Friday Night
In the morning I will lead Sadhana with my yoga teacher trainees. We will begin outside in the cool morning air doing the energisation exercises that Paramhansa Yogananda developed. They move more than just the muscles. They awaken more than just the mind.
Tonight we did 2 hours of restorative yoga, as the light faded into night. What peace and release there is in that. I thought afterward, as I drank my cleansing water, about how I want to give that experience to others. I hope I get the chance soon.
Now it is time to go to sleep, reading words of inspiration, looking for the prayer for morning meditation. How fortunate I am, that this yoga community has moved to land on Chehalem mountain. I am a neighbor, and a friend, a member of the practice, and the teaching group. I am encountering myself in a new way, in a new place.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
Full Moon over the Passion
You know, I have always loved the word 'passion'. In fact, you could say that I am passionate about the word passion. Tonight in the Zocolo of Mexico City my honey and I witnessed the pageantry of Mexican Catholicism playing out under - dude- a full moon. Really.... floats of statues depicting the stations of the cross, Roman soldiers stabbing Jesus or stealing his clothes, and his mourning mother dressed in black following behind. The 'sorrowful' mother. I do remember all this from childhood.
In recent years I have become more enamoured with the painting of Easter eggs and the search for a decent chocolate marshmellow bunny. The passion of Christ is a mythic tale, full of metaphor and emotion, imagery and tragedy. The human condition elevated to endless yearly reenactment to remind us if, we had forgotten, of how shallow and fickle humanity is. (The republicans have done a fine job of that this year, they should get the passion award).
It is exciting to see the excitement, and even the full scale fireworks, the street performers and the little kids tossing glow sticks in the air. The priests lead funeral processions to the droll beat of the death drum, or the keening chant with call and response. What have you done to betray a good person, they ask? What indeed.
It never hurts to look inside, to wonder about infinity and the transitory nature of this life. If statues and songs can bring people back to who they want to be, how they want to live, maybe a tear shed for someone already gone on to the big unknown, this is one way to start spring.
On Easter I will not look for any eggs in the Zocolo, only candles and statues illuminated by the full moon of April, the first full moon of spring.
In recent years I have become more enamoured with the painting of Easter eggs and the search for a decent chocolate marshmellow bunny. The passion of Christ is a mythic tale, full of metaphor and emotion, imagery and tragedy. The human condition elevated to endless yearly reenactment to remind us if, we had forgotten, of how shallow and fickle humanity is. (The republicans have done a fine job of that this year, they should get the passion award).
It is exciting to see the excitement, and even the full scale fireworks, the street performers and the little kids tossing glow sticks in the air. The priests lead funeral processions to the droll beat of the death drum, or the keening chant with call and response. What have you done to betray a good person, they ask? What indeed.
It never hurts to look inside, to wonder about infinity and the transitory nature of this life. If statues and songs can bring people back to who they want to be, how they want to live, maybe a tear shed for someone already gone on to the big unknown, this is one way to start spring.
On Easter I will not look for any eggs in the Zocolo, only candles and statues illuminated by the full moon of April, the first full moon of spring.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Mitakuye Oyasin
Mitakuye Oyasin - To all My Relations
This poem goes out
To all my relations - future and past
The grandmothers I knew, and those I did not,
The grandchildren i can feel, but have not yet
seen
You remember the clear water flowing
near your camp, your village,
under the good dirt of your gardens
Springing from the rock of the earth
where water is kept safe and sweet
My grandchildren, you deserve
this sweet water
You, who will come near the end of my own life
and gather your own present to yourselves
You deserve good dirt, untainted by chemicals unwisely spread in ignorance and haste
You deserve good air to breath
rain washed, sun warmed, like
the elixir of love to inhale
you deserve
space on this planet, the space for a home
a garden, the look at trees and mountains,
birds singing when the light changes.
How can I give these things, store these gifts,
wish these life things
For all my relations?
This poem goes out
To all my relations - future and past
The grandmothers I knew, and those I did not,
The grandchildren i can feel, but have not yet
seen
You remember the clear water flowing
near your camp, your village,
under the good dirt of your gardens
Springing from the rock of the earth
where water is kept safe and sweet
My grandchildren, you deserve
this sweet water
You, who will come near the end of my own life
and gather your own present to yourselves
You deserve good dirt, untainted by chemicals unwisely spread in ignorance and haste
You deserve good air to breath
rain washed, sun warmed, like
the elixir of love to inhale
you deserve
space on this planet, the space for a home
a garden, the look at trees and mountains,
birds singing when the light changes.
How can I give these things, store these gifts,
wish these life things
For all my relations?
