Technical Difficulties

I've had several readers (including my own brother!) contact me to ask why I stopped posting. Sorry to have left you hanging, guys. I encountered some technical difficulties with this site, involving some spam and other complicated issues.
So I decided it would be easier to leave Bliss and create a fresh URL. I think I contacted most of my dedicated readers. But if you were left behind and confused, I apologize. And, if you've just happened on this blog, it's basically inactive.
Hope to see you at my new blog! (Link here).

Being Afraid

This blessing ended class:

Do not be afraid

to be afraid

Be afraid

Then...

Hope, Wonder,

and Love

A Blessing

I enjoyed such a special yoga class today. My mother and I took my two daughters to a girls-only session. They were thrilled to be in the studio, and see my teachers again, and generally just be as cool and fun as I am.

I love spending time with them. They are so the light of my life.

During partner work, we sang this to each other:

May the longtime sun
shine upon you -
All love
surround you -
The pure light
within you
Guide your way on

Namaste

Virtual Virtue

I adore the pumpkin and spice color scheme of this coffee house. It’s so autumnal. A great place to look around and write about what catches my attention.

At the next table, a man wears a dark green t-shirt. The front has the illustration from the Cascade dish detergent box. The back reads, “So Clean We’re Virtually Spotless.”

Virtually spotless. Spotless virtual reality. My imagination churns and makes me hopeful. Maybe someday we will have virtual worlds that we can escape to with the intention of enjoying spotlessness, if only for a brief while.

Although, now that I think about it, in the virtual worlds we already have like Second Life, it seems people are much more attracted to the spots than the cleanliness. Rather than striving to be better creatures, they turn themselves loose. The universal wildness of human (or frequently animal) nature. What’s that all about?

Maybe I'm learning why the sea on the tide

There's a lot to like in Roxy Music's More Than This. Of course, it reminds me of high school, but in a generalized, comforting way. Unlike so many nostalgic songs, it's not tied to any particular moments or associations for me.

Then there's the mellow sound, very flowing and relaxing.

But, best of all, thanks to my helpful friend Google, I now know what the actual words are saying. Instead of just humming general phonemes, I have meaning.

And I like those lyrics very much indeed, although I still only understand them in an organic way, like a poem, rather than in a concrete way. Which is all the better I think.

Poetry, Then

Poetry, then, is not an answer
But only a process
A drawing down into the self

During hypnosis I drift my
Conscious mind down, down
To the silt-silked bottom
Of a tranquil lake

Having myself lie, still and serene
With the great calm weight of the
Water pressing full around me

Like poetry

I wear glasses now
With an intellectual look
That others admire

And every day I ask myself

Who am I?

8-26-07


(After reading an interview with
new Poet Laureate Charles Simic.)

What to Do? What to Do? What to Do?

This sagacity came from dear Ursula, who is much wiser than I:

Remember - stones are hard, the weather changes, and men are men.

Nibbling Olives with God

So another day, another yoga class. My goal this week is daily attendance. After a wonderful class with many twists, downward facing dog, upward facing dog, frog pose, crow pose (darn it!), and my improved kick-ass tree pose as practiced on the sunny shore, we stretch out for relaxing Savasana.

As always, I’m eager to find out what my experience of this relaxation will be. You’ll remember that yesterday my body faded away. No such luck today. Body’s still there, whispering little reminders. Mind’s still there too, ticking along like a happy little wristwatch. Here, there, everywhere go my thoughts. Tick, tick, tick.

Oh, well. I breathe and accept it. The instant I do it all deepens for me. Suddenly, I am plunged through my inner self into the vast limitless expanse that lingers there. God is waiting for me.

“Oh, so delightful to see You!” I think.

God gives his usual wry and loving wordless reply.

“Yeah, yeah, You are always here. I’m the one who forgets to visit. Okay, I get it.” God doesn’t mind if I roll my eyes, or get a little attitude sometimes. He’s pretty forgiving.

Today, God is like… God. Traditional. Male, benevolent, paternal, wise and kind. Often my conception of God is of a willowy red-haired woman who wears flowing, green gauzy dresses that set off her creamy skin. She is ageless, beautiful and lives in an indescribably charming cottage in the midst of a lush, flower-filled garden. We like to chat and eat homemade cinnamon rolls in her welcoming parlor.

