divine dancing

Painting by Pablo Amaringo

Early moonlight dances above us, an international crew of inner explorers, taking a slight detour from our regular yoga practice. Tonight, we surrender ourselves to another force, plant-life goddess spirit, divine vine, nurturing mother/destroyer.

Candles are lit. We are dressed in ritual white, participants in the sacred. We sit cross-legged, each on our own white virginal beds, from which she will lovingly kill or cradle us. In the ceremonial center are flowers, singing bowls, a rain stick and two re-used plastic water bottles: one brown, one a deep purple, tonight’s sacred tea.

Slowly, we each step into the sacred circle. And take a seat before the gate-keeper, who lovingly serves us in the tea ceremony. We share one cup and each take a drink.  

I whisper to the cup in my hands: I love you, thank you, I surrender to you…

The night evolves, and an event becomes an experience. Signs of the lady arriving, first, so subtly like a waft of perfume, the quality of light changes. The candle glow becomes softer, more fluid, more and more vibrant. Then: lightness in my own body. The music, inviting the good spirit, is amplified in my head, in my pores, stereo sound from deep within my inner ear, deep within my marrow.

When she really comes, I feel her heave. She will not let me go softly, there must be some intensity, some grand entrance into her realm. The invitation comes with initiation. There must be some form of sacrifice, some discomfort as exchange. And the bitterness of the plant comes up. And I instinctively hurl as I feel her power magnifying. We are equipped with buckets and angels, guardian helpers who clear the mess before it has time to register. It is all so very very soft. So very very loving.

So it begins: The journey. Though the medicine is different for everybody, we share something, the space, the music, the masters of ceremonies, the sacred circle, the thread of ritual, the mystery of this sacred plant and its incredible power coursing through our veins, revealing herself in a myriad of ways, each so unique for every participant.

The first drink and I am aware, so completely aware of every fleeting thought, every fleeting movement. I am aware of my own process of thinking. I see with some strange up-close distance my own thoughts and how I-think-too-much. And I can feel her try to loosen my mind’s iron grasp, but for my own learning she allows my mind’s eye to be present, lets it sit in on the proceedings, lets it watch and learn.

Then thoughts and the thoughts about thoughts dissolve and melt into the mental ether. Waves of thinking about thinking lap against my shore, I feel it so continuously. Also continuously, they fade, so quickly into the white-sea foam, before they are absorbed into the porous sand. My mind’s eye is like a drain. Like a dream in a dream, a thought in a thought, each impression is so ephemeral, there is no catching it. I delight in watching the movie of my mind, as if sitting from some distant viewpoint, the sweeping ebb and flow of the sea.  

Then she starts to dance. I craved for this, to connect with her through Inner Dance, a moving meditation and healing modality from home that I feel also comes from the source of all things. I trust that she knows best the language in which to communicate with me. And this first night, she comes to me in a form I understand, her serpentine wisdom first appearing in the soft waves of my fingers and fingertips, then my wrists and my arms. My joints are jelly.   

I am shy, at first, uncertain. I flit between being relaxed and being tense. Movement and rest. Lightness and heaviness. Am I the one moving or am I being moved? Have I really surrendered? Or am I willing some kind of movement?

My fingers seem to move involuntarily. Or perhaps with more willingness then they are accustomed to. However, each thought is like a lead weight and my arms sink back down into the mattress. But the music! the music is a snake charmer and my wriggling arms cannot resist the dance.

This back and forth makes me laugh. Literally, I cannot stop myself from laughing out loud at this play between the body and the mind, the music and the divine presence. It is so delightful to feel the fluidity of energy, because ultimately I cannot stop myself. My hands, my arms, my being wants to move. I am awed by the miracle of it. By the joy in movement, which is a testimony to life pulsating. I feel my mouth, my face, my body, my atoms smiling.

I am breathing like always and, yet, in a way I have never experienced before. I feel so fully the connection between body and breath, breath and the mind, the mind and the universe. Each breath is life, each is expansive, each is joyful. I feel the world around me shiver at each stroke of my lungs. As I inhale and exhale, I feel truly connected. Each burp, each yawn is an expression of this breath that fastens me to the landscape, the trees breathe, and their prana is visible, they are glowing palms cloaked in northern lights.

