Turning to Saraswati... and the Peacock

May the goddess of speech enable us to attain all possible eloquence,
she who wears on her locks a young moon,
who shines with exquisite lustre,
who sits reclined on a white lotus,
and from the crimson cusp of whose hands pours,
radiance on the implements of writing, and books produced by her favour.
– On Saraswati, Sarada Tilaka

A long hiatus from the blog. It seems fitting to restart with the inspiration of Saraswati.  It has taken her to help me see out of the fog and frustration of the winter depths.  In a way, she is the sun drawing me out from beneath the earth's surface. She is the one giving me courage to open tendrils up and into the world that feels harsh, cruel, and unforgiving. She is the one who tells me these tendrils are strong enough to move up and through the layers of dirt and shit to see the world I am creating. To breathe it in. To enjoy it. To reve(a)l.  

Understood as the goddess of knowledge, creativity, and music, she is inspiration.  I read this description of her:

“Saraswati also stands high in yoga, as the Sushumna channel through which Kundalini energy may rise upwards.  Through breath control, the solar and lunar energies are merged into the neutral Kundalini energy. The lunar energy channel is symbolized by the river Ganga, riding the crocodile. The solar energy channel is the Yamuna goddess and river, while the central neutral channel is Saraswati. The upward flow of Kundalini through the central Saraswati channel then pierces the chakras and brings liberation.” [http://www.sanatansociety.org/hindu_gods_and_goddesses/saraswati.htm#.VVIjd2CyPdl]

Liberation.  I have been seeking that for the past month (well, probably much longer).  Feeling trapped, stuck in something that I have not fully been able to identify.  I'm seeing that the muck is not something that I need to understand in order to release. It's old stuff that I need to move through and simply return to the universe. 

Thinking about Saraswati as the channel that enables energy to rise, it puts into perspective the spring season--and my experience of it.  When I watch my hostas rise from the earth, I think about how beautiful they are and in that beauty, I assume an ease. But to feel the seed break open beneath the surface and push through the muck; that is tremendous work.  Anything but ease.  I can comprehend that now, because that is what I'm feeling happening to my mind, body, consciousness, being.  I am struggling to work through the earth and take the nutrients from the earth that I need and release what I don't need, so I can burst open into something new, awake, alive.   I have to admit, it hurts.  At times, all I want is to stay buried. But that fecundity can grow toxic if it is not allowed to release and transform. Frustration, anger, desire--all it festers in the fear of letting go.  So I keep telling myself to let go.  

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“The peacock is a possessor of some of the most admired human characteristics, and is a symbol of integrity and the beauty we can achieve when we endeavor to show our true colors.” [http://www.whats-your-sign.com/peacock-symbolism.html]  The peacock is a symbol of nobility, guidance, protection.

I can't help but see the link between rising up and out of the earth and showing my true colors.  The colors of my burst of life energy, like the colors of my hostas, irises, and other bulbs reflect what they are--who I am.  The fear I always hold is enormous. The fear of showing who I really am. The fear of being vulnerable, open, and alive.  Yet I know in the depth of my heart that I thrive when I let go and open to the world.  I think of the peacock opening his feathers to the world. Glorious. 

(Con)Junction Junction, What’s your Function?

March 21 to April 7—the junction that takes us out of deep winter and into spring.  It is nearly over. “When the seasons change, we experiences a sympathetic internal shift.  All life forms open themselves up to receive cosmic redirection from nature during these crucial seasonal transitions, so we are likely to be more vulnerable and unsettled.” (Maya Tiwari, The Path of Practice, p. 348)

The seasonal junction into spring is different for me this year.  Usually this time of year, I feel full, heavy and overwhelmed, which can lead to paralysis and avoidance.  This year I feel empty, devoid of fecund material.  This is a different kind of paralysis.  The junctions are fickle for me.  I swing wildly between vata and kapha excess.  And everything feels off. 

April 4, 2015—the lunar eclipse and the red moon.  According to Sky and Telescope magazine, "That red light shining onto the moon is sunlight that has skimmed and bent through Earth's atmosphere: that is, from all the sunrises and sunsets that ring the world at any given moment."

Something about that sounds beautiful.  from all the sunrises and sunsets that ring the world at any given moment....  It could be a line in a poem or the title of a poetry book.  I think of how all those sunsets and sunrises look and it is a glorious pattern of orange to pink hues flickering around the edges of the planet.  It reminds me of how everything is always transitioning, shifting, reacting to all that is happening around us.

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The emptiness has been overwhelming to me lately.  Empty can be defined in many ways, so what do I mean when I say I feel empty?  Does it mean I feel like I contain nothing? That I’m devoid of anything? That I am not filled or occupied? Does it mean I lack force or power? Or that I lack purpose or substance? Or does it mean that I need nourishment and that I’m simply hungry for something substantial??

