Hello, I'm back

So, it's been five years since my last post. Whaaaaahhhhtttt? FIVE YEARS! I'm sitting here, feeling the awkwardness of too long a separation between me and this particular white space. And, also, with you, whoever you are, still reading this blog. The cursor is blinking at me, daring me to say something, anything, to break the silence...

Where do I begin? How do I start to fill in the spaces? Who am I now after all these years? And why does it feel like coming back here is a matter of life and death? 

This blog was my companion whilst I contemplated about Love, searched for Love and tasted big Universal Love across multiple continents. And yet, when I seemed to have found "It," I stopped writing... 

At the time of my last blog posts, I had met someone. I got engaged and then married. I got pregnant and miscarried, I got pregnant again and now I have a beautiful two-year old. I still live in Egypt. I continue to teach a yoga program here. I embraced everything that I had wanted deeply but was afraid to commit to. I made a life here, I dove into the details. I became absorbed in the day-to-day--and days are particularly long with a morning yoga program and a self practice and a toddler. But I didn't think so much of the other parts of my life would fade into the gray.

I wish I had taken the time to write, especially about some of these remarkable landmarks in my life as they happened. I am content to have simply lived them, exhausted enough by the fullness of putting down roots and having a family. I have to admit, however, something was lost without this mode of reflection, particularly here where I shared with as much honestly and vulnerability as I could muster. And I wonder whether I could have processed all the blessings and challenges better had I somehow scraped the energy and time to write about them. 

Anyhow, I'm back. Or doing my best to come back to this place of self-reflection and sharing, of walking a path of love--sometimes its a bed of sweet smelling rose petals, sometimes its just pure thorniness--and all that entails. And I tell myself that its ok, if no one reads this. It is enough to get the words out. But if you're here, if you're with me, I so appreciate it, it will really be helpful because its a path better shared than trod alone. 

one love, one god

Meditating at the minaret at Ibn Tulin Mosque in Cairo, Egypt.

In Japan, I quietly walked up and down a Shinto mountain God barefoot, in thoughtful meditation. In Egypt, I chanted with ecstasy and enthusiasm to Allah in a Sufi zikr. Last night I went to simbang gabi ("evening mass", which is Christmas tradition among the Catholics here in the Philippines).

As I sang wholeheartedly the familiar “Kordero ng Diyos”, “Lamb of God”, I wondered whether my fellow churchgoers would consider me an infidel for being so very liberal in the ways I choose to worship the Divine. I know that I don’t see myself as such. Rather, I feel that along with the world opening up the way it has over the years--with the yoga practice and the travel that has magically come with it--so has my view of that which is absolute and complete.

La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona.

I find that wherever I go, true devotees have the same kind of heart no matter what form, formlessness, or format they resonate with. And the rest, well, we have the same struggles--the same struggles of lack, of faith, of littleness and of separation. That somehow each version of God is a reflection of the culture that seeks to understand it. And while there is something to be said about how we create the God or Gods that we value, I continue to believe that the Divine is Everywhere, Everything, call It what you will, worship wherever it works for you. There is no limiting the unlimited, there is no naming that which goes beyond words.

Shinto moss shrine in Kyoto, Japan. 

In the New Year, I will be landing in India and there my acts of devotion will transform into sun salutations, pujas, and mantras. I will be bowing to a dynamic set of representations of the Divine, blue-faced Gods, many-armed Goddesses, magical beasts. Moreover, I would like to be more liberal, more open, I would like to make a practice of seeing the Divine in all people, in all things. I’d like to love the people I find most difficult. I’d like to look upon strangers as brothers and sisters. I’d like to treat the the land, the world we live in, the planet at large as sacred—because it really is. 

One love, one God.

owning it

Right now I am sitting in a beautiful borrowed apartment in Cairo. Over the last few years, I have often sat in the eclectic homes of other people, surrounded by other people's things, other people's lives, simply enjoying it, little comparing my own life to theirs--which I realize is a big shift.

I am content. And happy--happy in a way I don't think I have ever felt. 

