephone would be simple to install provided I pay about $100,000 for the 3.5 miles of wires and poles that needed to be installed, after obtaining permission from each and every landowner whose property the lines would cross. I would visit friends in Santa Fe who couldn't visit me without having the underbellies of their vehicles torn away. I would visit art galleries and restaurants and get home long past midnight. I missed my partner back in Austin more than I imagined possible. I started therapy in Santa Fe with a wonderful young therapist who was my saving grace. After several months he asked me what prevented me from returning to Austin, from returning home, from returning to my partner? When I realized the answer was NOTHING, I jumped for joy, packed up some clothes and the cats, winterized the cabin, and headed back home. I had spent my time alone in the deserted northern wilds of New Mexico and came to fully understand the deep meaning in the phrase "there's no place like home." Dorothy said it, she was wearing the shoes all the while without knowing their power. A rich, unforgettable experience, a journey of learning and growth, a time of deep searching and longing and introspection, a time to never forget, but finally, the realization that I needed to go home, and that I had a home to go to.

A young, gifted friend tells me he wants to pull up stakes and move to New Mexico, buy some land, have a house and a separate studio for yoga, massage, teaching classes, group meetings and gatherings, and ideally have a scattering of small cabins on the property for guests. Where? I ask. Somewhere in Northern New Mexico, between Santa Fe and Taos, a small town. Why? I ask. To be in touch and harmony with nature, the dramatic, beautiful landscape, experience the intensity of the change of seasons. Like so many of us, he is drawn deeply into the Land of Enchantment. The place where alternative lifestyles are relatively commonplace. A place of indigenous peoples, secluded monasteries, Zen centers, Native American reservations, communities living off the grid. I totally understand this urge that pulls at him. I have felt it and acted on it. It's important to have dreams, goals, to follow our hearts, to move out into the world and take risks--this is what makes us feel alive. As an elder, I have seen this dream acted on over and over again, and while I'd never discourage anyone from following their dreams, I do strongly advise people to go out to New Mexico first and stay for a while, rent a house, become familiar with your surrounds. It's a very harsh life out there. It's one of the most sparsely populated states in the US. It's difficult to earn a living. It can get very lonely. All the people you dream about coming to visit you may not show up. The community you dream of building may not come to pass. The chances of returning to the place from whence you came are pretty high. I've seen this over and over again. The largest town between Santa Fe and Taos is Espanola. Between Espanola and Taos are a few very tiny towns, and although incredibly picturesque, not very many permanent residents. Heading from Espanola towards Abiquiu is also beautiful, but again a very harsh and difficult climate in which to live. People build dream homes along the Chama River and a year or two later put them up for sale. Countless communes have come and gone. Georgia O'Keefe loved this country and lived there for many years, but in the beginning she rented a house on secluded property of Ghost Ranch and frequently returned to New York. Over a period of many years and frequent visits and increasingly longer stays, she decided to take up permanent residence. But she was a highly successful painter and knew the landscape thoroughly, and was one of a rare breed of people who can thrive creatively and otherwise both in a harsh climate and virtual isolation from community for extended periods of time. But who am I to say that this gifted young man will not go out there and find exactly what he wants and needs? I am not one to say that, only present my perspective, my own personal experience, and be at peace with him doing exactly what he wants to do. Blessings to him and to all who venture forth into the unknown, whether alone or with a companion, in search of meaning and happiness.