I want to see the moon. I want to see the moon. I want to stand beneath it as it waxes into near fullness. But it takes time to stand. The intention of bathing underneath her moonlight is lost in the act of being in the present. The present moment, itself, is relentlessly awesome. Breathing. Observing light. Shaking from somewhere deep within. Feeling my serpent hands and arms swimming the rivers of my light body. The now becomes incomprehensibly present, I realize how limited my awareness is of this.

Then I remember the moon. This time, I feel stable enough to stand and walk. I feel the attentiveness of the helpers, one of whom offers me his hand and leads me down the steps to the garden. I don’t need the help but I’m so happy to have it so beautifully offered. (Later, I feel so much gratitude upon realizing that another helper was there with me in the garden, watchful but unobtrusive). And then I am in the garden, the moon above me, so radiant, so motherly, so connected to the proceedings, another aspect of the divine feminine. I feel exhilarated by my own femininity, my own creative power. I recognize it.

But as beautiful as it is in the moonlit garden, I miss the circle, I miss its energy, I miss its music. And soon enough I am called back to it. I feel it instantly, the intensity of the journey concentrated within the confines of the circle. The tea is there. As is our conductor, who from his own mattress, sits so steadily, watchful, vibrating his own expanded energy, the soft invisible tendrils of which buoys our varied journeys. He is now a shaman. His face is different. And I wonder if he recognizes me.

The music changes and the rattling of ancient bones wakes something deep within. My right wrist emulates the old rhythm. My hand hugs an invisible shaker. Outside the circle, someone walks with a real one. And the energy shifts.

By the second drink there are no more thoughts about thoughts. No more thinking. I am simply being. My body is possessed. I have relinquished control.  It feels like I am meeting myself without any of my old cloaks, without any of my baggage. I am so light. My arms are like feathers. And the dance continues, weaving up and down my spine. My heart lifts from my body and the energy travels in soft undulating waves that rise and fall to the music, until I am writhing like a sea serpent.  I feel so totally alive. And I am so happy to feel it.

Once again, I crave for the moon. And off I go into the garden where I continue to dance. This time, I feel the connection to the circle, to the plant, I am overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity. I know this feeling. I know this process. Something deep within an ancient wisdom understands. I feel empowered. And hungry for more—this draws me back to the circle, where eventually a third dose awaits.

During the first two drinks, stillness is elusive and movement is constant. But I recognize that there’s something restless in it, even as wonderful as it is, there is some attachment, there is a part of me that wants rest –but greater is the desire for activity.  I cannot stop.

Until…a more quiet energy comes with the third and final drink, completing the bell curve of the journey, what comes up, must come down. The energy does not disappear; it draws into my body. I am able to lie down, close my eyes and just breath. At some point I feel grounded enough to join those gathered around the bonfire. But I realize I am not ready to be with people, not ready to talk or relate, the plant is still with me, and I feel we need quiet time together. I return to the circle, the music is gentle now, as we come to the edge of the evening’s main event.

Maybe I sleep. Or maybe I float into some half sleep. I don’t really remember. It just feels good to be in the safety of the circle, where the last bits of fairy dust still twinkles before us. The next time I open my eyes, I feel like am back in my body. I drain my bowl of vegetable soup at the fire. And then retire to bed, succumbing finally to the need for real repose.

In the morning, we share once again around the circle. And thus we learn more about each other’s journeys. How different they are. How complimentary. How easy some are and how difficult the journey is for others. No experience is the same. But all are filled with love. Even the hard ones come with some profound lesson. We all feel grateful for having gone through it.

It’s been 5 days now since the tea ceremony.  I’ve gone through all sorts of motions since then: I’ve hungered for more of that expansive light, I’ve mourned the return to the day-to-day, and I’ve also marveled at how miraculous the everyday really is. Some people say that the journey is a life changing experience. It’s hard for me to really say. I’ve been changing so much over the last couple of years that trying to identify change is like trying to take a clear still picture from a moving vehicle. Everything seems to feed this living whirlpool of change. But I can say for sure that the experience has shifted my perception. And that, I know, will have long lasting effects.