Truth is I have little property, mostly clothes and books and personal effects of sentimental value, some I carry with me, most are sitting in my family home in Manila, where I've spent the least amount of time in the last two years. I have a trunk in India, a collection of textiles and modest "India clothes" and a small but strange collection that includes a coffee maker, a salad spinner, a few bits and bobs that allow India to be home when I unpack them.

I don't have a plot of land or a space or a room all my own but wherever I find myself these days, I feel at home because my heart is simply there. I sleep well, and I can sleep practically anywhere, sharing a bed, couch surfing, laying a yoga mat on a floor--this, more than contorting myself into a pretzel-like position makes me feel truly flexible.

I don't have a car or a bicycle, but I have my own two feet and the courage to purchase one way online plane tickets which piece together these dots accross the world map, which is really my path, my life. 

I do feel, more than ever, a strong sense of ownership. I own my life. I own my own heart and soul and that has given me plenty of room to grow, to be at home and at peace almost anywhere this crazy life has taken me. 

I own my principles, my good humor, my own yoga practice. I own my time, the hours I spend on the mat, how much I teach, how much I play; that the idea of fun and joy and responsibility exist simultaneously in so many actions. I own my struggles and my failures, as well as the great victories that come when I surpass such difficulties. I find a deep satisfaction in the little things: taking the hours before practice to drink a coffee or a tea as I write, self-practicing, attending talks, writing a blog post, spending time with friends and family, most of all, spending time with myself, singing to myself, cooking and feeding myself or walking myself down the road to do shopping or taking myself with my own two feet to work, taking that brief moment as I rest after an intense practice to simply say to myself, "hey, you, I'm still here, you are not alone, I love you deeply."

I own my choices. I have decreased the tendency to blame others or the universe for any misfortune, doing my best to take responsibility for my own actions and my own reactions. I choose where to go, where to work, what to eat (sometimes it's good, sometimes it's not so good, sometimes it's chocolate), I choose how to pray. I choose how to live. I choose to be light and to be free and to be happy. 

I have no debts. But I owe a lot--to the strangers, friends and family who continue who to open their hearts and their homes to me; to the teachers and studio owners who entrust me with their spaces, students and visions; to the students who entrust me with their bodies, their emotional well being and their peace of mind, even if it's just for an hour and a half; to the meditation practice that has significantly quieted down my speed-driven brain; to the Ashtanga yoga practice that has taught me how to be in my body, how to balance strength and flexibility, how to be vulnerable and how to "be." I owe a lot to all those who love me unconditionally, who support me, mostly from untold distances. I owe a lot to my teachers and guides and guardian angels, all of whom come just at the right moment. I owe a lot to the great challenges and great challengers who have been among my greatest teachers. I owe a lot to God, which I also call the Universe, which I also call Love, which one day I would like to call Everyone, but, honestly, I think that will take a lot more yoga. And all of this owing actually creates this unbelievable surpluss, abundance. Every moment filled with potential, with opportunity, with openings. 

I am starting to wake up to a world where anything can happen, where there are infinite possibilities. That I can live anywhere, do anything. And I'm surprised because I'm not scared, surprised because for so long living, truly living on the limb actually frightened me to the point of paralysis. I feel excited--perhaps with a healthy amount of anxiety still, but mostly, I feel excited because I am realizing that I am wealthy beyond my imagination. 

the bamboo path

Before I left Japan, I wanted to return to Arashiyama in Kyoto. The bamboo forest there seemed to call to me. Even though I have been blessed to see it a number of times now, and even though there are plenty of sights and treasures that I have not yet tasted in Kyoto and in Kansai, I felt it was somehow important for me to make the trip.  And so on my last full day in Kyoto, I squeezed in a late afternoon visit, just as the famous path cleared out of tourists.

There, I walked alone, in the quiet, scant light bending around the clusters of bamboo, thinking about life’s journey, and my very own especially.

Preparing to set off again, to take to the road, which has been my home—a very good one—these recent years, I felt much excitement, freedom and joy but also a degree of sadness. Returning to Japan had been an unexpected heart opening; in many ways it was a return to love. It was an unfastening of windows and doors, an airing out of stuffy old rooms, and a letting in of the summer, sunshine, warm breezes. It can be hard to see such a season pass and not feel like it is an end of something.