Today, God wants to go somewhere. He takes me out to a nearby bar and orders martinis. I love this bar; it’s classy, well appointed, and vaguely European in a cosmopolitan way. God has (of course) good taste.

It’s just what I need too. Just a chance to hang out in the comfortingly dim light, watching the glowing end of cigarettes, and grooving to the music that wraps around us like a warm haze. God likes His music with some bass. It’s a little loud for me, but I’m not about to complain.

I sit there and sip, and groove, and relax. When our drinks are gone, we nibble our olives and smile at each other. “Delicious,” I say, “Thanks so much.”

Across the studio, the music fades and the teacher chimes the copper bell three times. I come back into my body on the mat, chuckling as I roll up to easy pose. Namaste.

Yoga at the Edge of the World

For like the fourth Sunday in a row, my family goes to the beach for the late afternoon and dusk. I cannot help myself. I have become the kind of person who sits on the shore, right at the water’s edge, and does yoga.

I worry somewhat about this. I don’t want to look pretentious, laughable, or more likely, crazy. I even ask my husband, Do I look okay? I reassure myself that I must look passably socially acceptable because I have the perceptible normalcy of spouse and lovely children going for me.

In any case, my ego worries are not as strong as my irrepressible urge to celebrate the glory of the beach. What better than with my favorite and most heartfelt kind of prayer?

There is no yoga surface as intriguing as sand. You haven’t done standing poses until you’ve done them on shifting sand in the moving sea. (Yeah, technically, I haven’t done them either because I always fall. But that’s so not the point.)

Also irresistible to me is doing poses atop the rough rocks that dot the shoreline. I did some kick-ass tree poses, made all the more awesome by the rugged uneven rock below my feet, the constant churning of the water, and the danger that if I lose my balance and fall, I am not only going to be completely embarrassed as onlookers rush to my aid, but I am also going to seriously injure myself on a lower rock. Nothing makes you focus on balance in the present moment like the awareness that both your body and your pride are in peril.

Sitting in lotus on the unforgiving yet so comforting surface of a broad sun-warmed rock, my breath and the rhythm of the ocean are one. The horizon …and me… and you… are everything.

Free Lunch

It’s such a gorgeous day.

I enjoy my fruit lunch in the park. The pear is ripe and juicy, at that perfect stage of sweet softness. I plucked it from the tree two weeks ago, and, finally, it is ready to eat, a dream of "sugary sand melting on my tongue." The purple grapes are firm, crisp and cool.

I intend to study some Sanskrit from the yoga text I’ve brought with me. Instead I am swept up in the show. Branches wave in the breeze, birds flit, and the sun glints lively off the moving leaves. It’s more engaging than anything I could ever see on television.

I say a prayer of thanks for my blessed life.

Celebrate Light

When I work in the office, I like to dress up. Now that I’m not a teacher, I can totally get away with wearing heels, the really high kind that look great but hurt like hell if you have to do any walking at all.

Since yesterday was the Chinese Moon Festival, I wore unbelievable red heels for good luck.

What? You don’t celebrate Chinese Moon Festival?

According to my sources, this festival takes place in the 8th lunar month and is basically just a good excuse to get together with family and friends, eat delicious mooncakes, tell stories, sing songs, and admire the luscious full moon. In other words, what’s not to love?

Last night, in Riverside, Heritage House and the Municipal Museum sponsored a wonderful family-event. Probably a thousand people crammed into the landscaped grounds below glowing paper lanterns to sip tea, tie good-luck knots in red cords, sample bean paste mooncakes, hear traditional stories about jade rabbit, and just enjoy the moonbeams.

It’s nice to think that the same benevolent moon lights all of our nights. Just one more way we’re all connected.

To end yoga class today, teacher H said, “May you see the light that is luminous, radiant, and right there, shining on your path.” May you indeed, my friends in this world.

Exhausted

I have not been sleeping well at all. Blame that damn gorgeous moon.

Away From Body

Maybe because I am so tired, during final relaxation I achieve a state of body-lessness. I feel myself floating around and that just-before-sleep feeling washes gently over me as my body’s heaviness relaxes down into my mat.