The journey gave me a tangible experience in which I recognized the trappings of my own hyperactive mind. It showed me the beauty, the wonder and the joy of surrendering to flow and how light I could feel, how integrated and alive I felt when I was being true to that nature, to that ever-dancing creative feminine energy that exists within me, that is a part of my essence.  I need to trust it. I need to trust myself. I was also reminded that being true to my femininity also hinges on my ability to balance activity with quiet, movement with stillness--yet another reminder to carry on in this quest for yoga, for union, for oneness.

It’s good medicine, one that teaches surrender, wholeness, and trust. It serves as a mirror, it shows unrelentingly all the false layers, as well as true beauty. In many ways, this journey is a part of an interconnected web of eye/I-opening experiences. Each are unique, but each echo similar lessons. And every new lesson just gets louder and more powerful, more insistent. This experience fits nicely into a chain of wondrous events that pushes me to grow, to evolve. Ultimately, they all work together, conspiring for transformation. Yoga, for me, continues to create that stable foundation in which I can then freely explore. And I am filled with wonder and gratitude to find tools and portals that compliment my yoga practice and support the great and universal Journey that we all are born to go on.

my funny valentine

I remember how V-day used to be a big deal: how as a junior high student in West Hollywood, I prepared cards for all my classmates in St. Ambrose parochial school (it was a small school); how friends exchanged store-bought candy shaped in pastel-colored hearts with little "love" messages; how in Student Council we used to turn the day into a fundraising campaign, selling flower-grams, which we then delivered during class time, just so everyone knew when someone received a special greeting. I shudder to think of it now, how as children we were already indoctrinated into the consumer-driven holiday, which celebrates, of all things, love--which is totally free.

As a young adult, I believed it was a time to be with someone special. And when I was in a relationship, I celebrated it by getting dressed up and going out on a date. And when I was not, I tried to downplay the whole thing. I'd meet up with fellow single girl-friends, watch silly movies at home-- where we were safe from all the Valentine hoo-hah--while eating copious amounts of self-bought chocolates.

This year feels strange because, contrary to a history of cupidity for/avoidance of the event, it means so little to me right now. I don't feel the need to observe it in any conventional way. I don't feel the need to ignore it, either. (I did go and purchase two pieces of vegan chocolate cake at a friend's bake sale today, which I shared with my beloved. A rare treat in Mysore, India! But other than that no real fanfare.)

Up until recently, Valentine's Day has been day for me to substantiate either the existence of love in my life or the absence of it. And what feels different for me today is that I don't need any one event to prove to myself that there is love in my life. Nor do I need one person's love demonstrated in flowers, chocolate or gifts to show me that I am loved.

Recently, I've been coming more and more to this idea of really embracing love in the every day.

Today has been no different. It was love to snooze until 2:45am and still get to the yoga mat by 4:30 (Ok, this is not exactly a personal preference but a beautiful part of the practice here in Mysore, and I love it when I'm here). It was love to prepare myself a healthy bowl of fruit salad with curd and oats this morning. It was love to return to the shala two hours later and assist my teacher and help fellow practitioners feel stable in their yoga postures. It was love to write a somewhat difficult email response to a family member who feels like I've not  been particularly there for her. It was love to have a simple tiffin meal with my special someone and then to sit in the same room while writing this blog article. Big or small, easy or difficult, it's all love.

And by recognizing that all that life brings is an expression of love I am reminded that everyday is a day of love--I guess that awareness is what makes this Valentine's day special.

brand new jeans

I know it might seem incredibly girly to write about a new pair of jeans. And I do feel a bit of a flashback from my Preview fashion magazine days, when I was a Lifestyle section editor. But there is something about donning a new pair of denims, some precious rite of passage, a feeling of newness and possibility--themes not so unusual at the end of the year or post Dec. 21, which, however, feel oh so tactile when you feel the hug of not yet worn textile.

Denims, in particular, due to their classic looks and fine weaves, can last a lifetime. Over the years, some may favor a particular look, a special phase of life, phases even. They join us in our adventures and misadventures. Sometimes they even become an integral part of our stories.

I am wearing a new pair now as I travel from Manila to Mysore, where I sense new adventures await. I bought these to replace the ones I purchased at the start of this summer, a pair of Levi's that I wore in heavy rotation as I visited Bankok, England and traveled across Europe. They went down the same road as me, walked through the same trials, absorbed my crazies and my sadnesses, fed off my triumphs and joys. At the end they ripped right at the crotch, at the root of the body. They didn't last long but they'd been through a lot.

