Poetry/Prose

Only Natural

Rural Nepal, 2012

Rural Nepal, 2012

Ask yourself

What is natural?

Walk into the forest

Of your sensibilities

Buzzing with life

Action

Reaction

Stillness

Disguises

Realities

Is it poisonous?

Or is it a mimic?

Nature

Mind blowing

Sit there

Go into your nature

Walk slow

Feel the bottom of your feet

Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss

The Earth

Holding you up

Infusing all of you

Always

Ask yourself

What is natural?

When you are walking through doors

Sitting at desks

Driving your car

Fantasizing

Talking on the phone

Imagining

Neurotic about social media

Worrying

Crying about a memory

Pining about the future

Pumped on inspiration

Choosing to be bored

Is it natural?

Is it?

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

Sit Down, Close Your Eyes, Watch the Movie

"A Time of Reflection--Crow"--credit: James Ayers Studios: http://jamesayers.com/original-artwork/sold-work/a-time-of-reflection-gallery/

“A Time of Reflection–Crow”–credit: James Ayers Studios: http://jamesayers.com/original-artwork/sold-work/a-time-of-reflection-gallery/

It’s a matter of time–your life.

Humans make the most of it through reflection.

That is the one power that differentiates us.

 

Was the movie good?

I’ll tell you in four days, when the scenes still play in my mind, or don’t.

Is that person important in my life?

I need time–to miss them, time to notice that so many of the things that they did and said still come to my mind, as if they speak them in the moments, when I remember … days, months, years later.

If we are smarter than the little part of ourselves–the part that wants to be king, that runs like a rat on crack–we catch a pattern.

We start seeing people in the moments: for what we predict we will feel and know, days, weeks, months later.

If we’re lucky, if we reflect, enough, we develop this capacity and we use it automatically.

It becomes a deeper drive, righting our interactions with others.

If we sit still. If we pause, again and again, we see these things.

We become human, and we split off enough from our animal, come to know, our godselves.

We develop the film of our life so that the picture gets clearer and clearer. In the darkroom.

In the quiet, dark, still space–behind our closed eyelids and between our palms, spread apart, setting aside, our time.

We gain the power, to start seeing, through time.

Some of us do this. I do this. It doesn’t make me special, it’s just what I have chosen to do. And so can you … for now …

It’s so funny to me … and sad to see … how it’s always been and will always be a matter of time.

 

 

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Poetry/Prose, Sugar Free, Yoga & Spiritual

Please Don’t Forget

There will be people in your life who love you in a way that sends you on a quest to find your very self.

Because they’ve found you worth so much of their time and all their customized attention.

And you wondered why, you wanted to know why … so you began to dig.

And then you started to discover why, why you were worth the time and have always been worth the time.

Sometimes we forget, until we remember those people.

Even if they are not around us.

Even if quite the opposite sentiments may sometimes surround us and fill us.

It is our duty to remember.

What they took us by the hand, led us to the doorway to ourselves, to find.

They would never want us to forget.

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

All Together Now

472424a-f1.2If there was a checkbox for me, to choose, I would tick undefined. But somehow in this world we must define ourselves. What on Earth kind of paradox is this? How do you define a human being?

Tags, IDs, social security numbers … sounds tidy, as per the usual epic fail.

How then? Writer, lawyer, teacher, occupational therapist, plastic surgeon, engineer, scientist, tour guide, relief worker, programmer, dentist, DJ, circus performer. Really? Is that really who you are? What about yogi? Honestly, it’s time we all got a life.

Yes, I spend time practicing yoga and teaching it–learning just as much each time I do.

What I’m trying to get at here actually, as I sidewind my way into the point, is that just because I do this, doesn’t mean that a lot of other things people glue to these termed-yoga activities are true. Same with any title–they’re all about as misleading and temporarily reassuring as a Klondike at 2 a.m. when you’re trying to lose a few pounds.

So many people look at me as someone who has some answers. Someone who can help them. And to a degree I can, but only to the point that guides and demonstrates how they can help themselves. Because it is through these practices that we “yogis” do just that, for ourselves.

Specifically, we bend, stretch, open and, basically, tenderize ourselves. We aim to explore ourselves and interact with the world from a more raw yet deeply faithful place. It’s like moving into high def about life, yet developing, through, shitloads of practice every day, more wherewithal and strength to detach and realize it’s just a TV and all of these melodramas are inevitable programs.

The challenge is that, with this perspective, we have to get real grounded into the role we play in whatever series we find ourselves. It’s not an escape. There is no escape from what we were born to do.

This, in a very crude nutshell, and in my humble opinion, is the pursuit of someone practicing yoga in a deeper capacity.

And yet!

Expectation hangs in the air–that I have it all together. I get it from guys I date, friends who are just getting to know me, people who just discovered my classes. I’m the lady who has it together and will teach people how to have it together. It’s really interesting. I bet a lot of people, in other healthcare professions, know exactly what I am talking about, too.

This month I hit a new personal record on things I thought I could accomplish. I will spare you. Just imagine James Bond is a woman and she’s in Doha and it was so intense that it could only be handled moment by moment, with the big picture in mind. My gears all but burned out … and my composure let in some light through a few cracks toward the end of it all.

