Archive for March, 2012

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March 27, 2012

a yogi’s pilgrimage

by wendi

 

 As I make my slow pilgrimage through the world, a certain sense of beautiful mystery seems to gather and grow.
–A.C. Benson

I watched a documentary last night that was filmed by people all around the world capturing moments of their life on a single day: July 24, 2010. Everything from kissing to eating to working to dancing to preparing food to celebrating to grieving to being. Moments that aren’t particularly spiritual or profound, but that together formed what I experienced as a spiritually tantalizing film and another reminder of the thin line between the sacred and the mundane.

Watching this movie got me thinking again about the idea of pilgrimage- not as a colossal sacred journey that requires travelling across the world in search of God, but as a daily experience of living intentionally. As a dear yogi friend reminded me at the yoga studio the other day, the sacred can be found in silence. No need to go anywhere but within. And then she sent Kabir’s poem A Great Pilgrimage to me:

 I felt in need of a great pilgrimage

so I sat still for three

days.

 and God came

to me.

I read those words, and I had a moment of great relief. There is nothing I need to do to find the Divine, and perhaps “doing” gets in the way sometimes. Or, maybe, working too hard gets in the way (especially when I’m on the yoga mat). Either way, it seems to me that the most important lesson is to live life and to take time to notice everything from the people I love to the experiences of self (body, mind, and spirit) to those small and seemingly insignificant times.

I’ve been trying to look at my life lately as a metaphorical pathway, and the people that I’ve met and continue to meet along the way as potential life guides. Even the people in my life who have been incredibly challenging or frustrating have at times been my greatest teachers- sometimes because of the way they acted (or didn’t), and sometimes because of what I learned from my own response. And, obviously, I have been shaped by my experiences (good, bad, and everything in between) and the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done or have had done to me. This doesn’t make me special, but it makes me uniquely me.

I think of my most recent pilgrimage beginning nearly three years ago when I first received the call telling me that I was diagnosed with cancer. An ordinary day that was instantly and drastically changed by a few words. Suddenly, I was snapped into seeing my own body and my future in a radically different light. Those words made me pack my figurative bags and set out on a pilgrimage of sorts without looking back at the burning building that was my life.

Several years later, I’m still searching. And maybe even more intensely now that I’ve distanced myself from labels and expectations. Every pilgrim needs time to rest, and my own rest involved trashy magazines, long weekends of watching predictable movies on the couch with my sweetheart, and comfort food. All of these acts (as well as the others I refuse to name) helped to prepare me for the space that I’m in now; living my yoga and seeking a connection with something bigger than myself. It’s the idea of throwing a pebble in a pond and watching the ripples reach shore, throwing the ecosphere into just a little bit of a different space than it was before that rock was lifted from the beach. Every instant holds the possibility of transformation.

What I’m struck by lately is that everyone in this world has complexity- not one person is absent a unique story. Occasionally this idea overwhelms me, but then there are the times when I have an appreciation for the connections that can be created when people open up to share just a little of their story. This week alone, I experienced and was witness to deep personal connections both in a training at my yoga studio and again in a volunteer training at my work; occasions for people to share a bit about what brought them forth to engage in work that requires compassionately offering support to people who need it. And both reminders that though my story is unique, I am not even close to unique in my need for connection or my complex history of personal loss.

The scars on my body serve to remind me of a blend of my humanness, my mortality, strength, courage, faults, mystery, beauty, and normalness; my everything and my nothing all at the same time. I am not these scars. Just like nobody is. But my scars represent a part of my journey- my path- and they are a map, of sorts, to a place that my journey began. My experience of having cancer helped me to enter into what I consider a pilgrimage; a journey into the unknown and, hopefully, into the sacred. I am a yogi wayfarer. And I never want to quit shedding my skin to make the journey  lighter.

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March 16, 2012

the winter in haiku

by wendi

At the beginning of the year, I committed to writing haiku on a regular basis. It was cold and dark, and I was desperately seeking inspiration (which, apparently, can not be found in the personals section of The Stranger). Often, when I’m depleted of creativity, I search for words or images that stand out for me, and words and poetry can feel like food for my soul. So, I embarked on a renewed practice of haiku.

