return to the source

There is no fanfare. No drama. No tearful goodbyes. No last kiss or lingering look to latch onto. There are no cliffhangers in this airport scene. I seem to have drained my well of sadness during the previous weeks of grieving. And the other? The one who I traveled across half the globe to be with (again!)? Long gone too, gone before I even embarked to meet him, gone before I really took notice.

Instead, I take a taxi on my own from Barcelona's Poble Sec, after sharing some potent healing days with my new women folk/guardian angels from Spain and South America, dancing with energy, hugging trees, eating with simplicity and love.

At the airport, I check in through to Osaka. I board another plane, this time taking me eastward, even further east then where I originally set off from less than two months ago.

East: the beginning place, where the sun rises. This is a start, not an end, I remind myself...

Today, after a seemingly endless journey, I walk the city streets of Osaka, in awe of the change of scenery before me, Japanese aesthetics, the sweetness in the people, a whole world translated in a another culture, another lens. I, too, feel different here.

I marvel at the mystery of living. I recall the image of the flower of life, but one that pulsates and transforms, a kaleidoscope of infinite patterns and possibility, whose mathematics is incalculable yet infallible. Every inhale, has an exhale. Every contraction has a corresponding expansion. And at every given moment, we are pulsating, this beautiful creative mess of a living thing, opening and closing, closing and opening, guided by some unseen force to go further beyond the beyond and at the same time delve deeper and deeper within. 

sisterhood of the traveling mala

I was surprised at the feel of them, how substantial each bead felt, how warm each round stone would get as I rolled it in between my thumb and side edge of my middle finger. How much energy this garland of prayers shared with me as it hung around my neck? I wondered what it would help me learn, what guidance it would bring in the months that the mala would be in my safe-keeping?

...

A year ago now, three girlfriends and I were enjoying coffee after self-practice. (Often, the starting point of many many great things). Having converged on the island of Boracay in the Philippines for a month-long yoga program, we were about to go our separate ways. After living on the island for years, Clara and I had already accepted that it was time to leave. Clara was moving to Bali. And I was already living out of a backpack, knowing that the rest of the year would be split between the Philippines, Europe and India. Choc, the youngest among us continuously had itchy feet, she could end up anywhere, at any time. Chit, a longtime island resident, would keep the home fire burning. Heading in various directions, we wondered how we would keep up with each other, how would we support each other over long distance, how would we keep the connection of friendship alive as we each sailed off into a vast sea of change?

And then I remembered the Ann Brashares book that became a popular movie called "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants." Four young women share a pair of special denim pants, which magically fit all of them perfectly despite having distinctly different body types, Through the summer, each girl has her "time" with the vintage jeans, during which much happens: love, heart-break, closings and openings. Yada, yaga...

We laughed at the possibility of having one object passed around between us as we went off to experience the world. It wouldn't be a pair of pants. Instead, it would be a mala, a string of 108 beads meant for prayer and meditation--being yoga practitioners, that made sense. Chit, who makes beautiful malas from semi-precious stones and crystals, would pick one from her collection. Our collective journey would start with her.

Since then, the deep, dark red garnet mala that Chit selected has been all over: with Chit in Boracay and Thailand, with Clara across South East Asia, India and Europe, with me as I traveled from Palawan in the Philippines to India and back to the Philippines. Each of us infusing our own energy, programming it with experience and wisdom. Instead of sending it by post (very unreliable in Asia) we decided it would exchange hands when two of us meet. And it's worked out so far. For at least two of us at a time, paths cross here and there. Two days ago, I left the string of hopes and prayers with Chit in Boracay. With Chit the beads will continue it's journey. Sometime soon, Choc will receive it. So on and so forth.

Over the last week, I've been thinking a lot about our traveling mala. And about the sisterhood. What it has meant to have this string of beads in my care and what it means to pass it onwards.

In the 6 months the mala has been in my keeping, it has seen me through some very sweet and intense times. It came to me after an incredible time of dismantling. I was on a cleanse in every sense of the word as I spent nearly three weeks at Maia Eco Village in Palawan where there was no electricity, no media, no cooked food even. I was grounding. Meditating to the rising sun. Gardening. Peeing into compost heaps. Inner dancing/exorcising old energies. Reaching into the dark corners and pulling out garbage. Getting my new and like-minded friends, also on similar healing journeys, to help me.

It was a time of allowing old ideas to drop away. And as I returned to the world, it saw me shine with new confidence and it also saw me stumble on old habits. It accompanied me on this journey of self-recovery. Over the 6 months, these friends of mine would also pop up, over email, skype or facebook, each of us somehow understanding that we had a supporting role to play in each others' lives. Over long-distance we gave each other cheers of support, virtual shoulders to cry on, and encouragement.