And now, a new pair. Boy, do they feel great! They want wearing. I feel the newness of them. I feel them on my skin, in my bones, in my cells. I feel different wearing them. I feel how they are a much better fit, how the style suits me better. The last pair were great as well. They were perfect when we started with each other, but then we both changed. They got worn out, I got worn out.

With these new jeans I feel my own newness, my own potential. And maybe not just through the jeans but down to my own genes, where surely real change is more lasting.

my manila moment

A month goes by fast, especially so close to the end of the year. It’s been a mad Manila moment. Good mad. It's been quite a full experience. 

As a yoga teacher, there has been a lot of teaching—I’ve never taught so many classes before, maybe ever.  During peak season in Boracay, there would be 2 or 3 weeks so of intense work. But then it would always peter off to a manageable island pace. 

As a yoga student, there has been a lot of life lessons. And as usual, Manila has been an extraordinary classroom.

As difficult as it is, at times, to manage a hectic schedule, to negotiate traffic, to spend time with family and friends, to find time to rest let alone have a sustaining self-practice, I feel an incredible sense of joy being here.

I came home to share and this objective has been so greatly supported by the two studios (Urban Ashram and Yoga Manila) that have so warmly welcomed me for the short term, by some remarkably seasoned yoga practitioners who are willing to entrust me even in the most difficult positions, by those curious enough to try my themed yogasana classes—which didn’t fall into any of the usual categories at UA—and especially by those who came back for more.

It's no coincidence that the lessons I shared over the month’s teaching are the same lessons that I am also myself learning: establishing one's practice, grounding, centering, seeing one's inner light, accepting/embracing the self. 

I wish I could say that I was sharing from a vault of prevailing wisdom. But in truth it all comes from a crazy heap of life experiences, many mistakes, much fumbling. I feel encouraged to see how all the moments of falling, and with them all the moments of getting up, brushing myself off, and starting over seem to be really worthwhile.  Not just worth while--it almost feels like these are the moments that matter the most, that make the biggest difference.

I've also been greatly supported by family, my dad in particular. They have so beautifully adapted to me popping in and out of their lives and to my alien vegetarianism--vegetables are usually served with meat in the Philippines. They are so generous when I do come "home," they are a quiet force behind the work that I do when I'm here. It is such a boon to know that though yoga continues to be vague to them, they appreciate that it makes me a happy, more balanced person and family member. 

There's the Universe, of course, which continues to steer my "education," introducing me in the most opportune times to just the right person, bringing about just the right topic of conversation, bit of literature, chance meetings, or human drama. (Yes, dear, Universe, I am listening. I'm a bit hard of hearing sometimes, but I know you are there and that you are trying speak to me). 

Then there's me. That kind of sounds weird, I know. But I am supporting myself too. I haven't been so much alone with myself for a very long while. And this month has given me some precious personal time. In the car, during the wait in between classes, so many moments this month where it's just been... me. I have to admit being so much on my own does rattle me some and I have moaned about feeling lonely at least once. Still, I also feel it has been a good time. I've been talking to myself. Not in the strange skitzo way. My dialogues are mostly internal, though admittedly some are full on out loud conversations--usually in the car, there's a lot of time in the car in Manila. I've had some good heart to hearts with myself, some emotional purges, and quite a few pep talks. It's been really nice. I'm really enjoying my own company, my own head space.

In all, I'm loving this short Manila meeting. It's been an interesting dialogue with the city and with those who I have had the good fortune to cross paths with. There have been many points of connection and disconnection. There have been moments of flow. And some moments of obstruction. Despite the push and pull, I feel the positive effects of movement. I feel incredible gratitude for all that has brought me to this moment.

As I close this time, I feel satisfied that I have done what I came to do. I came to rest my roots in this crazy extreme land that I know more than any other--and that knows me, as well. I've gained support and strength from this hot mess of fertile land. I feel refreshed enough to pack my bags and continue forward on this inexhaustible journey.

manila mind and the city's yoga boom

Scenes from the road: EDSA. 

As I drive to my 7am yoga class at Yoga Manila in Chi Spa,
Shangri-la Edsa. 