I don’t fall asleep. I remain aware and conscious, but with almost zero sensation from my body. Just pure energy of me.

It reminds me of the deep relaxation and detachment from physical senses that I’ve experienced through hypnosis. It’s very relaxing to feel myself as a disembodied consciousness.

Also very paradoxical, because usually in yoga I work to be less in my mind and more in my body. I love yoga. I never know ahead of time what I will experience.

Man, I can’t wait to start my teacher training and go even deeper.

The Stuff I Don’t Know Would Fill a Book

Asserted by Reviewer Tim Rutten in today’s LA Times: Philip Roth is (apparently) our greatest living novelist.

Why don’t I know this? Sigh.

Rashomon Effect

Just like Kurosawa I make mad films,
Ok, I don’t make films
But if I did they’d have a samurai

Fabulous! The Academy Film Archive has slaved painstakingly for years to restore Rashomon, one of Akira Kurosawa’s greatest films, to its original splendor. The restored version will be shown on Thursday, that’s right, this Thursday, two days from now, at the Samuel Goldwyn Theater in Beverly Hills. Film Critic Kenneth Turan will lead a discussion on Kurosawa’s work immediately preceding the film.

(I wish I could be there. However, I’ve already promised to attend the Aztec Dance performance at my daughters’ school that same night. Darn.)

I have loved this film ever since grad school when my whole world snapped into a beautiful, jumbled house of cards of relative perspectives with my discovery of Narrative Theory.

Man, I went to grad school with some great people. I remember how the intellectual discourse would whirl through the room.

One fellow student, an ex-cop, shared how true to life Rashomon’s competing stories felt to him. He said that, in the case of rape, the bewildered husbands would come to him in confidence to ask, What did my wife say happened to her?

Oh, all the world’s a story…

Right This Moment

The fasting is not going well. However, the coffee cake is delicious.

Hiking

So hard to move on
Too far to turn back
I sit by the trail
For a while

Skating

The water gushes cold
The ice is thin
I keep myself moving
So I won’t fall in

Thank You

In yoga class today, our teacher H tries to distract us from our burning thighs as we press our backs against the wall.

She shares this nugget read recently:

Self-pity is an abomination. It is denying God’s love.

Broken Beer Bottles

(Note- I actually wrote this on January 23, 2008. It's been hanging around waiting for me to get this blog up and running.)

I treated myself to a trip to the park today. I love the park. I go there for a double reason – to be immersed in nature and to be immersed in my Self. Walking the trails through this particular park soothes me and helps me think. My exploration becomes a walking meditation, a large-scale labyrinth that I am unfurling with my motions as my heart unfurls its emotions.

Trees grow, wind blows. Birds chirp, call, and circle in the sky. Squirrels hop from tree to tree. Various nooks hold benches that invite me to sit and reflect.

One spot I adore is a concrete hexagon terrace overlooking an orange grove. This morning, I notice that someone has been partying here again. That tends to happen. Apparently, I am not the only one who finds this spot the perfect place to hang out.

I can tell partiers visited because they have shattered their discarded beer bottles. The broken shards of glass trouble me. They contrast with the atmosphere of peace and growth. One time I threw away two dozen bottles that thoughtless rowdies had hurled down among the orange trees. The soft earth kept them from breaking.

These couple of bottles had no such luck. They have fragmented into hundreds of pieces against the hard stone. I am about to walk on when I realize that there is something I can do. I can pick the fragments up.

I have a little internal debate, listing all the reasons that I don’t have to take on this chore. Yes, it will be hard, Yes, it will take a while. Yes, I should be careful. No, I don’t HAVE to take the responsibility.

But I choose to.

I kneel and begin to tidy up. Slowly I bring my attention to the task. I begin to practice being mindful. The first challenge I notice is that I am impatient. I try to get away with only picking up the biggest pieces. I am skipping on to the next one before I have even finished with the one in my hand.

I access gentle compassion and tell myself to slow down. Take your time. You have nowhere else to be, I say. I pick up each piece slowly. I notice their shapes, their textures. Some are brown squares; others splintered into knife-like shards, miniature amber icicles. Truly, they are beautiful. I consider that people from the long-ago past would have viewed these crumbles with awe. What I conceive of as annoying trash would have been a miraculous substance.