After just a few days of evoking images through haiku, haiku became a way for me to see the world- envisioning nature in a cadence of five, seven, and five. I found that I more often than not had to set foot outside before finding my haiku voice, and that when I did, I was muttering to myself and taking my hands out of my pockets to count syllables on my fingers (this must be done on bare hands- mittens ruin the experience). Through my daily haiku practice, as I worked the parts of my brain specially reserved for math and poetic inspiration, my heart felt like it opened up a little. The small act of filtering out nonsense and attempting to capture a moment in seventeen syllables was (and is) an incredible experience. And, some might say, this practice can lead to enlightenment (there’s always hope).

So, with the Spring Equinox just a few days away, I thought I would share my winter in haiku (to be read in reverse from present day to New Year’s Day). Some sweetness, irreverence, and nonsense to fill a page. My initial hope was to have enough lines to form a haiku mala, but I decided this was enough. Because it certainly isn’t the end of my haiku love affair. Just another practice that I continue to keep in my toolbox of goodness.

 Shiny drops of rain
Balanced upon blades of grass
How do you do that?
 
Dreamt of pilgrimage
Ancient forests, distant lands
And woke up inspired
 
Little pink blossoms
Under stormy winter sky
Beautiful and strong
 
Another cold day
Anything is possible
With warm gloves and love
 
Drops of winter rain
Forming puddles in the street
How I long for spring
 
Tiny hints of chive
Peeking out from wintered pot
Delicate yet strong
 
Dark clouds hide the moon
Shifting patterns in the sky
Where is the bird song?
 
 Sea glass colored sky
Exchanging the moon for sun
So begins the day
 
How the sun still shines
The world moves on and birds sing
Your presence is missed
 
Glistening water
Under sprawl of snowcapped range
My sweetheart and me
 
Beautiful sunshine
Glistening frost covered earth
Drink it up and smile
 
Beautiful morning
Sound of breath mixed with birdsong
My bicycle bliss
 
Brisk winter morning
Sound of tires in crunching leaves
Love song for my bike
 
Chilly winter rain
Slowly melting hints of snow
Cookie for breakfast
 
Early morning chill
Made bearable by music
Shake my hips and smile
 
Fresh snow upon ice
Upon snow upon more ice
Grateful for warm socks
 
City sounds muffled
By snowfall and wooly hat
Early morning joy
 
Multicolored clouds
Laughing at the snow nonsense
Everything changes
 
Search for snowy owl
In naked winter treetops
Found: my happiness
 
This feels like winter
Icy streets and garden snow
Memories of home
 
Early morning snow
Falling softly to the earth
The sky in prayer
 
The voice in my head
Seems to think she knows so much
And maybe she does
 
The smell of her neck
Moments after I arise
My heart knows of love
 
Another sunrise
As unique as this moment
The beauty of change
 
Frozen bird feeder
Attracts little chickadee
This promise of spring
 
The frost covered leaves
Capture the light of the moon
This, too, is yoga
 
Full moon peeping out
From cover of morning clouds
The courage to shine
 
The city is lights
Reflecting in the dark sky
Why am I awake?
 
Early morning stroll
Listening to winter birds
Sweet old dog and me
 
Early morning stretch
Before the rush of the day
Old dog under feet
 
Under a dark sky
The world seems a quiet place
Kettle screams inside
 
Multicolored sky
Blazing on a New Year’s morn
Reminder of peace

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March 12, 2012

does this yoga make my butt look big?

by wendi

I’m in a practicum for yoga teacher certification. I believe in the ethical precepts of yoga, read sacred texts, perform yogic breathing, meditate, meet regularly with fellow yogis for inspiration, and practice yoga on a daily basis. I attend challenging yoga classes that make me stretch, twist, jump, and sweat. I’m feeling stronger and more physically capable than I have in a long time, and I’d like to think that my practice has helped me to be a more emotionally stable person. So why the hell do I give a damn that my ass is getting fat? But it is.

My jeans are stretched to capacity, and when I catch the occasional glimpse of my backside in my yoga pants, I see a reflection of a bulging derriere. As much as I want to be all yogic and practice non-attachment, I find my backside expansion to be disconcerting. I want the elusive “yoga butt”! Is that too much to ask for? Ahem.

Before anyone alerts the yoga police, let me clarify. Like many women in this body obsessed culture, I have had body image issues since adolescence. I’ve never been super skinny, and even when I was eating a mostly raw, vegetarian, low fat diet and exercising like a mad woman, I was wearing a size 12 pants. Sometimes 14.Who am I kidding? I’ve pushed the 16/18 boundary several times, too.  And I’ve worked hard at being ok with that- working diligently to love my body and to practice the yogic principle of Ahimsa (non-harming, fearlessness, compassion). Inner voice: this is why they call it “practice”.

