The Yoga Loft

Yoga philosophy

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Thursday, September 03, 2009

Broken Womb

My womb is full like the moon that moves the tide out. Scattered brokenness revealed, snagged in the nets of connective tissue, lying there, uncovered. In my heavy I'm angered by the nakedness of imperfection on my shore. Entangled in the mess that is life, I try to remove each unyielding piece. Jagged edges cut soft finger tips not designed to handle sharp, broken pieces of monstrous hurt poured from my heart. Past injuries, barbed with intentions to disturb any romantic dream I may fall into, poke me awake, awake, awake.

Full womb of missed fertility ready to spill, the blood, the pain, the open wound of recessed tides laying bare-glistening-sharpness that blinds my eye, so I must look away. Snared and tied up like caught fodder in a spider web I lie, unmoving lump of oozing surrender, the imperfections have won. Incoming tide washes the pain. Sleep descends to push all cuts into forgetful, hidden hallways beneath the green blue water of false contentment. Asleep I wait for broken life to fall away and free me into flight of other world.

The Right To Remain Silent

Do we only have the right to remain silent when we are suspected of a crime? Do we have the right to remain silent when our hearts are broken and our minds overwhelmed? Do we have the right to remain silent when our words seem to diffuse our meaning rather than come to its aid? Do we have the right to remain silent when we want to hear or when we want to commune with the infinite rather than remove ourselves by articulation?

Does silence have any rights? In those places where Nature only dwells alone, no sound of machine or human made projection, is there a right, a protection of the quiet? How can I assure myself these places will be left to continue and that I can go to them when I need Silence, quiet, no people? Aren't our words largly the forcing of our wills on others? Do they not do the work of the Ego saying "I do not really believe I'm here and so I speak, blah, blah, blah. I'm so important! Look at what I know. I'm not you. I'm separate and my words prove my intelligence greater than yours, my me greater than you, my sound greater than silence, my life greater than death?"

In this I need no words to speak to show you that you are me. I only need the right to remain silent. For there is no brighter light, no louder noise, no more disturbing presence than that of silence. It illuminates the falseness of words, the fake of other, the pretentiousness of human. And there is nothing that separates humans from God greater than the word. It was only the beginning of the end when "there was the word." Everything that came after that was an attempt to use the evil tool to coerce and convince a separateness from the All, The Oneness, Goddess and God, the Divine. To own the stars and the Creator and to extract life from life in meaningless babble, the use of words continue. I take the fifth. I have a right to be inside the infinite and only in Silence do I find myself with enough presence of mind to see, hear, love and envelope It. But I don't have the right to remain silent. The morning comes and I must say "hello" to the faces for a purpose of creating a false connection, while a real one goes ignored.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Being With One Self

It is hard to sit alone in the quiet, not attached to the social flow in any way. To sit, engaging in the layers of what "is", is an easily overlooked necessity to health.

In a way, yoga is engaged with changing things at the cellular level in our bodies. Yoga understands that we are walking memories, stored at the cellular level. Memories that make us move a certain way, or don't allow us to move a certain way. Memories that make us believe a certain way, or that hide us from our ugliness, i.e. ways we need to change. Memories that bring anxiety or perhaps memories that produce a feeling of loss or insufficiency. Memories, created by our past-living. The experiences and emotional interpretations, all stored. The images are all in our mind, sleeping folded under the brain's barely explored terrain. They are in our cells, in our little toes and in our thoughts. To sit alone, in quiet, is to allow the inside to come forward from the hidden fold. One has to acknowledge the challenge of feeling "good" in the present moment and the unconscious drive to engage with 'habit' feeling.

The propensity is to bring along all that one believes makes one self. To let go of these beliefs, to drain the cell of practiced memories, to make one self(cell) 'clear', brings forward contradictory experiences of desirability and that which feels undesirable. In clarity is emptiness, nothingness and freedom. All three are very frightening, huge experiences that seem to chuckle at the need to 'make something of oneself'. So hard it is to sit here and not make something, to allow the knowing of who I am to penetrate and refuse to cover it up. Falling deeper into the "Beingness" of life. The Beingness which is massive when compared to the doing, which is superficial and sometimes reflective of insecurity. Letting go in muscles, letting go in opinions, letting go in perceptions, worries, beliefs, breath, allows the openness of being to appear. Being, unfettered by story, words, linear perceptions scaled down into a two-dimensional flat, left to right telling. Life "is" when we sit alone, quiet, and there is much here to learn. All the important stuff is here, alone, quiet. If only I could remember that!

