red dot little duck

Must have forgotten to turn on my alarm the other night. Either that or I woke up at some point with a strong desire to sleep in. In either case, when my eyes finally opened my normal wake-up time was severely overshot. Damn it. Contemplation… should I even go? It will be 7:30 before I get there… hmmm. It was a five count before my feet hit the floor followed by a brisk thirty-five minute trek to 8^th and Sansom. Jewelers row.

The studio is great. Loved. Blessed. It has its own flare. Colorful walls decorated with deities; gods and goddesses whose stories inspire those willing to look deeper through these levels of existence. A slight slope at the front of the room and a few loose boards provide just enough of a hitch to provoke pure devotion and a need for awareness, readiness. Its quirks illustrate the power of practicing with strong teachers and dedicated practitioners. Bhakti.

It has been nearly three weeks since arrival. The condition, the deficit in which I arrived, remains a weight on my thoughts… dependence on the goodwill and grace of others. A difficult position, taking a toll on what I suppose is my pride. The words thank you can’t even describe how I feel when offered the kindnesses I have so far experienced; they somehow come out sounding hollow. Embarrassment. As if I don’t know how or when to say them. They ARE there though. I apologize with deep regret for any thank-yous not yet said because people have so far been extremely awesome.

Knowing full well that these things can take time, my impatience still swells. I want to be able to offer things back. Settle in. Now. To monetarily support myself, support my goals without compromising my sense of self. Something this culture seems to give up too easily. Which brings a deep questioning… what does it mean to put down roots? What does it take to walk away from this realm of cultural norms? Shit. It’s kind of lonely out here.

In the mean time, I look forward to putting my mat down at AYS Philadelphia and to sharing the space of practice with all those out there who will be doing the same, wherever you are.

The story? A small car packed with a few boxes and some road snacks; directions from Spokane, WA to Philadelphia, PA courtesy of Google maps on the passengers seat. Me? Behind the wheel of this hot rod Ford… Focus. Leaving my friends, my family – what was known and comfortable. A drive into uncertainty. The plan? To study yoga with my teacher, to practice hard, to work enough to sustain myself and to get my ass back to India.

I arrived in Philly around 1am on a Tuesday. With the help and guidance of a few kind souls, the landing was solid and fairly stress free. So grateful. That very morning was my first practice at AYS Philadelphia with David Garrigues. After fourteen hours on the road and no more than four hours of sleep I was on my mat. Pure anticipation or shakti or maybe it was the leftover caffeine in my veins that carried me there. It didn’t really matter; I was there. Made it. That was just over a week ago. I hope I never forget anything about that first practice. Thinking it’s going to carry me through.

It didn’t take long for the shit to start coming up. You know… the questions. My mind saying, “What the HELL did you just do? I’ll tell you what you just did. Honky-tonk.” I miss my friends, family. I miss India and what was going on there. Coming back was hard. Still hard. Things were happening with my practice, my thoughts, beliefs. Things I’m afraid to lose. Now, I’m back in the states – adjustment one. I packed a car and left my home for real – adjustment two. So here I am, practicing with what feels like a different body, slightly frustrated with the apparent backslide of ability and looking for work to sustain myself and purchase a plane ticket.

Got to keep the faith, as I have no idea what is going to happen. None. The job will come and the practice will always be there, through the shifts, fears and frustrations. I trust this. And I suppose, that’s the most important part.

Fog. Waltzing through clarity of sight. Take in breath. The floor… so soft. Softness. Length through limbs and extremities, reach. Expand ribs, collarbones. Expansion… open to self, open to self.

Wide awake this morning – 4am. It would be somewhere around 4pm on Samudra beach. My Kovalam hood. Coming back to the states has been a trip. And I’m not just talking about the 40 hours spent in Airports and stuffy planes. Going from one filled with beautiful brown skin, bindis and the sent of curry to one filled with the booze soaked remnants of a leftover redneck fishing trip. Nope, not just that kind of trippy.