A Motley Crew of Poets, Indeed

A motley group of students take a field trip with their teacher to an old, run down monastery, built of great substance but in much need of restoration, set in a series of beautifully maintained gardens. Through dirty windows one glimpses the extraordinary greenery of the inner and outer sculpted and natural landscapes--inner courtyards and surrounding gardens with cypress trees growing along the grassy banks of a flowing stream. It speaks of enlightenment and the likes of William Blake. The assignment is to compose a traditional sonnet following a prescribed rhyme scheme. Afterwards, students are called out by name to read their compositions to the group. With great dramatic flair, one student pretends to conduct an orchestra as a prelude to the reading of his literary masterpiece. Another student greatly surprises the group by reading an exquisite poem written masterfully with perfect rhyme and image provoking metaphor. Yet another student reads her poem which ends abruptly mid-stanza and leaves the group puzzled over the lack of apparent meaning and the total departure from the specific assignment. I am called upon to read my poem, which I have completed following the given instructions, and I'm initially very pleased with my creative output until I begin comparing my poem to the exquisite compositions of others. Suddenly mine seems lame, and worthless, and I don't want to read it so I pretend to have lost it. I am not let off the hook, and the class waits while I search. In the meanwhile yet another student recites her poem of near perfection. Now my poem appears to be lost and I am glad I cannot find it. The teacher asks for all my materials--my books and various papers, and he begins a personal search for my lost poem. He finds other poems I've written, and drawings, and doodles and scribbles and underlined passages and marvels at it all. He points out the beauty of my personal inventory. Suddenly I am aglow with a renewed faith in myself and I too begin searching for the poem I have written. I find it and am pleased with it, I love it for what it is--my poem. Maybe not as sophisticated or erudite as some of the others, maybe not so rich in metaphor, not so colorful, but still, it is mine (and it is part of the whole). And all is well as I've listened to my teacher and stopped comparing and contrasting my work with that of others, stopped separating mine out.

We can always find people whose poetry of being is more beautiful than ours, just as we can easily find those whose poetry seems nonsensical, or lacking in rhyme and rhythm and substance. It's good to be aware of this great diversity and to observe it and soak it all in lovingly. But when we begin to compare ourselves in a judgmental way to those whose poetry we find more beautiful than ours we begin to doubt ourselves and lose touch with our inner teacher. The same is true when we compare ourselves with those whose poetry appears shallow and without meaning, for if we use it for comparative purposes to give rise to our own sense of well being, we have failed to truly embrace the beauty of diversity, we have turned off the dialog with our inner teacher. And so as we look out on to the poetic landscape of our lives, we seek to find learning and growth and beauty in all this, and focus our attention on exactly what we have before us in our own gardens--one day it may be lush and tropical, other days it may be a frightening barren landscape. Our outer bones and structure may begin to face decay, but it is what it is and we are who we are and so we begin to cultivate the poetry of our inner lives, listening to others, sharing, accepting, exercising non-envy and stepping forth into the circle and community of self-acceptance. By tending to our own gardens, we show others how to tend to theirs, and we all reap the bounty.

Om Hrim Om

Dissolving Knots and Melting Away Nails

After practice yesterday I had a great massage, a Jeff combo special extreme. Laying on my stomach, I went into a deep relaxation, perhaps a trance. I saw my back covered with giant nails (best description is railroad spikes). This was not a painful image or a disturbing one, no blood, just a series of spikes holding my body down, and as Jeff continued to massage me the spikes disintegrated, releasing their hold. It was a sweet, pleasant image yet one that expressed intensity. Imagine actually being nailed down with railroad spikes penetrating your body--pretty awful. But in my image the spikes were painless. When we relax our minds and our bodies, we can release all the nails of tension that keep us nailed down, that keep us held in place and stuck, that keep us face down and free from seeing, free from moving into understanding. For more than a few weeks now I've been struggling to understand a relationship that I don't fully understand. It seems to defy definition, understanding, and at times, healthy boundaries. I needed to let it go, I needed to be free from it for the time being--all this within myself. I felt hurt and angry and these feelings cause my mind to get stuck in creating scenarios that are little more than illusions that seek to release the pain. They are like illusory whirlwinds that take off and gain strength in an instant before I realize I have the capacity to stop them before they take on too much of a life of their own. Again and again when I realize that I'm not feeling loved in the world, that I'm feeling unworthy of love, it helps me understand that the pain I'm feeling comes from old wounds and has been triggered by an outside event that usually has very little to do with what's swirling around within me. However, we do need to pay close attention to those people in our lives who may indeed have a tendency to disregard our boundaries, or whose actions don't jibe with their words (and vice versa). Human nature is so complex and when we try to nail down someone else's behavior we might only end up in knots ourselves. Sometimes, not always, it's best to just let go, stop the whirlwinds of illusion, and let the nails come out, and from this place we are more free in choosing what serves us best.