I felt deeply comforted walking between the two walls of bamboo. I felt how very strong they were, how well rooted, and also flexible. This path reminded me that we are all on this life’s journey, all seeking sunshine, all wanting to grow, to be strong, to be flexible, to find balance.

The bamboo does not mourn the end of summer, it simply adapts and continues to live, to grow, to, at times, struggle, other times, flourish. The seasons, too, will also not stop one from walking the path, each step an opportunity to learn, to grow, to expand. And while the distance between Japan and myself increases, I feel that I am still walking the bamboo path.

Even now, while on a plane, somewhere between Shanghai and New York City. The way could not be less clear for me; all I know is that I am once again on the move—drawing lines in air, a trail of smoke between point A and point B. Still, I know with a great certainly in my cells and in my bones, that the path is still right here, slowly, gracefully unwinding, for me and my fellow bamboo.

a year of love

It has been a while--again. Unlike other lapses in writing, there hasn't been a lack of things to write, nor has there been a lack of inspiration, but rather a simple pull towards the moment. The processing of things, which often manifests in me bouncing back ideas to myself, many times through these blog entries, were seamlessly facilitated by months with my friend and mirror, Amy. Now, however, as I return to the "road" that is my life, to this my singular journey, I cannot help but feel that it is time to also return to the word. Pages need filling. Accounts need to be made. A story needs telling...



Manila, Philippines.

The officer at immigration asks, when did I last leave the Philippines? I realize it only as I answer, June 10, today, a year ago.

I did not mean to be away so long. A year was not a part of my plan, neither was teaching in Japan or Barcelona, nor was the second prolonged trip to Cairo. What I did have was a return ticket from London to Manila for early December 2013, an apartment reserved in Mysore, India for the end of that year till March and the delusion that the journey I was on was a trip made for two.

I am learning to not be so attached to plans, learning to accept that plans change, often for the better if one can manage to cease from resisting it.

Returning to the Philippines, to my place of origin, to where this particular journey started, "brings it all home"... I feel a little like a top, that's been spinning, spinning, spinning, moving, moving, moving. Coming home is like the top coming to a sudden and definite stop. It's startling this strange stillness; it's helping me recognize how much I've been moving, how much movement has been in my life. I am startled and amazed and in awe of it.

How much can happen in a year! How this time last year, life was actually kind of bleak, the ground--all that I thought I knew about my so-called-great-love--being pulled out from underneath me. And how for weeks I lived in a grey despairing cloud, crying on my yoga mat, crying in kirtan, crying in the kitchen, crying to Monte Perdido, the "Lost Mountain" in the Spanish Pyranees. It was a breakdown of epic proportions and I was stewing in it, unable to leave, unwilling to change...at least, that's what it felt like at the time.

The crazy thing now is that while I recall--embarrassingly, all too well--what a heaving mess I was, I don't actually remember exactly what the sadness felt like, not the airless depths of it, though I recall how deeply it effected me. It is already a memory about someone I knew, who kind of resembled me, but wasn't really me or isn't really me now.

The heart is so resilient and wise and efficient; lack of love is actually just space in which true love can enter. One wee failed relationship gave birth to a year of falling in love with places, whole countries, and entire groups of people, with friends and with students, with the yoga practice, with freedom and wanderlust, and, most importantly, with myself.

It has been a year of love. The messiness, the crying, the frustration, the sadness, the excavation and exorcisms of old and new ghosts. The travel, the joy, the excitement and thrill of discovery and recognition, the adventure, the dancing, getting drunk of life, eating, the meeting of soul mates, the simplest acts of living, medicine. All love.

Things may not have gone according to plan, yet I could not have planned it better. I set off a year ago for love. I believed that I was in love then--and perhaps I was. All I know now is that I have returned home more In LOVE than ever before. There is no object to this love, it has no direction. It does not exist as a relationship status, it does not seek definition. It is a state of being, simple and uncomplicated.

9 Months

Last look at London. Sunset from Gatwick airport yesterday.

Nine months. The length of time it takes to create a life, to animate and birth a whole new being into the world.

It’s been nine months since I began this particular and peculiarly long journey, since I packed up my bags in Manila, and boarded a plane to London, England. I had a return ticket to Asia in December, but even then I had a feeling that this trip would go different directions, that it would have its own sense of time and timing, that it would grow beyond my imaginings.