Thursday, February 23, 2012
From the Drain Pipe at Wilburton
I have known her,
How many years now, I have to count....
from 11 to 56,
she knows just about my whole life
She sat in the drain pipe, wearing her favorite dress, cotton plaid, knee sox and sturdy shoes.
There, I found her, me wandering alone
the new kid,
dressed in some Sears outfit from a smaller town south,
where farm kids lived.
Me looking dorky but still longing for a friend.
I asked her something... "What is it like in there, why are you sitting in the pipe? "
She answered, "it is the best place to be on this damn playground..."
Me, fresh from Catholic School to this public one
"You aren't supposed to swear.."
Like she cared..
She told me, " Oh,
everyone here does it, soon you will too."
She was absolutely right.
We wandered through our adolescence, crossing paths
in our various survival endeavors
like going to a big city black school - "reverse bussing'
Her courage impressed me, while
my timidity brought me back to
that snobby High School in our
"premium suburban bedroom community"
All that happened soon was never part of my dreams.
She was always there, 2 blocks away.
We could walk the forested hill and talk.
She went to Europe and wrote me long letters.
I wondered why I was not in Europe,
what courage, even to live with the Irish during
The violence of the 70's
I have boxes of our letters from all those years
They chronicle what we loved, how we lived, what we never learned to understand.
She still writes me letters, by hand.
It is in this later part of life we have our parents health issues
Our sons, we both had boys who brought our mother hearts
to full passion
This story is not over, this friendship
The years keep piling up
And the drain pipe image keeps returning
How I had the sense to ask her a question,
how she desired to answer the awkward new kid
and there
there we began on a rainy September playground
the sawdust cool and wet
Us not wanting to return to the classroom
each for different reasons
Later, we
began to write poetry
and laugh.
This story is not over, wait.
I will tell you more -and if you want
you can find someone sitting quietly away from the noisy world
of girly girls and pretense.
Ask a question, look vulnerable
It may be a friendship thread you can pick up
and weave into your life forever,
in the way which will keep you alive.
How many years now, I have to count....
from 11 to 56,
she knows just about my whole life
She sat in the drain pipe, wearing her favorite dress, cotton plaid, knee sox and sturdy shoes.
There, I found her, me wandering alone
the new kid,
dressed in some Sears outfit from a smaller town south,
where farm kids lived.
Me looking dorky but still longing for a friend.
I asked her something... "What is it like in there, why are you sitting in the pipe? "
She answered, "it is the best place to be on this damn playground..."
Me, fresh from Catholic School to this public one
"You aren't supposed to swear.."
Like she cared..
She told me, " Oh,
everyone here does it, soon you will too."
She was absolutely right.
We wandered through our adolescence, crossing paths
in our various survival endeavors
like going to a big city black school - "reverse bussing'
Her courage impressed me, while
my timidity brought me back to
that snobby High School in our
"premium suburban bedroom community"
All that happened soon was never part of my dreams.
She was always there, 2 blocks away.
We could walk the forested hill and talk.
She went to Europe and wrote me long letters.
I wondered why I was not in Europe,
what courage, even to live with the Irish during
The violence of the 70's
I have boxes of our letters from all those years
They chronicle what we loved, how we lived, what we never learned to understand.
She still writes me letters, by hand.
It is in this later part of life we have our parents health issues
Our sons, we both had boys who brought our mother hearts
to full passion
This story is not over, this friendship
The years keep piling up
And the drain pipe image keeps returning
How I had the sense to ask her a question,
how she desired to answer the awkward new kid
and there
there we began on a rainy September playground
the sawdust cool and wet
Us not wanting to return to the classroom
each for different reasons
Later, we
began to write poetry
and laugh.
This story is not over, wait.
I will tell you more -and if you want
you can find someone sitting quietly away from the noisy world
of girly girls and pretense.
Ask a question, look vulnerable
It may be a friendship thread you can pick up
and weave into your life forever,
in the way which will keep you alive.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
February Questions
From a teaching article:
"Questions open the mind. Statements close it."
Some people, like my late husband Jim, were given the message that asking a question is a sign of weakness, of not knowing. Ah, how much none of us really know. How valuable is the person who knows how to ask, and does not feel the less for doing so?
My question: What do our traditional holidays tell us about our ancestors?
February is the in-between month of winter. It is the month of my birthday and my Dad's as well. It is the month where the weather will suddenly become warm and spring-like, and then retreat just as quickly into winterness. It is the month of sunrises and sunsets against the bare branches of oak trees, the mistletoe bundles arranged like little balls of fur about the stark branches. It is the month when my scented violets bloom in small purple profusions as a harbinger to spring, the scent hovering enchanting and nebulous.
