singing bowls

tonight’s gift, deep in raja yoga, was another ajna-centered sequence. moving at such a glacial pace can be so lovely, and I hadn’t realized how much I missed that meditation in movement, that mindful loving of the physical body that can sometimes lose itself in the effort of a more strenuous practice. in an asana I’d never taken before (apparently from a tibetan lineage) I felt a straight line of energy from my toes to knee to elbow to peace fingers to third eye— the energy was so powerful that I was able to penetrate & touch my third eye. like, fingers actually tangibly buried in the pineal gland. all soft black velvet, all violet halos pulsing in infinitely brighter & greater circles, meanwhile this sweet heart pounding against the ground in ancient cadence—

we took makarasana instead of savasana, which I’ve experienced a lot in this particular path to yoga. in this asana the weight of your skull melts through your folded palms into the tender earth. I came into virasana to finish, my spine one radiant beam of intelligence and light. all awareness on the vibrancy of the sushumna, no longer focusing on each beautiful breath in & out, surrendered wholly to the loving embrace of all that is, coming home, saying yes: this is healing, this is how we heal ourselves. we have only to slow down.

The spirit
  likes to dress up like this:
    ten fingers, 
      ten toes,

shoulders, and all the rest
  at night
    in the black branches,
      in the morning

in the blue branches
  of the world.
    It could float, of course,
      but would rather

plumb rough matter.
  Airy and shapeless thing,
    it needs 
      the metaphor of the body,

lime and appetite,
  the oceanic fluids;
    it needs the body's world,
      instinct

and imagination
  and the dark hug of time,
    sweetness
      and tangibility,

to be understood,
  to be more than pure light
    that burns
      where no one is --

so it enters us --
  in the morning
    shines from brute comfort
      like a stitch of lightning;

and at night
  lights up the deep and wondrous
    drownings of the body
      like a star.

have I mentioned maral creates the most wonderful devotional practice in this neck of the multiverse? can’t speak to any others, being tied physically to this one, but what a gift it is to practice with her, flanked by my best priya friend and my best yogini friend, in a physical body that is blessed with health and strength and flexibility enough to endure the sweet torture (as t called it!) of her infamously long holds of postures others only flow through— like a baddha parighasana that went on for miles, that became at once a prostration to the heavenly ground below us and a prayer to the divinity above & inside— or like an eka pada rajakapotasana that, with that wide stance of front calf that stretched minutes into ancient hours, split our hips apart to receive the impossible humility, stillness, and ecstasy of yoga—

of course I have. and I know I’ve written at length about her kirtan, about her voice & harmonium that bring all hearts together in one divine voice of worship, of celebration as we chant and rejoice in the names of god like so many mala seeds—

don’t think I’ve spoken, though, about the strength of her hugs & the sweetness of her kisses on your cheek, which have become nearly as precious to me as her teaching. and how, when she asks me how I’m doing or how my life is, the only way I can think to answer is with a silly smile & a word like last night’s exciting that says nothing of the joy in my heart. not one iota.

yes, words don’t say much. I wish I could share the grace of this with all of you. I suspect you’ve found it in moments, as well— in other people or in the various and sundry other blessings of this earth & beyond.

(and confidential to you, my love: yes, I used that word again. still counting them. still writing them down, because, as small & meager as the offerings of my words are, each  and every blessing, which is alive in each and every particular of this expansive and infinite everything, alone deserves all our awareness and all our praise, praise, praise)

A letter is holy. A story
is holy hands reaching out into the world.
Birds come home
      across distance I can't conceive

and live in their bodies.
Ash in the air. Every place I've been
is on fire with words.

  One day
I throw away all my love letters
without noticing. Mountains

in the heart.
       What belongs
to me? I leave the world
all the time. These arms, these

fingers, this tongue, these feet,
and their bent wings. I know
it will be dirt, the prayers

now in marrow will retake
earth. I will live inside whatever flies.
Burning, the brink of all things.