For me, it has been nine months of traveling and teaching, of self-practice, of healing and self-process. Nine months of living spread out in different parts of the world, two to three months at a time. Nine months of yoga practice like no other. Nine months of getting to know a new place, a new culture, falling in love with a new group of friends, falling in love all over again with old friends too, and through these new experiences getting to know myself a good deal better.

All this, largely unplanned. I did have one. But when do thing ever go according to plan?

What was supposed to be a great coming together turned out to be quite a massive falling apart; a great adventure of two turned into a journey of one --and what a great journey it has been for me, in truth, the greatest of my life.

I was also supposed to study with my teacher in India. India didn’t happen this season, but instead I have been attending a living classroom spread across two continents and one island nation, my teacher’s teachings coming to life in the varied environments and landscapes, different cultures and numerous yoga communities and spaces where I have taught or visited.

It has not been entirely easy. Closing a relationship whilst teaching in an isolated village with my ex-partner in close proximity was a little like emotional carnage. Tearing myself away from my own co-dependencies was worse. And letting go of my expectations as I moved further and further away was like pulling teeth.

But mostly it’s been beautiful and easy, with some incredible opportunities: the call to work in Osaka, Cairo and Barcelona; the friends who appeared quite like magic, just at the right moment, to share my struggles, to facilitate healing, and to celebrate the victories; the lessons from teaching; the blessings of students.

This week, I returned to England, where this trip began nine expansive months ago, not as a different person but more myself than perhaps that I’ve ever been. More aware of my fears but also a great deal braver about confronting them; still trying to figure out how to take care of myself (on the road and in life) but also more attuned to the needs of my body, my mind and heart; more self-confident while being more informed of the issues that continue to need attention and work.

It’s interesting to observe the ninth month now, at the starting point, a good place to end things and finalize resolutions, and a good place to launch into a new adventure. The cycle of endings and new beginnings continues; the journey goes on and on…

But for now I feel the feeling of the new. I look at my life now like a mother looking at her newborn child. I am in awe of it, totally in love and totally freaked out. Kind of amazed that this crazy, wee but very alive thing has come from me, from my experience, work, dreams, and efforts. I want to protect it, to safeguard it from danger, from negativity, but I also know that that would be counter-productive. Because, really, I want to continue to grow, and that means a certain amount of vulnerability and a willingness to bravely meet the ever-changing, ever-surprising crazy world. 

cairo calling, the decision

Vigilant armored tank "protecting" the entrance of Maadi Degla,
which was my home for two months. When I first noticed them,
my friend commented that I should feel safe...hmmm...

August-September, 2013. A month before there was a second revolution in Egypt.

It’s all over CNN, BBC, international newspapers. Despite my efforts at being disconnected from most media—I am guilty of falling into the category of person who generally opt out from being negatively influenced by the news by ignoring it altogether—I cannot ignore the current events. My family and friends won’t let me alone. My students in Osaka are worried too. “Are you still going to Egypt?” they all ask repeatedly. And I don’t have the answer.

At this point, I cannot reach my friend Iman Elsherbiny, who invited me to teach her classes from end of October to December while she herself studies with our teacher Sharath Jois in Mysore, India. I worry about her—that is, until I see her beautiful sun-drenched photos in Mar Salam on Instagram.

Still, my mother is unrelenting in her nagging. My friend James, who was supposed to teach with me the first two weeks in Egypt, bows out gracefully. One student in Japan is quick to point out news items, he actually shows me the newspaper. When Iman and I finally talk, I cannot help but ask her, considering the political instability, should we continue with plans or cancel my trip?

I will always remember what Iman, known as Amy to her friends in Egypt, said to me over that Skype conversation in September. She had just arrived in Cairo after teaching in the South for some of the summer. “Babe, I think everything is going to be ok. But I can’t guarantee that things won’t happen. What you can be sure of is this: that, if you come, you will have friends and family here who will take care of you.” (I may be paraphrasing a little here…)

Something about what Amy said, how she said it really helped me settle into the idea of going. It felt right to go to Egypt, to teach in Cairo. The world, I knew, particularly in that region, would be whirling, that was a given. But I also felt that there was this great potential for connection.

