Inspiration

When we are not looking, sometimes remarkable moments enter by the side door. When we surrender to process rather than outcome, we sometimes get lucky when the outcome revels and reveals the magic of its process. When we commit to risking, and intimacy, and sharing, what gets created far surpasses the sum of its parts. Last Saturday’s first photo shoot was memorable in creating those energies, giving birth to the Daily Breath Journal that many of you through the last four years have been part of. It is because of you, my friends, my students, that Daily Breath was originally, and now because of your generosity, it is taking the next step to go out into the world. It is exciting to view hoped for product and see what was present in the moment of its creating, become present again through photographs. You see the chaos, the patience that allowed magical moments to bubble up, the intimacy, vulnerability and joy. In short, the best of Sangha/community. I was reminded again that creative chaos is like any other Practice, in that a large part of it is trusting it to develop beyond…well, chaos. You do all the prep you can. You steep and dream in hoped for results, you cultivate and care for those who are part of the journey, and then you throw the entire moment to the Gods and dive willy-nilly into the chasm, the mud, the sea…it matters not the medium. It’s all in the willingness to dive, offering up what lies between you and those Gods. Terrifying. Alive to that kind of fear keeps us moving. If we don’t Practice and terrify ourselves at least once a year, those muscles for creative courage atrophy, and the sharp edges where chaos and magic live, fade. Asana: First, melt……

Often when the ego is diminished, we feel an ‘insufficiency of gratitude,’ sometimes heard of as ‘the mean reds.’ We feel in those times that there is little call for thanks, or giving. We don’t have enough Self to be expansive, generous, or grateful, having forgetten it’s just the ego, not all of Self. The problem lies in it feeling like all. It is in fact only the ‘little Self’ with the over-sized voice. (heard as whiney & over rated) “Why me?” “Why not me?” “How could they?” It should’a been me!” “ Me Me Me, ohhh ghrrrr, waaaghhhhh.” Loud, voracious, demanding and hungry for attention, it is a raunchy-red-voice that if it is grateful at all, it’s only for one moment before hunger strikes again, needing more strokes, more awards, more acknowledgement. What about a legitimate me? What about a timeless, open-hearted, Soul-Self that sits quietly in the dark behind ‘Big Red?’ Despite nay saying to the contrary, that dark-quiet Self is a complete compadre, a True self with whom we do, and we become extra-ordinary. It can be heroic, but most often it operates un-seen, and un-known, listening, nurturing, observing, saving. It understands all too well our needy-greedy cries, smiling at the Me Me Me-ness. When we turn toward this other entity, this silent, healing, surrendering Self, and move into its well of peace, we are home. We can even be ‘home’ for crazy making holidays, rooted in power that does not rise to the bait of old hot spots, and wound-poking. This lovely, legitimate Self is never diminished by failure, gluttony, or pettiness. And when we remember the shining abundance of this legitimacy, sitting at the head of our table, let us indeed offer up Grace for ‘all things bright and beautiful.’ Asana: Choose the Asanas you……

The hill behind the house lies bare On dark’s descending ride, Leaves a figure standing lone with the North East wind inside. She hesitates, then hears commands, Sounds of squadron pride, Silhouettes on sunset’s wing With the arc of the world as guide. She waits, as hopeful beacon In silent calling –“Come by here!” Desire fixed on longing Seeks communion peers. The left wing Sergeant feels her And shears the squadron’s tilt Close by to let her listen Wing spans sounding silk. ‘Whish, whish’, holding breath to hear Then lifting, soon are lost Leaving golden tears In exchange for heavy dross. For faith, she wakes before first light Eyes fastened toward the hill Willing God to land in feathered, squawking drill. Muscled breasts stretch landing glides, Sentries stand the guard, Others settle and abide To dream the coming ride. Too long they’ve lingered on, Knowing she cannot part. They wait upon the signal, Her hope in a willing heart.

Harvesting Dreams When the lay of the land lies ripe, Pendulous the moon, Delicious golden weight. Journey from dark birth Headlong toward the Grail Daughter of darkness/daughter of light Hanging horizonless Reflected Consort to her mate His light, her soul. She ripples the blue-black vastness Covering fields, orchards, forest, pasture Making sacred, wheat, corn, apple, grape. Transformative elixir reflecting What is, what is not Her dreams ready the harvest.

Burnt by the sun Summer’s long days pull like taffy From childhood eyes. Womb return to lemonade Steaming pavements, hoses, and wild cries. Tree Frogs burp, exciting the dark. Sounds of far off waves move in When we lie in light long after bedtime. Dreaming with eyes wide open–memories Caught in a firefly net of lingering dusk, Between what was and what was wished, Dreams come and gone And come again. Have we only to roll in the sweet grass, Lie still in an August night? Or did we dream the first time?

Tender is the night Soaked in August heat Oven-baked-day leftovers Bodies soft and bendy. Darkness swallows Noon’s acrid burn, A sensuous descent Of thought melting into midnight air Bones disappearing Skin surrendered to touch. Scent of dripping Brugmansa, Perfumed, poisonous, gold-orbed, Magic alive and well Settling deep in the nostrils. Possibility enters I am already different