Underlining the Underlying

I often find myself, while reading a book, grabbing a pencil or highliter and underlining nearly every sentence I've just read with the thought: I must come back to this--it really speaks to me, there are many layers of meaning here that warrant further exploration. Bringing Yoga to Life by Donna Farhi is one such book. For example, in her chapter The Freedom of Discipline, she talks about the importance of learning to channel our energies by "increasing our tolerance for staying in the pause between desire and satisfaction." Staying in that place between wanting and getting or doing. I've been applying this pause to so many things of late and the outcome is simply wonderful. It allows for things to just unfold without me interfering, interjecting, projecting, and in general trying to control or manipulate things, even with the very best of intentions, whether I believe I'm being appropriately assertive or not. There is a gentleness in this that I like very much. Not knowing what to do is a dilemma many of us find ourselves in, as well as not knowing what to say, when to say it, whether to say it at all when confronted with difficult situations. Yes, the avoidance of conflict altogether is not a very realistic approach to living--after all, conflict of one kind or another is a fact of life--but fully understanding and seeing that fine line that divides *into action* vs *pause* is difficult for many of us to define. Staying in pause mode can bring the clarity we are looking for, and oftentimes that clarity unfolds before us while we are in a state of pause, and resolution comes to fruition while we observe. This is NOT to say we shouldn't actively participate in our lives nor does it promote procrastination. What it does say is that the habitual reacting that may have been with us for a long time may be a behavior that needs to be carefully examined. Farhi writes that the Latin root for discipline is disciplina which means knowledge, or enlightenment. Discipline sometimes has a negative connotation, but when put in the context of an action that brings knowledge and insight into who we really are, it helps to push us to show up to the yoga mat or the meditation cushion, or just get out and work at getting and finding whatever we need in a manner that is skillful and guided by discernment. Pausing can be as simple as wanting to tell a stranger in a yoga class that his behavior is insulting to the teacher and violates yoga etiquette and tradition (not paying attention to the teacher, talking so that other students cannot hear the teacher, physically adjusting a fellow student, etc.) But when you pause from saying anything and moments later learn he is the spouse and/or best friend of the teacher it's a confirmation that the pause served you quite well!! Action that is anger based, or controlling based, or care taking orientated is best kept in the pause mode. Pause doesn't mean stop permanently, it just means slow down and be very mindful before stepping in to shape or control a situation. I really do like this whole pause concept. I'm underlining Pause and examining its many underlying meanings and applications in my life.

The Falling of a Teardrop--"Just a Little Green"

To account for his distance, J told me life had been throwing him some curve balls. That's what life does, I said, it likes to throw things at us and pull us in all sorts of directions, leaving us dizzy and sometimes sick, and therefore not always as available as we would like to be. We all need time to process, to be alone to ponder and wonder. Sometimes we are lied to, people try to engage us in scurrilous gossip and sometimes we succumb and are sucked right into that vortex. We try to untangle all the little injustices laid at our feet, set the record straight, let the truth be known. We get caught up in the web and are devoured by the stories. Hooked, as Chodran calls it. Just hooked in a nano second, before we've had time to just step back and take a deep breath. This stepping back is not easy, nor is it withdrawing. There is an element of detachment but by no means void of empathy. We seek a sense of objectivity without being an actor in a play written by someone else. A play that might be tragic, absurd, or sad, and mostly quite irrelevant to what we want to be engaged in. So we begin learning to script the plays that bring richness to our lives but this doesn't mean building a wall around us with a deep moat filled with stagnant water; however, it does mean growing to know ourselves and what we want, what we need, then seeking out those people and situations as best we can so that we can act out the roles we feel are best suited to our own personal growth, hence we can interact with and observe others doing the same thing--for our own good and the greater good of others. Often there is so much UN-learning for us to do. Truths can be elusive, with so many dimensions. We begin to reject and throw out all the ignorances that have caused us so much conflict, so much suffering.