What Amy said that day could not have been more spot on. When I left Egypt three days ago, saying goodbye to students and to the people I’d gotten to know (some over a couple of months, some over a couple of days even) was indeed like saying goodbye to dear family and friends.

What I recognize now is this: I’d been falling in love—only with dozens of people at the same time! Through them, through the heart connections we’d made, through the beautiful interactions, the solid sharings, my relationship with Egypt itself has deepened into a great and complicated love. 

And like many great love stories, Egypt doesn’t feel like it has a beginning for me, and it doesn’t feel like it has an end. I can only say that my love for it will always be there, that there will always be some part of me that will long for it, that will be pulled by its energy, that will crave for its musicality, for its warmth, and for its spontaneity.   

There's an Egyptian proverb that says once you drink from the Nile you are destined to return to Cairo. I have a feeling that this is true, that while I have drunk my fill, my thirst for it will not abate. 

***

I have so wanted to write about my time in Cairo and more recently in Aswan and in Sinai.

Some of my observations have come through the yoga practice. This I’ve shared on my work site kazcastilloyoga.com. But the personal stuff, I haven’t really touched on…

It’s been an intense two and a half months. I can only say that living it has been more important than writing it, though am feeling the need now to put it down, to process in this crazy public way that I do. I hope there will be time now to slowly, slowly write, to shine a lovely light on the place and its people, and to personally understand the gift, the experience it has given me. 

So, even though I am in now in Barcelona (I arrived here three days ago and will start teaching tomorrow), more on Cairo to come...

one love, ost

Once upon a time, I was in a band. A spoken word band called Verb. The name of this blog came from my poem, One Love--my own personal mantra--which we jammed out here. Its not perfect. But I'm ok with that now. One of my few regrets in life is that we never followed through with our project band.

Thank you, Ryan Ventura, for sharing this. Ryan, Dan Gil, and J-hoon Balbuena, you were great brothers in music and good friends in life.

On Love, One Love

I'm a poet. I write poetry. I have to say that twice so that I can one day start to believe it myself. And even then...

Part of this remarkable journey (because at the end of the day, we are all on one, whether we like it or not) is embracing that side of me. The one that loves to write--poetry at that and I hope somewhat improved from my woebegone high school days! In a way, I feel I've sort of repressed it, I've been afraid to share, for fear of criticism, fear of failure, fear of fear.

And fear, well, it's isolating. It keeps us from knowing ourselves and it keeps us from connecting with each other. It's the opposite of love, the topic to which this entire blog is dedicated.

So, in the spirit of love, of connection, of fearlessness, I will start with a poem:

The Miracle

1.
Aspens quake and we pause,
fingers twined, ears attentive.
We listen to the forest chime,
leaves aquiver in soft symphony.
We think they honor us
as they clap leaf to leaf and
we take in the trail, the trees, the
dome of blue swathed in cotton,
walls of endless mountain ranges,
nearby gurgling water, all of which
we inevitably associate with
the miracle of us. We are
encouraged as applause
travels in waves across
a frothing sea of green.
The tree line glitters
and we kiss, once again,
slowing our progress
down the mountain.


2.
Later, we are informed
that their synchronicity is not
our good luck or great timing,
neither can it be attributed
to the magic of our love—
as much as we might contest this.
Rather, their song is older than
time, instruments so finely
tuned, so precisely selected;
they are designed for life,
efficient bathing in sunlight,
dancing foliage throwing
off mite-sized predators,
seeds carried by wind,
aspens growing a landscape.

3.
We will not see this, but
when time comes and the last
of our summer sets on these hills,
the trees will change together.
Miles will turn golden, as if
their gentle cooing triggers
the very moment in which they
harmonize their autumn robes,
in that inconceivable act of
solidarity, love among trees,
miracle of miracles.

4.
The real secret is this:
Aspens stand autonomously, but
each is an echo of an original tree.
The whir of woods starts deep below,
where the mightiest of roots do grow,
and from each root hundreds and
thousands of saplings spring
with leaves already trained to sing.
Like us, a colony of trees is one force,
drawing strength from one true source,
this is where the miracle starts,
it is a song sung straight from the heart.

--Karen Castillo