Last night I realized–over a glass of wine at a party–that I don’t feel home anywhere and at times totally rely on the logic and reason of people I have grown, over years, to trust to tether me to the closest idea of home a person can ever truly have–human connection.

Yes, I am a practitioner of yoga. But this month really waved it in my face that this life is not at all about having it all together.

Newsflash: you only think you do–stop thinking that for just a second … before life forces you to do it … to see something important.

This gig gets really good when get a sense of when to be strong and when to be vulnerable. When to take care of ourselves and when to surrender to the love around us, the help of friends.

When to get it together. And when to get it all together.

I looked into quite a few eyes over the past week and was utterly rocked by all of the comfort, understanding, deep perception I saw. The few words spoken in passing to help me along.

The grace and elegance that people demonstrate when they reach out to help you is one of the most incredible displays of magic and beauty I know. I drove through the city–sensing the pulsing clubs and house parties at full throttle yet enjoying the quiet roads–totally baffled by hindsight reflection on the loving tentacles of spirit that reached out to grab me lately, despite my dire need to be a strong, yogi, leader type.

So many people smiled and said: relax, relax, relax … like the cheer lines along a marathon.

We are so much alike. The differences so slight, only made bigger when we think and believe we have it together and always will. Ha! Well, honey, you will see it all for what it is when you don’t. When you’re truly tied to everyone you’ve tended to loving, or the people in the institution paid to love you.

For life, it seems, is designed to teach you what it really means to have it all together.

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Desert Updates, Poetry/Prose

Shameless

Image credit: Sodahead/Edits: mine

Image credit: Sodahead/Edits: mine

It’s all relative around here. Once you land, figure out the power outlets, find a cute little Persian rug knockoff at the grocery store and get a load of the valet service and your first paycheck, you sink deeper and the place just starts wrapping its tentacles around you.

You still feel like you control your appendages … your thoughts, your wherewithal.

Only when you’ve been operating in the arms of this friendly but powerful sea monster of a society for quite a while–and a new person comes, naked, wide-eyed, dumbstruck drifting down past you eye level–do you get a sense of what has happened to you.

The person floats there, looking around, the hairs dancing above their head, their cheeks buoyant. And then up behind them comes a shadow. The water between your eyeballs and the leviathan’s procession grows thin. You witness: the same moment you remember so long ago happening to them. You remember: when it first touched you and eased itself around your waste, curled its tentacle tips atop your head and into your palms, ran its smooth skin along your calves and placed its tender micro suction cups atop your feet.

Some days, you do realize, somehow, you can’t move as freely as you once did, but in other ways are strengthened to ten times your original ways–it all depends on what it sees in you, what it lets you do, helps you do and prevents you from doing, this society here.

It’s not some small, benign member of the deep sea world, this one. It’s got some heft. But underwater, everything becomes kind of relative to how elusive it can make itself, how well it navigates and commands it endless turf, how deeply it spends its time.

And a power like this runs deep–what with its tribal history and its recent run into riches. It lays low and reaches out only for the select of us who somehow saw it for what it was, once upon a time, when we dove in head first, toward the shiny objects related to this expat experience.

Again, we are not privy to the view of what is actually happening to us, until the occasional new person gets gripped before our eyes. They look at us, watch us, wonder about us.

They seem to ask us: How can we go on like this? Don’t we have any shame, about those designer shoes, vacations, electric guitars, speedboats, lovers, self reinventions and “I won’t be in today, my flight is delayed from the weekend in Moscow.”

We look at them like cats, wrapped in tentacles, turning our attention just for a moment from our fancy feast dishes.

No. Actually. No we don’t.

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

Mr. Mister

heart5

Photo/art credit–Desicomments.com

When I first became an expat I said:

Everything has changed, but I am the same

Days passed into months, months into years

Conversations into contentment into disillusionment into strategy into deeper surrender

Again and again, a drum, guaranteed

Same blood through the same heart, beating

Keeping time when I forget my watch, or throw it in the toilet

Different faces, different cultures, different priorities, luring me through a looking glass

To be born into a world

Where the masks all drop and love is always mine

Hands in pockets, eyes to the moon, now reflecting

Will I see you again?

Like I did the first time, when you were someone different?

More than anyone else?

Detachment–hundreds of feet in the sky, where your can see, so many things

Round and round, that race … like gnats in a jar

Looking at each other–seeing themselves

Was I doing that?

I wonder what scorpions eat …

Everything is the same

But I have changed

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Art, Poetry/Prose

Visual prompt exercise: Dubai Metro Stop Interior

dubaimetrostop

Photo/art credit–mine

Did her feet ever touch the stairs?

City life. Pure flight. Ethereal.

A high-speed chase–Houdini’s escape, from nobody, from nothing, but the time he never will.

In no language, in no words, she heard a sharp announcement “it’s 3:03.”

It continued:

“That thing is automatic; it spits you out, like coins along the tracks.”

“But I’m not a coin!” she howled.

Inspired by deafening traffic.

Her inner poet laughed:

“What are any of us doing here? Funneled from place to place, tower to tower–spanked by the hand, that sweeps the marks, between the hours.”

 

 

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