So many facets to this word, but as I read over the definitions, what struck me most was that emptiness means lacking nourishment.  The emptiness of not feeding myself all the things that I need.  And I don’t mean food to fill my stomach.  I mean the food of creativity and joy. The things that feed my dreams and plans and desires.  I have been feeding myself many of these things over the winter, but I don’t know where they went.  Does that mean I have misjudged what I really needed?  Walking out in the red moon yesterday, I felt a surge of life and joy. I could breathe in the fresh air and look at something that I don’t always get to see.  It was a beautiful reminder of how big the world is and how I am a small part of that life energy.  But still part of it.  At the end of my journaling this morning, what came to me was that I need to write.  I’m not writing enough.  I have found all these fleeting moments of sunrises and sunsets flickering around me and I have not given them enough time.  When I write, I give them more time.  More attention. Something new emerges in those (these) moments. 

Writing—the conjunction between self and the world.  The way I transform intangible experiences from my body into the world.  I sometimes think things get lost if they don’t get written in some way.  Written in a poem, a journal, in a painting, in a clay bowl I made.  Creativity is transformation.  So is creativity the conjunction between self and the world? Not just writing? 

Conjunctions are essential. They are a part of speech that connects words, sentences, or phrases. This definition may overlap with that of other parts of speech, so what constitutes a conjunction must be defined for each language.  So conjunctions are not obvious, they can be fickle, and chameleons in language. So it would make sense that in general, conjunctions are not always the same all the time.  It is why sometimes writing and creativity can connect my self to the world.  But if I’m not in it, not committing to what I am and what I want to be, then writing is not a conjunction. It is a task to be done, to finish. (A lonely verb?)  It comes and goes, habit energy.  

Poetry Break

This past weekend I engaged in a writing workshop that triggered much synchronicity. The focus was on the somatic.  The bodily.  Writing in the solid grounded world to reflect common human experiences.  Synchronistic because I have been trying to say with the body through this past season.  Meditating, working, existing in my body and not just in my mind.  Not at all easy for me.

Since I did not have time to write a formal blog, I will post some of the poems that emerged from that workshop.

Winding Dusty Path
Fuzzy sweet crunchy peaches.
Sharp rough leaves.
Dreamy jagged rustling trees.
Brittle fragile shivering trees.
Damp
and brittle silence.
Dank squishy startling silence

Hopper: Hotel Room, 1931

Slumped on a bed
waiting.
Pretending to read,
to pass the time.
Waiting.
Alone in a room. Her love,
late.
She wonders if she'll have enough
money to eat, survive.
She tries to read,
alone in the city.
She waits.
Not much longer.
He promised.




In the meantime, she waits.
She sits in the room, filled
with dreams, promises of a
new life.
A better life.
Red lingerie doesn't feel like
enough.
The book doesn't feel like enough.
She waits.
Alone. The room feeling smaller and
smaller around her.

Playlists...Sounds...Music...Words... Finding Clarity: Vein of Songs

Playlist.

45 Songs... 3 hours, 24 minutes.  Probably a longer playlist than Julia Cameron had in mind.  How could I narrow it down?  Why would I want to? As an exercise in clarity, perhaps.  So my goal?  To narrow down 45 songs to 20 songs. From 3 hours, 24 minutes to approximately 2 hours.

Where do start?

Well, I have...

• 5 Tori Amos songs
• 9 Pearl Jam songs
• 4 Doors songs
• 4 Dan Bern songs
• 4 Bob Dylan songs
• 4 Ani DiFranco songs

...the remaining songs consists of two or less of any single artist.  

Clearly I need to eliminate at least one Pearl Jam song. Probably more. 

Just Breathe? 

...maybe...

I Got Id?

..hmmm...

Yellow Ledbetter?

Definitely not.  That is a song that opens the door to too many important memories.  Memories of Seattle and Buffalo.

In My Tree?

..perhaps..  It's not as big of a marker in my life.

Alive?

No way.  It brings back the start of everything for me.  The start of my voice.  It symbolizes independence, hope... everything.

Porch?

I just can't. Although it is a song from the same album as "Alive" and so there would be some redundancy in era and the memories it evokes.

Corduroy?

No.  No.  It's not a song that has the deeper past in my memory, but it is one that wakes me up.  It's one I can get lost within

Reviewmirror?

No way.  This one is an immediate trigger and takes me to some deeper places that I forget about until I hear this song.

Given to Fly?

I can't do it.  It's just an open and liberating song.  Something in it takes me out of my body and into the world of imagination. 

So what about Tori Amos?  I need to eliminate at least one of her songs.  Looking them over, I just can't: "Hey Jupiter," "Little Earthquakes," "Upside Down," "Kinda Sorta Fairytale"... "Silent All These Years"??  No. Each of these songs bring me back to the places of transition, growth, coming into my own sense of self. 