I watch my hands. They are amazing. I feel my cupped left hand, patiently receiving each new chunk. I watch my fingers move on my right hand. I am so grateful to have full use of both of them. If I move slowly and with attention, there is very little danger of cutting myself.

I shift my awareness to my posture. I am in a crouch, knees bent. Because I am right-handed, I have a good placement with my right leg. My foot is directly under my knee and I can lean, reach, or swivel. But when I notice my left leg, it is not so happy. My knee is well ahead of my foot and it feels cramped and overworked. I would never adopt this pose in Yoga. Why should I do it here as I work?

I plant my feet firmly and straighten my legs into a hanging forward bend. This is much better. Now my body is symmetrical and I have good range of motion for my hands to work.

It takes some time, but I gather three handfuls of broken glass. When I am done, the damaged bottles are gone.

Later, someone will come back here and drink again. And they will smash their bottles. I know this.

That’s not the point. The point is that for this little while, I paid attention. The point is that I made a positive difference in the external world and myself.

The point is that I said Thank You to the park that I love, and I got gifts in return.

My Favorite Verse

It’s Sunday. I may not make it to church, but I will be worshiping. Below is probably my favorite verse in the entire Bible; it has comforted me greatly times without measure.

Rejoice always; pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you” (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18).

I have to confess. When I was ordering checks recently, I almost ordered checks with this verse blazed across them, even though they were horribly country cute with bluebirds and birdhouses and bees and butterflies – not my style at all. That’s how much this verse means to me.

Then I came to my senses and realized that I am a WRITER. I’m not reliant on some printer – I can write my own message on my checks – anything I want. So I ordered the awesome island beach scenes instead.

(Just for fun, here's the link to a blog that also featured this verse.)

I Pull Back the Curtains, Let the Sun Burn into My Eyes

Embedded below is the video for “This is the Day” by The The – a song that has stuck in my mind since high school. It has that air of bitter hopefulness that appeals to me.

The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower

In shoulder stand yesterday, I focused on my femurs. As my legs became long wands of golden light, lifting energy to the ceiling, I rotated the femurs inward toward each other. This automatically aligned my pelvis and spine and strengthened my torso. It’s incredible to feel that extra lift and extension, effortless like a growing vine.

Worth Every Penny (14,500)

We had our usual wonderful time at the LA County Fair this week. It’s an annual tradition with our family to go at least once, often two or three times, during the season, and the evening we picked could not have been nicer. The lack of crowds and cool temperatures made for an enchanting fair experience.

While I’m always shocked to hear people discount or disparage The Fair – and, yes, I mean YOU, co-workers – I can understand how easy it would be to get lost in the hype and schlock. The commercial buildings with their nonstop sales and the carnival midway along with ever exorbitant food prices can be a bit off-putting.

However, I love the fair. LOVE IT. With just a bit of attention, you can still have a lovely, old-fashioned country fair experience. My kids get to practice such traditional skills as spinning or weaving. We’ve made rag dolls, panned for gold, created art projects, played one-room school, and followed the entire production cycle of a glass of milk or a sample of honey. The Fair still presents a rich legacy of traditional American skills and values in a wonderful, dynamic contact zone with modern Southern California life.

Where else can you go from barns full of horses and cows to Mexican Heritage to smiling, tap-dancing children to tattooed drunks stumbling out of a horse race, poorer but not wiser, within just a few steps?

Plus do not overlook the power of the fried food. This year I was appalled and delighted to find fried Reese’s, fried Snickers, fried Twinkies, fried frog legs, and, yes, fried Pop Tarts on offer with the more traditional fare of corn dogs, funnel cakes and donuts.

With my focus on tradition, the Home Arts Building is always a highlight. I feel a sense of awe when I stand before those gleaming, glowing jars of jams and luscious canned fruits. I worship at the cases filled with cookies, cakes, and breads, always wondering why I don’t enter my own baked goods into the running. I marvel at the patience and perseverance of women who still make the time to quilt or embroider or knit.

New to The Fair this year – a children’s playhouse area, small pipe cleaner-like worm toys that some of us will remember from our own youths, and, ta-da, CUPCAKES iced and decorated for you while you watch. YUM!

