Galaxies Inside

This has been a challenging week or so.  I've missed a few weeks of posts because I have been struggling to get myself to write.  I have been in a state of unrest. It is almost like I've been shaken up like a snow globe and I'm slowly waiting for things to settle.  

Yet, I can't wait for things to settle.  I know in this state I need to feel and allow what surfacing to have a moment be alive and awake.  But the feelings are prickly and painful.  Yet beautiful.  Much like the Joshua Tree.  

I have been trying to do work that takes advantage of this moving and shifting around to try to push for some deeper changes. The Path of Practice has been an important guide through all of this. Tiwari has introduced new mantras and breath work that are not letting me turn away from what I'm experiencing.  I have been working a lot with the mantras of Kali and Durga.  I have also been journaling on my family relationships.  I'm doing this simultaneously with school starting, which requires me to enter into an intense dynamic.  This is early fall. It is supposed to be a season of reorganization and celebration.  This year, it has been a season of disruption and discomfort.  And I don't mean this in a bad way. The feelings are intense and I know it is work that I need to do.  But I'm in a place of discomfort that leaves me wanting to jump out of my skin.  So many times this week I wanted to turn around, run, and burrow as deeply into the ground as physically possible. But it wasn't simply because bad things were happening. It was because I was trying to do things in new ways.  I am trying to change some deep patterning.  

Dream Stop
I have had a recurring dream of traveling in a space ship and leaving this galaxy.  In the most recent one, I was on the ship with a man who was the captain and then his son was on it too.  It was incredibly vivid. The colors, textures, nuances of the world introduced to me. I watched out the window as we traveled through different atmospheres.  I was filled with an incredible amount of excitement, yet at the same time overpowered by the feeling of being out beyond any safety net.  I thought about how, if anything happened, there was nothing there to save us.  Then, I thought about how this was an opportunity so few people would ever have in their lifetime. I was seeing something others would never get to see. I was taking a journey that few people get to take.  In my dream, I began to realize that this was something to revel in and not let my fear take over my ability to find true joy in traveling the galaxies.  

The Lull is Really Dragons

Dragonhood

I've been in a weird place. I'm calling it 

a lull, 

because I'm trying to figure out where I'm at....  I know that where I've been is moving further into the background and where I'm going is coming into focus along the horizon. I'm here.  For now.  And I keep reminding myself to be here.  To be now.  To be awake and alive, here and now.

I took a picture of this quote some time ago. I was in a waiting room, reading this book of quotes and was struck by the tension between reptile and bird. I was intrigued by the idea of dragonhood. Honestly, I can't remember who wrote this, but the quote seems particularly relevant to me this morning.  "Mired in the mud of our animal nature and the muck of our cultural prejudices" struck me. I'm mired. Feeling the heaviness of kapha this morning, the reptile in me is alive and awake. It's like she was awakened from a deep sleep and decided to stretch her legs upon my heart. 

At the same time, I can feel the agitation and restless air of vata taking me on a crazy ride upon her wings.  I can feel her dragging me through the air whether I'm ready for it or not.

I think this creature alive in me today is demanding that "come to terms with my dragonhood."

I imagine my dragon as fierce and angry, a force to be reckoned with. She has risen from the earth's center, unashamed of the rage and havoc. It's time to see that part of myself as alive and awake.  My dragon is not afraid to let the steam out of her nose and dig her claws into the earth as she prepares to fly high above the shit and muck that becomes so entrenched in my heart. She has horns on her head, her spine and on the tips of her wings.  She is not to be fucked with.  She is red with anger... and love...and hope. 

 

But wait, my dragon is fierce and angry, but she is also full of electricity. She was born out of the energy of a lightening storm and is not afraid to take up space and open it up with her electric touch.  She is ready to wake the soporific trance that fills my lungs and blood. She is clear, translucent, and fully alive. She is purple with depth... and power...and creativity.  And, again, not to be fucked with.

Both of these dragons are mine... me.  They encompass something in my waking and known self that cannot find a way out.  All to often, they lay dormant and unknown. I neglect them.  

Try to pretend they aren't me.  

But they are. 

And it seems that this lull is not at all a lull.  