Right now I've been needing songs that help me tap into voice, transition, growth, openness, darkness, contradiction...  The songs are these beautiful contradictions that I need to feel and hear flowing through my body.  This is also why I can't get rid of Jenny Lewis' "Head Underwater."  It takes me into something newer, yet holds the space for memory.  The water metaphor seems important.

What about Bob Dylan? He's unexpectedly on this list.  But there is something in his voice in "Idiot Wind" and "Rainy Day Women."  I can't let those go.  I think I can let go of "Tangled in Blue, but not "Like a Rolling Stone."  So, that releases about 17 minutes and 4 songs, including the songs from Pearl Jam.  This is not an easy cut.

I am listening to Florence and the Machine. I can't get rid of "The Dog Days are Over."  That is such an empowering and awakening song.  I can't do it.  It takes me back to the summer I first met Matt.  

What about the Ani DiFranco songs?  I'm not sure how that will happen.  All those songs speak to me in such important ways.   I can't.  "Garden of Simple" is just one of my favorites because it stops me in my tracks. If that song comes on and I'm working, I have to listen completely and then go back to working.  And the others are staying. "Gravel" and "Out of Range"?  They can't leave the list.  I just feel so energized with those songs.  And  "Both Hands"?  I can't not listen carefully to those words.  The beat take me off kilter too.  I love it. 

So Dan Bern is another dominant artist on the list.  But those songs are all amazing.  They have memories for me.  "New American Language" is just the right amount of philosophy and lyricism that I can't eliminate. That is the case with all of his songs.  I know "Estelle" is 7:30 minutes, but I love that story. The bond and song about relationship is nothing short of lovely.  {"Collette" is too much of a sister song, so Langhorne Slim must stay as well.} "Black Tornado" and "Rolling Away" must also stay. 

The Doors probably feel the most out of place, but they are important to the trajectory of my musical love story.  The veins of sound running to (or is it from) my heart.  But I think I can let go of "Break on Through." The song is the most recognizable and familiar, but it is not one of my favorites.  The others must stay, especially "Horse Latitudes." I need that level of darkness, distortion, contradiction. 

So, one more song and 2:26 more minutes.   That puts me at 5 songs and 19:26 minutes removed.  Nowhere close to my goal.

Heart I alway love and is part of the memories of my teens.  I remember listening to "Magic Man" in the back of my parents car as a child, but I took that song with me and more vividly remember playing that song loudly in my 1978 Dodge Aspen.  Both the car and song were from a decade earlier, but there was something dangerous in that song that I love--and that still draws me in.  It was everything I was not, but carried a level of danger that was a part of my daily life back then.  But I think I can get rid of "Crazy on You." 

One more song and 4:53 minutes. 

I don't think I can get rid of Regina Spektor.  In fact, I had to refrain from adding even more of her songs.  It's her voice and how it engages with the music.  I am too attached to those songs to let them go. 

What about Suzanne Vega?  I think for me, "Luka" is one of those songs I loved for so long and for so many reasons. I can't remove that one.  And "Tom's Diner" is another wonderful song.  Introspective, playful. Wonderful storytelling. That stays too.

"The Concept" is a great song.  It takes me back to the 1990s, summers in Santa Cruz, and the era of mix tapes.  There's just too much nostalgia to let go. 

Martha Wainwright is just lovely.  Her voice.  Her songs.  I love the contradiction of her sweet voice and the anger.  There is something so beautiful about that.  Neither of those songs will go--especially since I jus finished listening to "Bleeding All Over You."

Janis Joplin and Bruno Mars. I can't let them go either.  The songs may appear uneven, but that seems to work in my veins of sound.

So how close am I to my goal?  I'm down 7 songs now and about 24 minutes.  

Playlist...

38 songs and about 2 hours and 56 minutes.

Retreat

"to be lost is to be fully present, and to be fully present is to be capable of being in uncertainty and mystery. And one does not get lost but loses oneself, with the implication that it is a conscious choice, a chosen surrender, a psychic state through geography." -Rebecca Solnit

This weekend I made time for retreat.  A day to go inward.  When I think of the word retreat, what immediately comes to mind are Mirriam-Webster's main definitions:  

• "the act of withdrawing from what is difficult"
• "the process of receding from a position"

Given the past few weeks, I one might assume this is the form of retreat I was taking.  Battles at work have been taking my time and there is nothing I have wanted to do more than withdrawal.  

But that was not the retreat I had endeavored to take. This retreat was closer to Mirriam-Webster's other definitions. "A place of privacy and safety." "A period of withdrawal for meditation."  