It’s raining now. The air, cool and dry. Tired in a way I have never been tired before. Not so much in my body, although that is present, but mostly my mind – a mental exhaustion. A physically-mental exhaustion. Trying to bring my thoughts back here. Maybe they just didn’t make it on the plane. Finding a way to make sense of what I just did. Intense moments overcome with emotion. What DID I just do? Perhaps the ‘here’ I am thinking I need to bring thoughts back to no longer exists. For me it’s changed. Shifted. My here is something different than it once was. What a blessing. What a blessing!!

So far… phone calls, several hugs and welcome backs. Visits with friends and the short synopsis of what it was like; an experience unexplainable. If only there were a word that could express the level beauty…

In three weeks, I head to Philadelphia. The next trip – east coast, USA.
Stay tuned.

Bit of anxiety on the inside… just the idea of stepping off a plane in the USA. Don’t really want to do it. No more classical Indian music every morning on my way to class. Or any time of day. No more random Wednesday night pujas with elephants and fireworks. No more drum processions and illuminated statues of Shiva, Parvati and Ganesha passing in front of my house. No more garlands of fresh jasmine buds or frangipani blossoms or sandalwood bindis or ghee lamps. India. I can’t believe this trip has come to a close.

Some of this anxiety comes from the crushing reality that I am going to have to find a job and a place to live fairly quickly but mostly… I just don’t want to go home. I ended up at the Trivandrum airport much earlier than I needed to. Three hours early. Good lesson in military time. Thoughts of bolting out the door, grabbing the nearest taxi back to Kovalam and sending a letter to my family saying I’m not going back.

Not more than four words were spoken on the way to the airport. Binu, my driver, my bodyguard, my friend was driving me. He had been with me all day. Grew quite fond of that man during my stay. Normally there would be chatting and laughing and talk of fish curry. Not this trip. Silently driving through the city. Life. Passing cows, dogs, the occasional chicken; floating plastic bags among the usual ground rubbish peppered with beautiful trees, flowers and interesting random items. Piles of wooden doors and windows, concrete tubes, tires, repair shops, people napping. Boys playing cricket – men at the corner tea stall enjoying their chai, and of course, a festival… one of the largest I had seen so far. 150,000 women lined the streets making rice in tin pots over open fires in offering for temples throughout the city. Just that morning we passed through it on a motorbike. Straight into the heart of it. The whole scene. So many beautiful women, beautiful people… an incredibly indescribable feeling.

It was like I was trying to make things slow down; as if backing up in my seat would put on the breaks. I’m not ready to go. The moment my feet left the rickshaw a lump formed in my throat; the thick kind that make it hard to talk. Binu unpacked my excessively heavy luggage out of the back seat and onto a cart. I wanted to say something awesome or squeeze him or something. Instead, we shook hands, said “see you later” and after one last wave, a mournful half grin as he drove away, he was gone. Heavy legs in utter protest carried me inside.

Even though excitement for adventures in Philadelphia is off the charts, no question, sitting there in the Trivandrum airport my heart was breaking.

So many blessings on this trip. My teacher encouraged me, taught me, to see the beauty in myself. And believe in it. My body regained strength and power, fire. My heart caught a mighty gust of relief and I made some truly beautiful friends. Epic. It’s no wonder I would have a hard time leaving.

…a collection of random thoughts.

Next year, I’m getting a scooter. How hard could it be to ride one of those things anyway? It would be cooler to have a bike. Yeah… one of those rad red ones. Maybe not. Start with a  scooter.

“Good morning. Rickshaw?” Do I want a ride…?
“No thanks.” Yeah, I don’t know that guy. Rather walk in the dark with the dogs and cats and lurking amphibians. Ha. Oap. There’s noodle. That’s kind of mean. I really shouldn’t call him that. Sorry dude.