You've heard of a "monkey mind," right? I always visualize monkeys swinging here and there, everywhere. Chaotic and mischievous. Almost cute, actually, though it connotes the unsettled mental state.

These days I've been battling what I call the "Manila mind"...

Imagine the intellect locked in the grips of bumper to bumper traffic, moving very VERY slowly. Also restless, but unlike monkeys, unable to move freely. Unable to run, or play, or jump from tree to tree. Unable to live in accordance to its true jungle nature. It is trapped in gridlock. From all sides, it is being subjected to a canopy of media, giant billboards, print and digital, each one puling at the eyes, drawing the attention from the course ahead.

It's insane: the slew of commercial models selling all sorts of wares. Clothes, underwear, mobile phones, fast food. Two lovingly look at each others' eyes over instant noodle soup in a styro cup. I nearly drive into a concrete crash barrier when I spot a Lactacyd White Intimate ad the size of a small building along C-5. The feminine wash boasts of being able to lighten ladies' privates with marine and plant-based extracts. WHAT? Or better yet: WHY??!!

"Target your market"? Um, hello! Are we
human beings or commercial prey? 

If not the ads, then there's traffic. If not the traffic, then there are the high-rise buildings popping up like mushrooms throughout the metro. Everywhere, I feel a sense of growing density. People living, crawling on top of each other. I know most people will call this progress, but it is tight out here!

Obviously, I've been spending too much time on the road again. But this is life in Manila. These are the obstacles to living here, the veils that drape over the essence of this truly special country.

Even off the road, we've gotten used to visual multi-tasking. You can be lunching with friends and each one will be plugged into various interfaces, 3G or wi-fi, and checked into different online platforms: text, email, facebook, twitter, foursquare. We're so used to meeting virtually, are we loosing touch of actually connecting?

It's hard to find space in the city, especially this one. There are few parks where one can just sit, look up, see sky. And what about the inner space, where we might have some stillness or roominess to stretch out from the compression that occurs in the city?

Maybe that's part of why yoga is becoming so big in Manila. The city is getting bigger, building upwards, sideways, all directions. People are looking for space to breathe. More and more people are taking up yoga and joining the various yoga studios (which are also, incidentally, sprouting up like mushrooms, albeit the happy magical kind). The appeal, I think, is that they are finding room to stretch out, staking out some sacred space within the area of a 70 x 180 cm rubber mat.

I know for myself, it's challenging to not get swept up in this insane energy. It wears me out. I've only been in Manila 3 weeks, but I feel so tired already. Throughout the day I feel inspired, so many thing I want to write down. At the end of the day, however, I've got little to no creative juice left.

Thus, I continue to inhale and exhale deeply. I try to observe without absorbing. I practice. I practice on the mat. I practice off the mat. I do my best anyway. I continue to feel blessed by the gifts of yoga, which creates space where there appears to be none, which gives strength when I think there is none left, which clears the Manila mind of some excess traffic.

yoga off the mat: license renewal, pinoy style

I started this evening's class by asking the students if anyone had already practiced yoga today? It was a 7:30pm class at Urban Ashram, Fort High Street in Manila. They looked at me peculiarly as they all nodded in the negative.

"Are you sure? No Yoga?" Was this some strange trick question from the new yoga teacher, they might have wondered.

I explained briefly three classical definitions of yoga.

According to Patanjali: "Yoga is the cessation of the whirlings of the mind."

And Krishna, in the Bhagavad Gita said that yoga is "steady ease" and "skillfulness in action."

I asked them to think whether they had practiced any yoga while I shared with them the general flow of my day: I taught morning class, then self-practiced, in the early afternoon went to renew my drivers license, which expired last June, which brought me to two centers, the final one so full that it took just over 5 hours of cueing, waiting for medical tests, picture taking, more cueing before I went to teach my final class in the evening, legally driving to my next location.

I had started the day with yogasana, I was ending the day with yogasana, but the half day sitting, waiting in the backseat of a tediously long bureaucratic (Filipino bureaucracy) process was--I think--me really practicing yoga. This may seem strange.

I mean, I was just sitting there, seemingly so inactive. How could that be yoga?

