March 29th

Heading West on I-40 towards the Grand Canyon—

In pairs they pulled the dawn behind them, wings stretched out. In pairs they flew, bringing the light over the tree tops. Some would call them ordinary but they are a rarified bird indeed; Saturn’s emissary coupling in the predawn glow. “The glow,” she said, “can sometimes be seen, depending on where you stand, on the Western tips before the sun is seen in the sky... don’t miss it.” 

Modern Times

I looked up from where I was seated on the curb of the parking lot in late morning writing about God or goat cheese to see a motorcycle pull into the space in front of me. Leather jacket, green cargo pants and—uh, wait a minute, a yoga mat and glass jar full of water? He takes off his helmet and saunters across the tarmac; peach fuzz for hair and purple sticky mat under one arm. I’m impressed. Leave it to the “least likely” to change the world. 

Devil in the Desert

I saw the Devil last night walking on the side of the highway.

Strait from hell in a red dress ripped to shreds over blue jeans

with hair like Khali. She whore a black hoodie—a cape to shroud

her tendrils. The headlights of my car lit the back of her like a spot

light as this Creature came to life, slouching toward Black Canyon City.

Perhaps she has a date with God,

for when I could no longer see her with the head lights,

my eyes trailed back to find her in my rearview; arms flailing, feet stomping

she tore at that black sweatshirt like she meant to tear it off but to no avail,

I still could not see her face. She was mad as hell and I shuddered as I trained my gaze back to the red taillights and double yellow lines of the highway ahead.

I’m sure it was the Devil. And if that was the devil than God can’t be too far off… 

On the essence of being close

“Your daughter’s here, did you know that?”

“No, where?!”

“She’s probably hiding from you.”

I hear my mother’s laughter from behind me and turn so see her laughing with John our bartender/baristar/waiter/coveted sweetie behind the counter.

My mother, in all her grey haired glory has read my mind once again. All morning I was hoping that if I stayed in the café long enough she’d show up and we could chat. (The joys of a small town: there’re only a few descent places to find yourself on a late Thursday morning.) She did it again—listened intently to the voices in her head (from me of course) telling her to go to the café to meet her daughter, buy a salad, and let me eat half. Perfect timing.

After eating all her red onions and confessing that I miss being a kid, she said to me, “We’re role models you and I, examples of what’s possible (on our good days) in a mother-daughter relationship. This is something that John has probably never experienced but is witnessing through us.”

We hold hands and lean towards one another across the table as she says this. I like the feeling of knowing my mother as a friend, as a wise elder, a warm embrace, soft hands that are always ready for mine.  

I look at her bright eyes and know that she is my mirror. I see myself reflected back.

This is for you mom; you are my inspiration and my heart connection to love.

Day 5 of The School of Yoga Immersion Part I in Tucson, Arizona:

http://livethelightofyoga.blogspot.com/

Today we spoke of Practice or Abhyasa. As Patanjali put it:

Practice is

1.     Repetitious, without interruption

2.     Continual, over a long period of time

3.     Reverence, devotion

After a day of asana (where I held handstand in the middle of the room for THREE WHOLE SECONDS thank you very much) I find myself sitting in a café on 4^th Avenue, Bob Dylan in my ears, left hand curled around hot Earl Grey with milk and honey, in the middle of the desert. It’s dusk and the sun low in the sky sets the mountains and the tops of the stoplights on fire. There’s a haze over the city, obscuring the light, like I’m peering though a screen door. There’s a certain kind of crustiness to the people down here. They’ve been weathered by the sun and the dry heat. Their exteriors are rougher, more scaly like most desert creatures. I mean this in the best sense—their hearts are soft and yearn to connect with water, with truth, with a smile from a passerby on the street. The necessity is here and The School of Yoga has something to fulfill this necessity.

It’s January 22 and a tiny fake Christmas tree in the corner, with balls too big for it’s britches—I mean branches—watches over a semi-serious breakup happening at the table in front of it. A young Cary Elwes (The Princess Bride) is studiously casting side-ways glances at me, and texting while occasionally reading the textbook in front of him. Curly hair capped by a green beanie, has his back to me; white t-shirt tight around his latissimus dorsi. Another, she’s curled around a book in the corner to my right. Another, they stare at separate computer screens trying to tame the sexual tension, pretending to be interested in whatever their blue screens are displaying. And another, they order at the counter, she plays with her hair, and he glances at the adds taped to the register casually uninterested. They pay separately. Another, he walks in, grey Converse, khaki pants, green hoodie, I can’t see his face. There are so many. Her blue shell earrings stare at me like big round eyes from across the room.

It’s dark outside now, and the older one with white hair, fingers flying over keyboard, shows no signs of leaving. Here we are, you, me, us, them, us, we, we are all the same—human, fleshy, emotional, blobs of what? (Don’t answer that question,) instead, ask yourself, as Mary Oliver said, “What will you do with this one wild and precious life?”

I want to have the conversation of what matters to you. Laughter, I wan to laugh more. I want to stop being afraid to cry in public. I want to be able to tell people how my day is really going, and say Yes without holding back.

What do you want?