Patanjali has so much to offer us, it's really almost incomprehensible in it's simplicity. With humility, an open heart and an open mind we embrace the sacred study of yoga, and with that, we begin to embrace the life we want to lead. Each time my buttons get pushed, it indicates a clinging to one of the kleshas. (Patanjali mentions 5 kleshas, or causes of suffering). To help us dissolve these veils, he suggests that we develop 4 attitudes: friendliness, compassion, celebrating the good in others, and remaining impartial to the faults and imperfections of others. Donna Fahri writes that our spiritual fitness can only be tested in relationship with others. So, when my buttons get pushed, I ask myself what's really going on here. And usually it comes down to the simple answer: I don't feel loved, and that for me can be a really devastating feeling, until I realize, HEY, this is that opportunity presenting itself, it's a pretty loud knock on my door. Someone says or does something, or doesn't say or do something, and I'm triggered. I might feel angry, sad, wanting to act on that retaliatory impulse; when I stop myself I realize that usually nothing has really happened that amounts to a hill of beans. Just a hill of beans I create in my mind because I'm afraid I'm unworthy of love. The old story that reaches back into childhood. The recurring theme. "You are not loved because you are not worthy of love." When I realize this is what's going on, again, it breaks the illusion that someone is purposely trying to hurt me. It's just the little boy in me feeling deeply hurt that his dad couldn't find ways to express his love for his son. My best *defense* is learning to love as sincerely and as deeply as I can muster, and that means being open and vulnerable, which allows the love of others to freely come to me, and it does. The healing is profound.

I had a leisurely lunch with my good friend J yesterday. He still blames himself for his HIV status, and finds himself beating himself up with guilt. He is searching for the path that will lead him to forgive himself. Many of us indulge in little indiscretions from time to time, and they add up but usually with no significant consequences. But the AIDS virus doesn't allow you to forget your indiscretion. Your partner told you he was not infected, you had every reason at the time to trust him. He hid his little indiscretion from you thinking there would be no consequences. Just a little rendezvous. And it spreads and spirals out of control and has profound consequences. It is with you every single day and sometimes rears its powerful head and comes very close to slaying you.

I closed my eyes and saw a green tear falling from the heart center. Why a green teardrop? In so many arenas of life, I'm still green and have so much to learn (and un-learn). The heart chakra is green, as is a blade of grass shooting up towards the sun, spring time colors the palate with shades of green, of renewal and growth. Oh yes, and split pea soup. How do all those peas get split into near perfect little halves?

Taking Flight

I love Spring time. I've spent countless hours watching the birds, especially the mama and papa chipping sparrows and their chicks on the top of the column of the front porch where they built a nest upon a nest upon a nest. All day they tirelessly bring insects to the screaming hatchlings. They chatter and fuss when the cats sit in the windowsill nearby and become conspicuously quiet when I walk outside. Yesterday the chicks decided to emerge from the nest and jump around on the top of the column. One fell out but couldn't fly. Then another fell out. I stood sentry in case the neighbors cats showed up for a meal. The little ones just couldn't fly and the fussing and screeching kept my attention for hours. Finally I decided to intervene and try and put them back in the nest. Well, what a mistake that was. I spent forever trying to catch one of the chicks with a soft cloth. I must have looked pretty silly but finally I caught one and put him back in the nest with his siblings, and he immediately flew out and landed right back on the ground. They are too young to leave the nest, so goes my thinking. The sun set and everything quieted down. I looked this morning and the nest was completely empty. Presumably, all four babies had taken flight, or attempted flight. They grow so fast, all the while the parents are inexhaustibly bringing insects to spit into wide open beaks. I saw a big tom cat sitting out on the rock ledge a while ago, right where the baby birds take refuge. Did he eat them? Did they escape? I don't know, but I do know I need to just let it go, and let nature take her course.

I know I'm borrowing from a poem that really speaks to me, but during a class this week there was a brief moment, when, through guidance and energy, I thought I was going to totally explode into a radiant blossom of overwhelming light. I think that spark that resides within each of us is often made more assessable when we are led into that space by another who is tapping into their higher energy and we let go completely and let ourselves just fall into IT. Perhaps this is what happens when we truly let go and taste the nectar of grace. For me, it's like dipping my toes into a cool stream of water and feeling totally electrified by the sensation, only it's not so much a physical sensation as an inner, spiritual one. Thanks to all the yoga teachers whose energy connects into inner territory and allows me to intuit something far greater than anything I know. Those are indeed sacred moments. No more nor no less sacred than watching baby birds trying to take flight for the first time.

I love Spring time, and I love trying to take that inner flight towards the light of self.