It didn’t have to be. I could have whiled away the hours staring blankly at the backs of people’s heads. I could have been picked up by the wave of growing dissatisfaction, feeling irritated and restless. I could have checked my watch at each opportunity, slowing time with my unmet expectations of spending most of the afternoon writing in front of the computer and then going to a kirtan at the Art of Living center in Manila before teaching that evening. It could have been yet another event that was happening to me.

Instead, I reminded myself: I choose to be here. I committed to this travesty of civil service for the afternoon because I had a purpose. I was doing what needed doing.

By deciding that, I didn’t spend my time seething at the poor LTO workers drowning in paperwork, surrounded by people whose minds bent towards rioting against them. I accepted, at least for the afternoon, the poor conditions, and just got on with it. I read. And made notes on my book. I did my best to be constructive.

I don’t claim to be the only one practicing yoga that afternoon. There were others who smiled through the process, who I felt calmness from when I was beside them. But there were those who were fidgeting, pacing the space, or even mumbling angrily. They, sadly, were not practicing yoga.

I’m not saying it’s right to wait 5-6 hours, this is definitely an issue to be addressed in terms of operating with more efficiency. I am not condoning the way our government offices are so inefficiently run. But I think we should adopt a good attitude about things, one that’s constructive.

It hit me how difficult the situation was for everybody that day when I asked the woman taking my picture at about the 4^th hour, innocently--I swear!, “What time do you think the license will be ready? I ask because I still have work.”

She was sharp with me, “Wait till we call you,” she said in Filipino. I asked again politely, sure that there must be an estimate. But she replied even more irately, “We will call you.”

This is when I felt that I was practicing yoga the most. It was a split second sort of processing: I was struck at how unfair she was being. I had a simple question, one I’m sure she could have answered. And I felt the tide of dissent well up within me. But then I could see that she’d been asked this very question the entire day, maybe in some not so nice ways. And along the way, she allowed herself to be victimized by the faulty system and the stressful situation, and had lost a touch of her own humanity along the way.  By understanding her difficulties, I had created distance from my own potential to be upset by the situation. I would not be another victim.

I stepped away then and asked someone who looked less stressed. At first, she reacted in a similar way. But when I repeated my question, again in a calm and friendly tone, I think she realized I was not making a ridiculous request and that there was no harm in actually sharing that information. It would be done in half an hour.

Why do we make life so hard for ourselves and for each other? Why do we create such enmity? We are all on the same boat, the same planet; we share the same struggles.

What if we practiced yoga all the time, even in the smallest, pedestrian moments such as these? How much more skillful would we be? How much more even-minded? How much more understanding would we have for each other?

Ok, practicing yoga in this way may not solve the world’s many issues, let alone the way the LTO is run, but it would create a shift in how we acted, in our attitudes. I can’t help but think how it’s the kind of shift that will allow us to be in the right state of mind to really work on things with love and with compassion.

coming home

The Philippines. Manila. Home.

Coming home is like walking through the door of some magical, enigmatic poem. The colors, the people, the temperature are different. Everything, all sensory experiences, dialed up a notch.

It feels surreal. Each time, coming home feels more and more so. Perhaps because home remains somehow constant, while each journey continues to chip away at my human landscape. Each return makes each personal revolution more apparent; the experiment in contrast to the control. Manila, my marker.

I question this place. Or perhaps it's the other way around. Already home is challenging my sensibilities: my tastes, my diet, my sense of order, my renewed love for seasons and cooler climes. It must be doing its job as motherland: to test, to inspire, two sides of the same country coin.

It's only been 3 days but I have already experienced all sorts of things since returning. I have felt a deep sense of belonging. I've also felt strangeness and difference. I have felt calm and also short-tempered frustration. How is it that I can be perfectly natural one moment and perfectly out of place the next? Everything fits, but ever so imperfectly, clothes just slightly off, a wee bit loose here, sleeves ever so slightly short, a centimeter tight in some places.

Despite all of home's strangeness, all of my fish-out-of-water sensations, what I cannot deny is that there is a certain power to being here, to coming home. I have felt this before. That as it beams its invisible rays of dissonance, it also embraces me. It welcomes its wandering, prodigal daughter. It recharges my restless spirit, which like a spec of dirt that rests on the side of the mountain becomes a part of the mountain itself and is absorbed into Mother Earth.