It is interesting to think that the same word that means privacy and safety also means withdrawing, giving in, surrendering.  Because another way I think about retreat is that it gives me a chance to reconnect with myself.  And that is usually some of the most difficult work that I can do.  But it does require surrender.  It is one thing to stand up to a bully at work; it is entirely different to take a good hard look at your own self and sit with all the aches and discomforts that arise once all the distractions are gone.  That chosen surrender is anything but easy. Withdrawal can take you on some pretty deep journeys.

"The problem is not the amount of things you have in your life, it's the attitude. It's your fear of space. Busy-ness in the Tibetan tradition is considered the most extreme form of laziness. Because when you are busy you can turn your brain off."  -Reginald Ray 

Retreat becomes a way to turn your brain back on. It is is turning away from the things that alienate me and moving into the life I want to live.  But it requires getting lost in those deeper spaces within.

When it's a conscious choice, getting lost, in Solnit's assertion, is its own form of retreat. It is a surrender. 

 

Practice Imperfectly into Deep Winter

This is the last day of the juncture into deep winter.   The juncture has taken me into some unexpected places and helped me see that depth is not always what I think it's going to be.  

What do I mean by this? In my mind I had envisioned this juncture to be one in which I would meditate more, journal in solitude, stick to mindful cooking and eating, and revel in the quiet of the coming deep winter. It was anything but that.  I did increase my meditation practice.  And I have been consistently journaling.  I have also included some additional meditative practices, like walking each day.  I had some great days of mindful cooking and eating.  Wonderful days of making curries and soups and kitchari.  But it has been anything but a peaceful journey into deep winter. And I have had to fight for these practices.

Having done this work with clear dedication for about 3 and 1/2 years, I think that some of this work had turned into habit. And this juncture was hell-bent on getting me to feel that. And I mean feel it. 

[Honestly, I was starting to reach the point of boredom in these practices.]

Things were no longer feeling new and exciting and, although my attention span is pretty good, when I hit a repetitive wall, I usually am ready to jump into the next thing. During this juncture I have been presented with a number of intrusions and challenges that reminded me that cyclical processes are not boring if you approach them with fresh eyes.

[A week ago, when I lamented that my journaling was feeling repetitious and boring, a fellow practitioner said to me, "when things start to feel boring and you grow tired of your internal dialogues, that is when you know a true transformation is about to happen."]

In particular, I have had numerous work and personal challenges that have taken my time and challenged me to find new ways to keep my practices alive. I have had to work hard to keep my personal time for my juncture practices, and oftentimes, it has limited how much time I can spend in meditation, cook dinner, and do my journaling.  In all that time, I felt like I was not staying true to my practices, but as I reflect back over the past couple of weeks, I see how frequently I have been bringing the practices into the challenging spaces of work. How frequently I have been creatively making time to do the work that means so much to me.  Sometimes it means I take five minutes after a terrible meeting to listen to an intentionality recording. Or it means I leave for my class 20 minutes early and sneak in a walk before class.  Or it means that I journal and read with Matt watching television. 

How I understand this work as I look back, is that I am learning to understand what following ayurvedic tenets feels like in real time.  I cannot practice perfect in real time.  In the reality of a semester and in the constant deluge of drama that keeps on emerging around me, the practice is imperfect. That is the practice. Practicing imperfection.  What has become clear to me is that practice does not make perfect. And that is exactly what it means to live a whole holistic life. Practice is always imperfect.  As imperfect as a human being like me. 

In my moments of frustration, I return to a practice that requires me to look at my shadow self. It requires me to take those darker parts of my being that I fear and learn how they help produce the complicated and complex and complete human life I live. Practicing everyday to be imperfect.  Practicing imperfectly into deep winter.  

[A transformation has started to happen. I am seeing those dark spaces with a degree of compassion that I have never felt before.  I can see how I'm ready to delve into something new in myself.  I have my work cut out for me in this deep winter season.]

Vein of Gold

"All actors have a certain territory, a certain range, they are born to play. I call that range their 'vein of gold.' If you cast an actor within that vein, he will always give you a brilliant performance." -Martin Ritt

I think of it as the creative flow. The space where you feel yourself moving with the ocean in harmony and equilibrium.  Effortlessly, yet doing the real work of the heart. 

But the mountain that bleeds gold in its veins also carries something that required breakage.  Breaking to open the flow. To find the flow.  This reminds me of a form of pottery I attached to nearly a year ago: kintsukuroi.  

The veins of gold are not unlike the fusion between broken parts of pottery.  The place where several things came back together to form something newer, stronger, and perhaps in my own assumptions, closer to its true form. Perhaps finding my vein of gold will help me embrace a deeper relationship with my real self.

More to the point, it is in those broken spaces that I will find my vein of gold flowing, alive, ready to be seen.

"I feel that Art is a way for each of us to discover your intuitive power and source of inspiration. It can provide a basis for understanding our own humanity and that responsible role we have as caretakers of the natural world." -Richard Newman