It is the month of Valentines Day... red hearts and lace, chocolate and flowers, placed there in the grayness as a reprieve until those colorful Easter eggs take the stage.
I'm certain that our ancestors had reasons to devise holidays in increments thoughout the year. How clever they were, and how grateful I am.
When I go into classrooms now I see all kinds of red hearts and flowers. Hearts represent life and love. I believe so strongly in both those concepts. What a miracle our own heart is, the way it works, all by itself.
Happy Winter then, happy heart day, happy life and breath, happy birthday to all of us in Aquarius or Pisces... water and fish... life.
"Questions open the mind. Statements close it."
Some people, like my late husband Jim, were given the message that asking a question is a sign of weakness, of not knowing. Ah, how much none of us really know. How valuable is the person who knows how to ask, and does not feel the less for doing so?
My question: What do our traditional holidays tell us about our ancestors?
February is the in-between month of winter. It is the month of my birthday and my Dad's as well. It is the month where the weather will suddenly become warm and spring-like, and then retreat just as quickly into winterness. It is the month of sunrises and sunsets against the bare branches of oak trees, the mistletoe bundles arranged like little balls of fur about the stark branches. It is the month when my scented violets bloom in small purple profusions as a harbinger to spring, the scent hovering enchanting and nebulous.
It is the month of Valentines Day... red hearts and lace, chocolate and flowers, placed there in the grayness as a reprieve until those colorful Easter eggs take the stage.
I'm certain that our ancestors had reasons to devise holidays in increments thoughout the year. How clever they were, and how grateful I am.
When I go into classrooms now I see all kinds of red hearts and flowers. Hearts represent life and love. I believe so strongly in both those concepts. What a miracle our own heart is, the way it works, all by itself.
Happy Winter then, happy heart day, happy life and breath, happy birthday to all of us in Aquarius or Pisces... water and fish... life.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Friday the 13th
Driving down the hill to teach at the local Middle School this morning, the concept of 'Friday the 13th' wove it's way into my head... maybe something on the radio... the stations I wish would play only uplifting music to bring me to a work mode, but which seem to rely heavily upon extraneous commentary in the morning hours.
My favorite comedienne as a child was Phyllis Diller, who maintained that Friday the 13th was her lucky day. Phyllis was an iconoclast. I did not know what an iconoclast was when I was 9, but I somehow got that she was not following the party line, and that was for me. In order to equate myself with Phyllis, I decided Friday the 13th was my lucky day too. Ah, the impulsive logic of the child mind.
Today, being my lucky day, maybe I dropped the ball, or maybe I began with a Zen like calm which would allow me to function through the day which awaited me. The day was, as someone famous said, "One darned thing after another".
The drive was a little icy, but I safely arrived to the parking lot early, with a responsible sack lunch packed and sitting next to me. I did the last minute leave the car routines, and decided to keep the lunch in the car so I wouldn't have to lug it around, or have it get warm. I put on pink lipstick ( middle school kids seem to notice it) and I exited the car, locked it, and promptly realized that my keys were still in the ignition. I have done this before... and always think that I should never have to do it again. Well, today I was in some kind of Zen Siddhartha River, and the universe was testing me. No lunch, and a snafu to figure out later.
When I arrived at the appointed classroom, to work for a teacher new to me, I quickly began the exercise of orienting myself to the daily routine in a space of about 10 minutes. The classroom aid came in, bless her heart, and began to fill in the gaps, but even then, there were gaps... the teacher is a techie, his aid is not.
Nowadays in the classrooms they have these electronic wall pieces called 'Smart boards'. They interface with a computer, and project onto a screen. This is the new 'chalkboard'. They are very expensive, and not simple to use. I am still barely learning. (Plus, it seems the teachers have PC's, and I, alas, am a mac user.)
Laura, who teaches math upstairs, came in to help me, I sub for her and she knows I'm in the building. As she began to help me access the right programs for the smart board, we soon heard a loud POP. The bulb in the ceiling projector had just extinguished itself... funny (back to my love of comedy) that just yesterday at another school a teacher was telling me "those bulbs cost a million dollars" - perfect irony to the fact that we were studying the word 'hyperbole', for freshman English.
Another teacher arrived to look at the projector and flatly stated, "You won't be able to use this today".
All the lessons were set to appear on this smart thing, and I could not help but think about how dumb this felt to me.
At this point I began to improvise quickly and ruthlessly.... keeping my Siddhartha Zen calm. I taught the days lessons without technology. Mrs. Patrick, the classroom aid was a great boon here. She figured out how to find the math quiz, and make hard copies of it... bless her heart.