Breakfast At Tiffany's

I always check out the Tablescaping at the LA County Fair. For this exhibit, people decorate a table for a meal while following a theme. Then the judges tear them apart for putting spoons in the wrong place or for having a flower arrangement that doesn’t match the scope of the settings.

One theme this year was Breakfast At Tiffany’s. One of the tables received a perfect score – 100 points out of 100 points. The judges actually admitted that the placement of the settings was flawless – a first for me. In all my years of attendance, I never remember a perfect score.

It was a breathtakingly lovely table. Tiffany blue cloth with white satin trim showed off an array of sparkling silver and “diamond” jewelry. The dishes gleamed, pink roses added a burst of contrast, and a lace- and flower-bedecked poster of Audrey Hepburn presided coolly over it all.

I’ve always liked Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Despite the shockingly racist portrayal of the landlord and the overwrought reliance on Moon River, it’s a beautiful movie, simultaneously light and heartbreaking. The story of the struggling writer and the struggling woman who find each other but still struggle appeals to me as both a writer and a woman.

The reverence with which Holly embraces Tiffany’s as a symbol of hope and comfort is coded in our cultural iconography to the point that even a non-bling girl like me feels a little thrill at the thought of those priceless baubles.

So if you’re in need of a little reassurance that it will all turn out okay, check out the table at the LA Fair. It was perfect – proof that it can be achieved! Or pay a visit to Tiffany & Co yourself. There’s one in Pasadena. You can grab a delicious cupcake from Dot’s Cupcakes down the street and eat it with class and verve while you eye the goods on display.

Or, do what I’ll do this weekend. Pull out your DVD and hum along with Henry Mancini while you create your own escapist dream.

Movie Trailer

Spin Can Be Good

I wrote about whirling dervishes a few days ago. Serendipitously, a whirling dervish performance will be part of the World Festival of Sacred Music, Los Angeles. Forty-one musical events in sixteen days, starting tomorrow, September 13!

But, like me, you’re intrigued by the twirling. Seeker of Truth: Sufi Music, Dance, and Poetry from Pakistan and Turkey will be performed by Yuval Ron Ensemble and Guests on Thursday, Sept. 25 at 8 pm at the Skirball Cultural Center.

Wow. If that doesn’t say fun, I don’t know what does!

I wonder if I can get tickets…

I Must Be Doing Something Right as a Mother

Today my girls and I had lunch at our favorite coffee house, chatting and leafing through copies of September’s LA Yoga – Southern California’s Free Yoga Magazine. Driving home, I was playing my new Dave Stringer CD when I noticed an unusual quiet in the car. I glanced in the rearview mirror to see both girls, their legs tucked up in Sukhasana (easy pose), hands in chin mudra, meditating.

Which they did, serenely and devotedly, for the 15 minute drive home.

Incredible.

A Prayer

I’m currently enjoying Brick Lane, Monica Ali’s excellent book about Bangladeshi immigrants to London. My Bengali cultural link T. informs me that there’s a great movie version as well.

On p. 116, I find this Prayer of Light:

O God, place light in my heart,

light in my tongue, light in my hearing,

light on my right hand and on my left,

light before me, light behind me,

light above me and light below me.

O God, who knows the secrets of our hearts,

lead me out of the darkness and give me light.

Is there an X in Here?

The steamy swirl of my morning shower bathes me in self-reflection. As I luxuriate in the soft, fragrant lather of botanical soap and shampoo, I check in with myself. It’s a wonderful rejuvenating time when I process through emotions or set intentions for the day.

This morning, I reflected on ways my life has changed and ways it’s stayed the same. So what? I thought. It is what it is. Before it was something else. And before that it was some other thing else. And before that… And so forth.

But now it is here. I am here, in these roles and daily routines. I loved those other times and roles in my life. Now I can love these. I can simply let now be where my attention is. And thus my happiness.

In class yesterday, P. wanted us stretch our arms and legs off the corners of our mats while lying on our stomachs. She had a bit of difficulty describing that. Oh, I thought, she means make yourself into an X.

X marks the spot. X shows the spot where I am. Here.

Then I was there. Now I am here.

Work

The hardest work
I have ever done
Is trying

To claim as my Own

All the aspects of my life,
Both positive and negative,

That I have so habitually
Attributed
To the influence of Others.