It is a fissured moment through which my dragons escape.  It's the space through which they seek attention. They don't want to be calmed or soothed.  They want to spread their wings and fly.... Red dragon wants to fly from the earth into the highest clouds.  Purple dragon wants to fly from her lightning bolt into the center of the earth.  Both want to disrupt my plans. They want to remind me that I am not always (ever?) in control of the world around me.  Their wings are moving things around and it's uncomfortable, stimulating, scary, and thrilling.  I'm clinging to their wings, trying to hold on to the thrill and let go of the fear.  

Now if only I can get to know my dragonhood off the paper and the yoga mat and allow them to soar in the rest of my life.

Juncture Planting....

Filling my container this week.  

In meditation I found a container that looked like a small fissure in an extensive root system.  My imagination gave me a thin, long, flexible flashlight that allowed me to see what was inside the fissure.  Initially, I did not want to look. And then the meditation ended.  The next day I returned to that spot and I looked inside.  It was dark and dank. I found the edges of the container in the dirt and lifted it up.  It opened-- it had a hinge of some sort. I saw it was full of gritty gunk. I wasn't sure what to do.  Do I leave all that alone? Do I clean it out? Do I analyze it?  My meditation-mind made the decision to use my hands to dig out the dirt and whatever else was inside.  I didn't see the necessity of inspecting the contents.  I simply decided to clean it out.  I rinsed it in the dark water that was nearby and then closed it up. The fissure was still there (akhilanda--never not broken).  I set it back down within the root system, where I found it. And then I proceeded to pour some sort of dust and seeds into the crack. I returned to this spot in my meditation again yesterday.  I continued to pour some dust into the crack. This time, though, there was a strange salve that emerged on the outside of that container.  I lifted up the container and slowly poured the salve into a bottle.  My meditation-mind was telling me that I would need it later.

This week has also been about filling the raised flower container in my yard.  Filling that space felt similar to those meditative moments in which I was simultaneously cleaning out and filling up. Sure, there was dirt in the container, but it was time for something more. I was not planting seeds or pouring dust. I was planting root systems. Planting in the juncture between summer and early fall felt a little out of place.  But juncture is about paying attention to the disjunctures--the open and disjointed spaces that try to tell us something deeper about ourselves.  These moments are the times our unconscious reaches out to the conscious world to try to teach us something about our patterned (re)actions. 

And planting so close to the time of bloom and harvest was a way to pay special attention to the disjunctures going on within me.  The need to tend to the creative blooms developing right now.

As I picked the plants that would go into my container, I did not think about horticultural rules. I don't really know them.  I thought about the types of plants I wanted. I thought about the colors. And I thought about how much I wanted to put together an organic and chaotic mix of things to see how they fit together (not unlike my creative research).  It was intuitive.  I wanted sage to clear the space and create a beautiful smell and color.  I wanted hastas to express fullness in the garden.  I picked echinacae because they have a simple grace to them that I enjoy.  The day lily rests in the middle for the attention it deserves. 

My container is a beautiful space that I marked out and created. The planting work is done. Now for the work of stillness, as I wait and watch for the blooms. Let the internal work take over. Let the roots find a home. 

The day lily's blooms popped out a beautiful yellow this morning.  

Metaphors are wonderful things. They help convey an emerging world. A world not yet understood.  They help the unconscious communicate--if we want to listen. I look out at the garden box and do not see anything that is contained in the sense of restraint.  I see things that are being asked to mingle and co-habitate in a way they hadn't before.  What a wonderful metaphor for my summer journey as I transition into early fall.  

I see me in that container. I see the work of letting several research endeavors rest together, so I can look at them as a whole. Trying to establish grounding amidst the chaos growing and tangling together.   Many parts of a singular whole.  Will they fit together? I'm not entirely sure.  For some things, all I can do is lay the groundwork, thoughtfully, and then surrender.  

As much as I try to claim the container as mine, I know it has a life beyond me. And I know the work involved is happening in the literal and metaphorical universe. Control is finite.  I'm simply doing my best to nurture this container, embrace it, and accept it for what it is--and what it isn't.  


















Metaphors are wonderful things.