The kids in these classes were considered 'special ed', and I loved them all....
The day progressed with many actual teaching opportunities, which for a substitute constitute that warm feeling of validation which everyone seeks in a working life. I taught young James, who I had met working one on one in study hall last year. He is the gentlest middle school age kid I have ever encountered, and he smiles about 80% of the time. The fact that his home work paper was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke made me sad. Who knows how much of his learning disability is caused by second hand smoke?
During my lunch 1/2 hour, after doing lunch duty all through what would have been the teacher's prep time, I was able to call AAA. The savior truck came and unlocked my car, so for the second half of the day I didn't have to ponder that problem any more. Thanks Mom, your yearly gift of AAA makes these kinds of goof ups so much less painful...
Another weird occurrence was watching 3 male teachers have to subdue a kid who went crazy with anger because he couldn't participate in a group game time, he had not earned the privilege. A staff person told me the district decided it could not afford to give the staff training in responding to physically violent students. I wonder how much that cost would compare to a smart board in every classroom. Technology has taken the lions share it seems, not just in schools, but in every other facet of life, except maybe that of a monk.
The day ended with me buying myself a much deserved IPA, what I thought was IPA, but turned out to be Porter. I guess my Zen state was just slightly jangled. Luckily I arrived home to a warm house, and only a few minor problems in tutoring land. My printer decided to be out of toner, and a new cartridge costs almost as much as the printer cost new. This seems like a cruel trick to me, but I am making myself realize I must accept the new paradigms, smart or not.
Now it is the weekend, and we can sit back and think about a man who practiced non-violence. That is a pleasing prospect. Happy Birthday Martin. I am so glad we have a holiday for you, we need holidays.
My favorite comedienne as a child was Phyllis Diller, who maintained that Friday the 13th was her lucky day. Phyllis was an iconoclast. I did not know what an iconoclast was when I was 9, but I somehow got that she was not following the party line, and that was for me. In order to equate myself with Phyllis, I decided Friday the 13th was my lucky day too. Ah, the impulsive logic of the child mind.
Today, being my lucky day, maybe I dropped the ball, or maybe I began with a Zen like calm which would allow me to function through the day which awaited me. The day was, as someone famous said, "One darned thing after another".
The drive was a little icy, but I safely arrived to the parking lot early, with a responsible sack lunch packed and sitting next to me. I did the last minute leave the car routines, and decided to keep the lunch in the car so I wouldn't have to lug it around, or have it get warm. I put on pink lipstick ( middle school kids seem to notice it) and I exited the car, locked it, and promptly realized that my keys were still in the ignition. I have done this before... and always think that I should never have to do it again. Well, today I was in some kind of Zen Siddhartha River, and the universe was testing me. No lunch, and a snafu to figure out later.
When I arrived at the appointed classroom, to work for a teacher new to me, I quickly began the exercise of orienting myself to the daily routine in a space of about 10 minutes. The classroom aid came in, bless her heart, and began to fill in the gaps, but even then, there were gaps... the teacher is a techie, his aid is not.
Nowadays in the classrooms they have these electronic wall pieces called 'Smart boards'. They interface with a computer, and project onto a screen. This is the new 'chalkboard'. They are very expensive, and not simple to use. I am still barely learning. (Plus, it seems the teachers have PC's, and I, alas, am a mac user.)
Laura, who teaches math upstairs, came in to help me, I sub for her and she knows I'm in the building. As she began to help me access the right programs for the smart board, we soon heard a loud POP. The bulb in the ceiling projector had just extinguished itself... funny (back to my love of comedy) that just yesterday at another school a teacher was telling me "those bulbs cost a million dollars" - perfect irony to the fact that we were studying the word 'hyperbole', for freshman English.
Another teacher arrived to look at the projector and flatly stated, "You won't be able to use this today".
All the lessons were set to appear on this smart thing, and I could not help but think about how dumb this felt to me.
At this point I began to improvise quickly and ruthlessly.... keeping my Siddhartha Zen calm. I taught the days lessons without technology. Mrs. Patrick, the classroom aid was a great boon here. She figured out how to find the math quiz, and make hard copies of it... bless her heart.
The kids in these classes were considered 'special ed', and I loved them all....
The day progressed with many actual teaching opportunities, which for a substitute constitute that warm feeling of validation which everyone seeks in a working life. I taught young James, who I had met working one on one in study hall last year. He is the gentlest middle school age kid I have ever encountered, and he smiles about 80% of the time. The fact that his home work paper was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke made me sad. Who knows how much of his learning disability is caused by second hand smoke?
