There was wood there by the road, the road that passes by the most sacred of lakes. The wind blew the water into waves of sringara, passionate waves. I could feel the chill coming off of mountain lake water. I thought of my teacher. Dark waters run deep, but this water sparkles and shines well into the depths as if the light of the devata prefer this place above all others. The sun danced over the surface and onto my skin as the wind blew its wildness into my hair. Ahh Vayu, are you happy with me today? Or is the whole world your happy playground and I just happen to be standing in it? I will drink your passion in regardless. I am intoxicated by this place. I have a hard time leaving.
Then as I turn to go I see a loon bobbing on the boisterous water. The first loon of the season. I hope its mate is nearby. I hope I will soon see them with offspring. I wonder how they could find enough peace in this lake and I wish I could ban the motor boats. That would probably be much harder than the people trying to ban our clothing optional beach year after year. I long to stay here to live in the sweetness of this powerful place. I feel the currents of grace swirling in multitudinous harmony like an orchestra hanging on the air, displaying itself in the beauty of peripheral waterfalls crashing down the mountainside. The brash and bold side, where I now stand, but I know there is a shanta cove across the way where the paths weave around intertwining with cedar trees that offer shade and privacy to the discreet bather who favors the quiet corner over the sand strewn beaches and rocky inlets.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Fearless hand of Nataraja
Nataraja, I feel his hand over my heart. I feel myself empowered, called in, supported. Each time I feel the same call to express without fear my own intention into the world. To speak with the fullness of my heart.
I kneel before the image and soften to receive what is mine to receive. I am thrilled with the visceral experience of the moreness as I feel the hand that speaks to me consistently. I have no way of knowing how long this will continue or in what way it will affect my teaching, my practice. I note that my heart opening is enhanced as I bask in the glow of feeling connected, supported by this beautiful Devata. I feel the entry point and remember my teacher's words: Any one of the Devata can be the entry point to all of the Devata. Right now I have this one vibrant sign post to be grateful for. Right here I embrace the mystery of what it is to be alive and in Yoga. I cannot imagine a better way to be.
I taste the divine ember, the divine nectar as it rises from my heart to the back of my tongue. I hold myself open for this experience to linger, to expand the midline of my being and to weave into an expression. However temporary my words and actions are they are tapped in to this aham, to this Maha.
My class is the expression for this moment. I hope it will suffice to honor that which I have received. I know that whatever I offer each person will receive something different, something of their own which only partially reflects my offering.
I seek to expand my capacity to weave the sweetness into something of value. I seek to weave the intoxication into nourishment and to clear the toxicity which necessarily accompanies the intoxicating substance.
I begin to wonder when I was first touched by this hand. "Courage" they said after my sister's death by avalanche. In the tiny chapel we stood around her cast off form. The priest asked us to each hold an intention to carry on some quality of hers in the world in her memory. I asked for her strength of leadership to arise in me into the service of others and particularly into the service of that which my sister loved about humanity, the goodness of long held traditions, camaraderie, good food and drink, etc...
A few years before that my yoga teacher told me that my heart was what was sri about me. She said I should learn to move as freely in my asana practice as I did in dance. I wonder what she would say if she saw me now.
I turned 33 in Ecuador, I talked to our guide about listening to the voice of my heart. He told me that my heart clearly had a reliable voice to listen to. The shaman told me I had a very particular energetic presence. I blushed even though I never knew what he really meant.
Has my heart always been touched with this fearlessness despite the ebb and flow of confidence and insecurity? Is that why I resonate with this hand so strongly? Or is this entry point enhancing my ability to engage my innate capacity? I feel the latter and celebrate with gratitude in my gestures toward Nataraja's ecstatic dancing form.
I kneel before the image and soften to receive what is mine to receive. I am thrilled with the visceral experience of the moreness as I feel the hand that speaks to me consistently. I have no way of knowing how long this will continue or in what way it will affect my teaching, my practice. I note that my heart opening is enhanced as I bask in the glow of feeling connected, supported by this beautiful Devata. I feel the entry point and remember my teacher's words: Any one of the Devata can be the entry point to all of the Devata. Right now I have this one vibrant sign post to be grateful for. Right here I embrace the mystery of what it is to be alive and in Yoga. I cannot imagine a better way to be.
I taste the divine ember, the divine nectar as it rises from my heart to the back of my tongue. I hold myself open for this experience to linger, to expand the midline of my being and to weave into an expression. However temporary my words and actions are they are tapped in to this aham, to this Maha.
My class is the expression for this moment. I hope it will suffice to honor that which I have received. I know that whatever I offer each person will receive something different, something of their own which only partially reflects my offering.
I seek to expand my capacity to weave the sweetness into something of value. I seek to weave the intoxication into nourishment and to clear the toxicity which necessarily accompanies the intoxicating substance.
I begin to wonder when I was first touched by this hand. "Courage" they said after my sister's death by avalanche. In the tiny chapel we stood around her cast off form. The priest asked us to each hold an intention to carry on some quality of hers in the world in her memory. I asked for her strength of leadership to arise in me into the service of others and particularly into the service of that which my sister loved about humanity, the goodness of long held traditions, camaraderie, good food and drink, etc...
A few years before that my yoga teacher told me that my heart was what was sri about me. She said I should learn to move as freely in my asana practice as I did in dance. I wonder what she would say if she saw me now.
I turned 33 in Ecuador, I talked to our guide about listening to the voice of my heart. He told me that my heart clearly had a reliable voice to listen to. The shaman told me I had a very particular energetic presence. I blushed even though I never knew what he really meant.
Has my heart always been touched with this fearlessness despite the ebb and flow of confidence and insecurity? Is that why I resonate with this hand so strongly? Or is this entry point enhancing my ability to engage my innate capacity? I feel the latter and celebrate with gratitude in my gestures toward Nataraja's ecstatic dancing form.
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