Kind of wishing I could not go back. Just send all my junk back on the plane and keep traveling. Maybe I could get that job in Bangalore. No. Mysore? Something different. Maybe north. I do like the beach. Could go ask Dharma for a job at Molly’s. Would definitely want a bike then.

Pretty ready to get in my car and drive though. Philadelphia… what a trip.

That’s a big rat.

What ways to invent myself? Reinvent. I want to sing! Going to have to just make that happen somehow. Maybe start a band or something. No. Maybe. Shit. Seriously? A band? WTF? Don’t think there will be much time for such shenanigans. Need to learn as much as I can. I want to know what he knows. How do I do that?

“Good morning.” Jesus…
“Good morning.”

What is dedication anyway? Just showing up? I mean that is some level of dedication right? Is dedication giving up everything you have known or identified with or somehow identified as what you know? Is dedication quitting your job and traveling across the country? Across the world! Am I dedicated? I mean, I think so. I’m walking 30-40 minutes every morning in a strange country to practice on a concrete floor while being serenaded by a thousand crows and the occasional lung full of burning garbage. Such is India. But is that dedication? Is dedication coming back to my mat even though it’s hard? More than hard even. Sometimes outright futile seeming. But not at the same time… shit.

“Good morning.” It’s Milton! Wonder how many papers he delivers daily.
“Hi, Milton. How are you?”
“You remember me.”
“Of course.” Glad he didn’t come yesterday…
“We had a long break and are now meeting again.”
“Yes, it has been a few days.”
“Your specs… why?“
“My glasses? Oh, I am usually wearing contacts. You know?”
“Yes, I know these.” Does he really know what I am talking about? It’s nice he doesn’t talk the whole time. Or is it weird that he just rides his rickety bike and keeps me company? Don’t mind it really. At least he stopped asking for my number.
“Today is my birthday.”
“Oh! Happy birthday, Milton.” Auspicious. Leap year baby.
“Yes, very good day. See you tomorrow. Bye, bye.”
“Bye.” Too funny. Milton, the Indian paperboy. I hope he gets a new bike for his birthday. Actually I wonder what they do for birthdays here. I would have asked had he not been so quick to leave. Usually lingers a little longer.

What was with that guy yesterday? Kalam. Man! Straight up propositioned. It must work for him though. Otherwise he wouldn’t do it, right? How much play does he get I wonder. Two, three a week? Or does he just pick out a couple per season? He’s a pro. Seriously. These guys man. They know what they are doing. Need to have a buddy system when going to the beach.

“Morning.”
“Morning.” Yes. Next year a scooter.

Holy cat! So many cats. I wonder how Scarface is doing. Poor dude.

The temple is dark today. One of the cool parts about this walk – the frangipanis. Oooo, that’s a good one. And another… awesome, four. Sweet.

What happened here? Feels like something terrible happened here. This part gives me the creeps. Every time. Sending love and blessings. Love and light. Perhaps she died here. Someone died here. Love and light, love and light.

No snakes. This is good. Come on dog. What good is it for you to bark at me. It’s 5:30am, you can’t even see me. Really. Chill out. Six more paces.

My legs already feel like lead. Come on, up the steps. One… two…

Three people here already. I’m going to go over here today. Going to rock it. Sure as Hell going to give it what I got at least. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Ok… rug, mat, towel… 

Samastithi.

The action – it unfolds in all its glory; mistakes, triumphs, joy, disappointment… drama. The scene, as if projected on a big screen in a small smoky theatre. Quite the show from the Lazyboy of consciousness.

One part of me sits there, watching. Like an old bachelorette, grazing on popcorn and sipping ginger ale. Laughing with the funny parts, crying with the sad parts. Part of me knowing what to do and what not to do, fully aware of what is happening, yet powerless to alter the moment, the movement, words, actions.

It’s frustrating to stand in the doorway, watching the watcher. Being fully aware. Appalled by the lack of action. Yelling and reprimanding, name calling, bickering, guilt… shame. What does that get me? More resistance.