During my lunch 1/2 hour, after doing lunch duty all through what would have been the teacher's prep time, I was able to call AAA. The savior truck came and unlocked my car, so for the second half of the day I didn't have to ponder that problem any more. Thanks Mom, your yearly gift of AAA makes these kinds of goof ups so much less painful...
Another weird occurrence was watching 3 male teachers have to subdue a kid who went crazy with anger because he couldn't participate in a group game time, he had not earned the privilege. A staff person told me the district decided it could not afford to give the staff training in responding to physically violent students. I wonder how much that cost would compare to a smart board in every classroom. Technology has taken the lions share it seems, not just in schools, but in every other facet of life, except maybe that of a monk.
The day ended with me buying myself a much deserved IPA, what I thought was IPA, but turned out to be Porter. I guess my Zen state was just slightly jangled. Luckily I arrived home to a warm house, and only a few minor problems in tutoring land. My printer decided to be out of toner, and a new cartridge costs almost as much as the printer cost new. This seems like a cruel trick to me, but I am making myself realize I must accept the new paradigms, smart or not.
Now it is the weekend, and we can sit back and think about a man who practiced non-violence. That is a pleasing prospect. Happy Birthday Martin. I am so glad we have a holiday for you, we need holidays.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Where to Build the Fire
This morning, while contemplating the various complexities of the world situation - 2012- the Jack London story "To Build a Fire" surfaced in my mental stream of thought. That story was connected to a family discussion of the concept a "Three dog night" where the North dwellers only survived bitter cold by huddling up with their dogs. We have 2 lovely Huskies in my family who would be more than happy to cuddle up on a cold night.
Jack London's character had a dog, but the dog was much more able to withstand cold than the man.
The man built his fire under a spruce tree, and picked its twigs off, upsetting the balance of the tree. Finally the tree bent and its snow dumped onto the man's last good fire, his life line. He tried another fire, but it failed taking all his remaining matches. He then ran along side the creek, hoping to warm himself, his dog running with him. When he could no longer move because of cold, he stopped, and succumbed to hypothermia. The dog waited unit he knew the man was finally gone, then ran on to the original camp destination.
That story made me think again about how reliant we are on the other creatures of the world, and on the laws of physics for our survival. Where we build our fires is important. If we are cold, and this fire is of vital importance, we may take one last look around to see the landscape and let it speak to us. The dog is only a dog, but will survive because he has the genetics to do so. The creatures of the earth will serve us, only as long as our own consciousness holds out.
We talked of harmony tonight, and how when chanting or singing with other voices we instinctively search for the right tone and pitch to achieve the magic sound. It takes a keen sense of the other voices, the air, that acoustics, and the intentions of all present to create a harmony. This happens with deep consciousness. Where we listen, how we listen, where we decide to build our fire.
I like these thoughts to begin the new year. I like thinking about what I can do for survival and harmony at once. Maybe the man building the fire should have been more aware of the dog, who has been bred for generations to live in the harsh climates of the frozen North. Maybe the country could practice awareness of the tones others are singing, to blend in, rather than stand out. If we watch carefully we may hear and see the small messages our world sends to us, not always linear, not always obvious.
Jack London's character had a dog, but the dog was much more able to withstand cold than the man.
The man built his fire under a spruce tree, and picked its twigs off, upsetting the balance of the tree. Finally the tree bent and its snow dumped onto the man's last good fire, his life line. He tried another fire, but it failed taking all his remaining matches. He then ran along side the creek, hoping to warm himself, his dog running with him. When he could no longer move because of cold, he stopped, and succumbed to hypothermia. The dog waited unit he knew the man was finally gone, then ran on to the original camp destination.
That story made me think again about how reliant we are on the other creatures of the world, and on the laws of physics for our survival. Where we build our fires is important. If we are cold, and this fire is of vital importance, we may take one last look around to see the landscape and let it speak to us. The dog is only a dog, but will survive because he has the genetics to do so. The creatures of the earth will serve us, only as long as our own consciousness holds out.
We talked of harmony tonight, and how when chanting or singing with other voices we instinctively search for the right tone and pitch to achieve the magic sound. It takes a keen sense of the other voices, the air, that acoustics, and the intentions of all present to create a harmony. This happens with deep consciousness. Where we listen, how we listen, where we decide to build our fire.
I like these thoughts to begin the new year. I like thinking about what I can do for survival and harmony at once. Maybe the man building the fire should have been more aware of the dog, who has been bred for generations to live in the harsh climates of the frozen North. Maybe the country could practice awareness of the tones others are singing, to blend in, rather than stand out. If we watch carefully we may hear and see the small messages our world sends to us, not always linear, not always obvious.
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