Longing

Longing - n. A strong persistent yearning or desire, especially one that cannot be fulfilled.

After Yoga class yesterday, I had the great pleasure of purchasing Dave Stringer’s CD Divas & Devas. I cannot hear track 5 – “guru kripanjana”- without crying at its lonely beauty. All of love, loss, and hope floats in those notes.

My yoga teacher P. agreed, saying that it always gave her chills. She hit it right on the head when she said that to her it was the sound of the Universal search for Union and the Divine.

Below I have embedded the only Dave Stringer video I could find, so that you can at least hear his sound. Maybe you’ll decide to add him to your own practice collection.

In Remembrance

I wrote this poem a few years ago. I want to post it today along with a message of love, prayer and remembrance.

September

September is the deadly time.
Summer withers and fades away
Tasks drag heavy on our days
Pull us from green meadows and open sky.

In September, loss is in the air
A hint of cold blows a chilling promise
Of darkness and starkness coming
As leaves drop to leave branches bare

September’s destruction exacts its toll,
Induces fatigue into the soul, enters
One slowly into that empty void of
Winter.

September is the deadly time.

The Truth is I Wanted It

When I first realized that I wanted to be a writer, completely lacking any self-confidence, I learned quite a bit about how to approach writing from Natalie Goldberg’s excellent books – three about writing – Writing Down the Bones, Wild Mind: Living the Writer’s Life, and Thunder and Lightning- and one book – Long, Quiet Highway – about her spiritual work in the Zen Buddhist Tradition.

I learned a lot about writing. What I didn’t realize is that I also learned a lot about Zen Buddhism. Later, when suffering poured upon me, it was this foundation that helped me to accept it without submerging. I had gleaned a sense of how to sit in the emptiness, and how to hold the silence. I still fight, of course, but I continue learning.

Anyway, from time to time, I’ll post an excerpt from Goldberg’s books. I think you’ll like them:

“Loneliness

My great teacher, Katagiri Roshi, is sick now and I am very sad. I think about the six years I was with him in Minnesota. I want him to be well again for himself. I realize he has already given me everything. I do not need to be greedy and think I can get more from him. My job is to penetrate what I already know so that I live it day by day. So I am not separate from it.
When I finished writing Writing Down the Bones in Santa Fe in 1984, I went to visit Roshi in Minneapolis. I showed him the book. I said, ‘Roshi, I need a teacher again. The people in Santa Fe are crazy. They drift from one thing to another.’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t be so greedy. Writing is taking you very deep. Continue to write.’
‘But, Roshi,’ I said to him, ‘it is so lonely.’
He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Is there anything wrong with loneliness?’ he asked.
‘No, I guess not,’ I said.
Then we talked of other things. Suddenly, I interrupted him. ‘But, Roshi, you have sentenced me to such loneliness. Writing is very lonely,’ I stressed again.
‘Anything you do deeply is very lonely. There are many Zen students here, but the ones that are going deep are very lonely.’
‘Are you lonely?’ I asked him.
‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘But I do not let it toss me away. It is just loneliness.’
So there you have it. There are days I think, how did I get into this writing? But here I am. And the truth is I wanted it.”

Tourists

I show this blog to my friends. They like it!!

Poetry, Religion, Poetry

Being Six

Lots of thoughts to
Spin around
Arms outstretched
Feet love the ground
Whirl until it
All comes clear
Turn until
It disappears



When I wrote this poem, the image of a Whirling Dervish sprang to mind. Someone twisting around and around as children do. Except I wasn't sure exactly what a Dervish was. I thought it might be Indian or Middle Eastern...

Imagine my surprise to do a bit of research and find out that Whirling Dervishes are part of the religion of Islam. Even today, these followers live a life of poverty and humility and seek religious ecstacy through the intense motion of ritual dance.

I was even more surprised to note that the poet Rumi was a Whirling Dervish. Still one of the most widely read poets in America, Rumi writes exquisite poems of love, longing and the meaning of being. Like this one:

This World Which Is Made of Our Love for Emptiness

Praise to the emptiness that blanks out existence. Existence:
This place made from our love for that emptiness!

Yet somehow comes emptiness, this existence goes.
Praise to that happening, over and over!

For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness.
Then one swoop, one swing of the arm, that work is over.