An outright protest ensues nearly every morning on my mat. It’s like Rocky V in there.  Not wanting to go further into the series. Afraid. Fear of opening up again; release into the beauty and lightness of a free spine, a free and open heart. Feeling the blockages so damn clearly it makes no sense that I wouldn’t be able to move through them. And worst of all, the constant questioning of it. Suck town.

Perhaps an expectation of ultimate and immediate change through awareness is too great. Perhaps this puts too much pressure on… creating more adolescent style rebellion.

Sigh. Things are hard sometimes. The practice is hard sometimes. Opening up in backbends is really fucking hard sometimes. And for what? Because I’m afraid to open my heart to the world? Time to not buy into that anymore. Things get mucked up, and it’s likely, ultimately, I can’t do much to change them, but I can choose to travel through it without loosing my shit.

The most beautiful thing? The practice is my vehicle. And if you really look at it – it never breaks down. It is always there, in whatever capacity, to take me to the next level.

Practice, breathe – practice, breathe. Breathe.
Movement, light, loving awareness.

Legs, like trunks of an ancient willow tree, lift through eloquent arches of ageless knowing. Rooted, unwavering. Strength of a thousand elephants. The Mother, faith, Ma. She wraps her loving arms around an opening spine. Release the crown back, extend through reaching fingertips. She lifts the heart towards the cosmos with the simple touch of her supporting palms. Fearlessness. Ma! Opening. Radiating. Drink the sweetness, the softness of light, lightness. Oh Ma… I am here.

In a dream. Altered reality. Not even the stars have the same face. Private constellations. Perhaps the cosmos won’t collide with the earth’s atmosphere in the same way. Falling stars to peacock feathers. Perhaps all is orchestrated sideways, upside-down, on its side, images of instance; presented by a double-sided mirror while the puppeteers watch, waiting to see the comedy – the tragedy – the beauty of this parallel in the face of its participants.

Here’s the deal. I came to the beach without a swimming suit. Thinking, bring as little as possible, pack light, stay focused. Smart. The truth is – I was not so much in a self-supportive kind of mode when I left Spokane. More of an anxiety ridden, self-loathing, little monkey kind of mode. Not the cute and fun little monkey either – the one that throws poop in your face. To be honest, I was really thinking, there is no way in hell I am getting into any kind of swimming suit in front of anyone. Maybe ever again. Especially in India. No way man. So of course I get here, it’s super hot, the ocean is beautiful and warm, and I want to swim in it. Badly.

My first attempt at swimming apparel? Some old smelly cut up yoga clothes. Good thought… didn’t work so well. The makeshift swim shorts slipped off fairly quickly when getting pummeled by big waves, which happen fairly often. Not good. And the top… well, the top… couldn’t stand the smell. Gross. So it was decided, after some encouragement, bit of light prodding, that I would get a suit. My optimism for finding a decent one in India was fairly low, with good reason, though nearly every shop has some sort of swim wear. If it wasn’t something made for a ten year old, it was free size; meaning one size fits all – A.K.A. – string bikini.

It’s ironic. Coming here the belief I was not fit to be seen by another human being in anything other than full pants and T-shirt was quite prominent in my mind. And here I was, in an Indian shop buying a string bikini.

After two days of wearing it around the house, I finally got an attitude of, fuck it, I’m going to the beach, and if anyone doesn’t like it they can bite me. So, I got to the beach, paid 150rs for a chair, table and umbrella, stripped off my t-shirt and lungi and walked my bikini-wearing ass right into the waves. It was the closest to ocean skinny-dipping I have ever been.

The important part here was the sense of non-caring. Not worrying if anyone was looking at me or what they thought or any of that. Such a relief to simply be there; soaking up the sun and digging my toes in the sand. A relief. A gift. And in that, something shifted. The idea, the belief, that I too could be a thing of beauty, just as all the beauty I see in the world… that I might possibly be that too.

Blessings.