Friday, September 19, 2008

Sound

We are afraid of silence. Most animals fear noise, but we have desensitized ourselves into being the only animal that fears silence. We need to move, we need to turn something on, we need to produce and validate and compete to be comfortable. Silence is the not moving, not getting done, not, not, not, of our existence, and we are frightened of it. But silence still exist. It means we must be brave to go into silence and still be a person in the world of noise, the superficial or laid-over-the-top world. The only thing harder than becoming aware of silence-world while dwelling in the world of the distracted, is to dwell in the world of the distracted and never become aware of the world of silence. To believe that one IS the world of the distracted and never venture to find deeper is devastation of the spirit.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

The Line

My mother didn't want to turn the lights on because my father was resting in the hotel room. I colored on the floor at the foot of the bed as my mother gently stepped around my art creation. I think I asked my mother several times if we could live here forever. She thought this was humorous, but I meant it! I loved having so many people around us, and I loved that we were close together in this small place. Most of all, I loved that we were in a state of change, not a permanent state of the known. "When the house is completed it will be so exciting to go live in it", my mother countered. She looked at me. "Yes", I said, meaning "no". I liked the relaxed people my parents had become without all the stress of house, yard, job. They had been transformed by the impermanence of the situation without even realizing it. My dad had been playful with us and would take naps and was happier and my mom found time to read and talk to me and would throw the laundry at my dad and laugh. I liked the hotel and saw no reason why we should move onto some new place that would return us to our original selves.

With the lights off I continued to color in my coloring book. "Why aren't you coloring in the lines?" my mother asked, again. "Because I don't like to " I'd answer every time. I think that should have been a clear warning to my mom that I would always want to step outside the lines and that a life of neat, orderly line following was not in the cards. But despite my best efforts of art that covered right over the girl in a bonnet watering flowers that I was suppose to color, my mother did not see the signs of a constant, pain-in-the-ass, step outside of the lines, kid. I did my best to please my mom when I could, but a person designed to push boundaries must do so in life as well as on paper. So it should have come as no surprise when, at 15, I decided it was a good time to leave high school and strike out on my own. It was not the way it was suppose to be done, which made it the perfect path for me. Lots of us are boundary pushers, we walk among the line dwellers. We aren't satisfied with normal jobs and do few things the customary way. We disappoint those with hard-line expectations that embrace tradition.

Yet I was someone who loved my family and wanted to please those around me. It would have all worked out fine if they could have come to appreciate teal-colored faces that dripped green, ice-cube shaped tears that fell upon black, pointy, spear-shaped leaves on maroon roses in the snow. The girl with the bonnet was underneath my drawing and I didn't complain about that!

In life that is bigger than us, we have a right to more than the lines set up by convenience and culture. With minds that can interpret infinity inside of bodies painfully finite, it is a daunting task to remain inside the lines. Convicts have to stay inside the lines of bars and wear lines on their clothes. Children trapped at school have to "get in line" or "line up" or "form a single-file line" in order to move forward and do what is correct and if you blow it they send you to "the back of the line." Soldiers march in a line and they kill people and are sometimes killed and one needs a "clear line of sight" to hit one's target. Only in agriculture do plants grow in a line, Nature never does that and you don't want to be "lined out" when hoping to make the cut. Lines on my face aren't good and lines on the mirror means your wasting your money and life. Cops get mad when someone "crosses over the line" or make you "walk the line" if they think you have been drinking. When driving cars you can be in a head-on collision if you go over the center line and you may be "flat-lined" when you arrive at the hospital. I have found it healthiest to just avoid lines all together and when someone tries to get me in line, I smile and say "that's interesting".

And yet some days when my light-filled mind has expanded amidst the conversation of polite superficiality, the lines are so wonderful to fall back on so I can smile and you can think that I was listening when I wasn't. "That's interesting", smile. Or when I'm just too tired to do anything but walk the line, it is there like a good friend, the line of convention, of routine, of no real thought. In my exhaustion I can even be caught hugging that line, defending that line and upholding that boring, phallic line. But when I'm full with health, rest, and space, the line is nothing more than a chord I can play off of to illustrate how vast we are and how uncreative most of life becomes inside the line.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Birthright Knowing


The Yoga Loft has just released the first edition of its book Birthright Knowing. It is written from the heart of intuition and includes essays, children's stories, poems, and original artwork.

Birthright Knowing is available from Amazon or here.

You can see some of the artwork from the book, in color (the images are in black and white in the book) here.

We hope you will enjoy the book.

Peace in you, all around you, of you.