My body is strong and healthy, and I am grateful for all that my body can do. But to be honest, I can’t seem to shake the nagging part of me that wants to fit in- not just my pants, but with the crowd of athletic yogis who look so lithe and “healthy” in their Lululemon yoga gear and who adorn the covers of shiny yoga magazines. These yogis are stunning to look at. And….so am I. And so are the masses of “curvy” people who are finally stepping forth to claim a place on the mat or in the front of the room.

These lovely yogis are proving that yoga can be done regardless of size. It’s not just bold; it’s what my friend has proclaimed to be a yoga love revolution. And it’s a powerful and equally beautiful thing to behold. My ass is bigger- yes. And maybe, just maybe, that’s not just because I adore sharing sugary baked goods with my yoga book club friends, but also because my heart has expanded beyond the confines of my rib cage. Perhaps my ass is making room for what my torso can’t hold.

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March 7, 2012

the city Lorax and my search for God

by wendi

 Where is the door to God?
In the sound of a barking dog,
In the ring of a hammer,
In a drop of rain,
In the face of
Everyone
I see.

-Hafiz

There’s a man in Seattle who shows up to work sites where buildings are being torn down. He fascinates me. This man, who I affectionately refer to as “the city Lorax”, has grey hair with dreadlocks down to his knees and a long beard. Every day he wears a dark blue and green puffy ski jacket with baggy khaki pants and ragged tennis shoes. City Lorax talks to himself, occasionally moving in a rapidly rhythmic way, and he mostly goes between pacing the sidewalk and standing still in apparent awe at the demolition before him. City Lorax utilizes what looks like a cell phone to record the activity, which was upsetting to me at first, because it didn’t fit with my story of him. I’ve reconciled this fact, chalking it up to advancement in Lorax technology. What City Lorax does with the video footage is unknown to me, just like most everything about him.

 My own story of City Lorax has been that he stands witness to destruction when others barely take time for a second glance.  I’ve often wondered how disappointing it would be to know the truth, especially when the mystery seems so lovely. Which makes me think about those times when I fail to allow myself to believe something out of a distrust of that which isn’t “known” by me; if I can’t see, taste, feel, hear, or touch it, can it truly exist?

 The City Lorax exists to me because I have witnessed his presence. I know that he most often appears where there is a demolition site and that he stands vigil for hours on end without so much as a drop of water to quench his thirst. What I don’t know is who he may be related to, where he sleeps at night (if he sleeps at all), what language he may speak or understand, and what it is he is truly doing near the dust and noise laden blocks of rubble. But there he is, and it always makes my heart sing just a little to see him there. It feels good to hold just a little curiosity along with what I know.

 In my attempts to live life according to Patanjali’s eight limbs of yoga, I recognize those places where I grasp and fear and judge.  The more I learn about myself and my connection to the world, the more I want to have a sense of “the Divine”. And yet growing up in a home with no religious affiliation, I have no concept of what it’s like to commit myself to any one belief. My mind moves from having a sense of curiosity to thinking that I need proof. It’s another space where it’s most likely better for me to hold a sense of wonder and to leave space for the unknown.

 Yoga philosophy tells me that the Divine is in everything and that even I am a manifestation of the Divine (and so is the City Lorax);   if this is so, then I suppose everything is my proof that the Divine exists. Which isn’t good enough for my senses, but it’s mostly good enough for my spirit. When I see blossoms in early spring, witness newborn babies, hear children laughing, and dig my hands in fresh soil, I feel connected to something larger than me. When I witness something or someone who doesn’t fit the “norm”, I am reminded of the possibility that the Divine exist. And when my larger than life imagination creates a story for someone that others see as mentally ill and homeless, it makes me happy.

 To me, yoga is a spiritual practice that I can relate to without committing to a religion and it is a practice that I can feel comfortable being playful with. I can be funny and quirky and negligent without being judged.  I can just show up in my life, attempt to observe some specific ways of being in the world (enter here the Yamas and Niyamas), and I can use my breath and my body as ways of honoring my practice. Or, if/when all else fails, I can just be where I’m at. A human experience working toward a divine interaction.

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