Free of who I was, free of presence,
free of dangerous fear, hope, free of mountainous wanting.

The here-and-now mountain is a tiny piece
of a piece of straw blown off into emptiness.

These words I'm saying so much begin to lose meaning:
Existence, emptiness, mountain, straw:

Words and what they try to say
swept out the window, down the slant of the roof.

From Poems by Rumi

Finding My Voice

I have been writing and wanting to write for years. I’ve progressed through journals, stories, writing classes, and now, paid work. To accompany this growth, I have longed for a blog of my own.

A place just for me, where I can sharpen my skills and express myself as I choose. A place where I can embrace my growing courtship of the written word.

Like Woolf’s room, but in the intangible ether of electricity and cyberspace.

Now, I am here. I am taking it slowly. I consider what I want to say and to whom I wish to speak. I am letting my voice grow from within, like the gentle bubbling of clear spring water.

And, I wish to thank you, dear reader, for your participation. Without your reception, my voice floats alone and lost, unfinished in its task.

Local Shopping

Every Friday, I feel so lucky that I can go to the local Farmer’s Market. The array of fruits and vegetables piled on tables below blue canopies is astonishing. I love to browse around, smelling and looking and selecting my family’s food for the week by the heft of it in my hand. Over the years I’ve been going, I’ve built bonds with many of the farmers; I know which foods are in season and how to select the freshest, ripest peaches or cucumbers or artichokes.

To me, it is an amazing, sensual experience that helps the farmers, helps the environment, and provides the healthiest, most delicious food to my family.

So, today, I have to mention the soap vendors. This wonderful couple is at the market every week with these wooden trays of homemade soaps in every color and scent. As the sun warms the trays, the fragrances of mint, olive oil, lavender and tea tree hang over the entire market, perfuming everyone’s shopping.

I wish I could use their soap so quickly that I could try a new one every week! Right now, we have the Licorice in our shower. My entire bathroom smells like an Easter Basket (which some people, including my mother, would hate, but I love!).

I’ll give you their link: http://www.kreamysoaps.com/welcome.html

If you even go to this site and see the photos, I guarantee that you’ll want to order some soap online. And you won’t be disappointed!!

Fasting for Ramadan

The month of Ramadan began on Monday, and I find myself observing it with a modified fast.

I’m not Muslim. Not even remotely.

But I am big on spiritual observances. The rituals that remind us that there is much more to life than just the day-to-day dross. Sacrifice, devotion, dedication and intention are part of a healthy spirituality. I know quite well how enduring the lack of something can hone a shining appreciation not just for what is missed, but also for what is so abundantly present.

Since one of my closest and most wonderful friends is a (not-very-strict) follower of Islam, I decided that I would go hungry in solidarity with her.

Because I’m following my own inner guidance, this is a modified fast. Devout observers generally give up all food and drink intake, including water, from sunrise to sunset for the entire month. That just won’t work for me. So my terms are that I can drink freely, water or tea, and eat any fruits, vegetables, or nuts I want during daylight hours. Any other foods have to wait for the darkness (sort-of vampiric, huh?).

Several milestones loom for me at the end of this month. I have a big birthday at the start of October. I begin my year-long program to learn how to teach yoga at the end of September. I also will meet for the first time with a dear blog friend from another country. This month just suggested itself to me as a perfect time to prepare and purify.

It’s amazing to know that I am in the company of so many millions of other souls around the world.

Even though I’m not of their faith, I can still appreciate the value of Faith itself.

And that I can share in it.

Lost in Thought

Thinking mind can be quite obtrusive during yoga. Today while I was lying on my back finishing up bridge pose, my mind wandered away into its own thoughts, and I missed the next instruction. I heard people moving so I glanced around. The other five students were stretching out their arms and placing the soles of their feet together. So I did too, hoping the teacher didn’t notice that I lagged. After several breaths, P. told us to switch our legs so that the other leg was crossed on top. The only problem was that none of us had our legs crossed!

So I guess nobody heard the first instruction correctly.

Maybe we were all off somewhere else in our thoughts…

A Favorite Poem

Enough. These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.

This opening to life
we have refused
again and again
until now.

Until now.


by David Whyte
from his collection Where Many Rivers Meet

Beginning

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