With our intentions, my three friends and I have put a little bit of magic into these already auspicious beads. Now this necklace of 108 drops of deep red binds us together as a tribe of women explorer-seekers, it reminds us of our commitment to our yoga practice and our commitment to serving each other. Our journeys, though separate and distinct, feel connected. This mala reminds me of the love between women, of a community that knows no boundaries. A sisterhood, yes. But a motherhood and a daughterhood too. A loving council of women. All of which reinforce the preciousness of our divinely feminine energy.

I know this sisterhood exists beyond our small circle, that it is not bound in one talisman or the other, but the mala has certainly helped to make it all the more tangible. Now, as I continue on my own journey without it, I feel the garland of prayers and good intentions, of support and of love so subtly in my own heart, in my veins: a deep fluid red, alive, a sweet and steady river nourishing my body, my mind and my spirit.


Chit is a master mala maker. And I'm not just saying that because she's my friend! If you would like to own a mala made by this very special person, you can contact her via facebook: https://www.facebook.com/chitsmala?ref=ts&fref=ts. She also makes malas made to order.

birth, death, and everything in between

It's been an interesting time here on the island. It's been a time of both renewal and of mourning. Of saying goodbye and of starting over.

Yesterday was my birthday. Today, I attended the second, more public memorial for a dear friend's husband, a reclusive but leading community member here in Boracay and an-all-around legend. And through out the month of May, I've been assisting in a month-long yoga program, which I see as a platform for transformation.

Birth. Death. And Life at it's fullest. Not just one or the other. All of it. All at once. The distinctions between each couldn't be more clear and at the same time couldn't be less so as this current of sameness weaves in and out of each state of being. The cycle of birth and death encompasses everything.

The memorial today, for example. On the altar: Boss Dieter (that's what I liked to call him because he was the Boss!), well, his ashes and his dashing and intelligent Rogue magazine photo. Many of us cry, directing our energy at his remains. Yet, at that moment, he couldn't be more alive, as his loving wife Mo-ching led us in song; as his household helper Dorothy recollected how this man, known for his fieriness, never once raised his voice at her; as his manager Abey recalled the quiet generosity of this man-behind-the scenes to his beloved employees who joined the gathering. Death, a reflection of life. And what a life Dieter Schrottmann lived!

As his friend Bhairavi stoked the ceremonial fire puja (offering)--a process which Dieter loved--we said our goodbyes in The Vessel, Dieter's last project, a stylish and uniquely beautiful events center which was a gift to the island and it's residents and also heralded a new phase of life for his baby Mandala Spa and Villas. Like a phoenix rising up from the ashes, this vessel in keeping with the simplicity and inherent beauty of the island is going to hold space and give birth to a myriad of new possibilities. Yes, there is death here. But new life also.

The spirit of this man does not die with his body. I think this is true for all of us. So with death, we celebrate life. And with life? If we live in full acceptance that our end will come, how can we not live fully? How can we not engage in the cycle of birth, death and everything in between with our whole hearts, whole mind, whole body?!

And, of course:

Thank you, Boss D. Thank you for this lesson. Thank you for creating a space for us bliss bunnies (a loving but slight-of-hand term Mr. Schrottmann used for his wife's yoga practicing friends). Yes, yes, I know, it's not just for us! But I thank you anyway. I see you! I feel your brilliance! I feel your love!

transit

Enjoying a few stolen moments here in the Hong Kong International Airport. In a way, these are precious hours. I am neither here nor there. Nothing to do,  no errands to run, no appointments to catch, no sights to see.

Exhaling: Behind me, India. Mysore. An entire life. My home for 3 months out of the year. For me, a place of deep process.

Inhaling: Before me, Manila. A lifetime of history. Family. And pending work responsibilities and personal meetings. Also, a place to recharge and feel my roots.

But for now, I am enjoying this gap between breaths.

I sit, looking out into the tarmac. All around, there's this soupy gray. It is raining. After so much of India's extreme heat, such strong and dry summer sunshine, to be met by so much water. I feel relief seeing the moisture of South East Asia. I feel the intangible dust of India being gently rinsed off. And the artifact that was unearthed this trip is carefully being restored by mother nature.

How will I be in a few hours, meeting a different kind of heat in Manila? How different will I feel from now? How different from yesterday? From when I first landed in Mysore at the end of 2012? I know I will undoubtedly feel the shifts. And going home, being with family, being in familiar surrounds, surrounded by old patterns of behavior always magnifies things.

But for now, I'm happy to have a moment, to feel transition, to observe the state of being in between.

my heart has wings

My heart has roots and my heart has wings

Ground me, take me to fertile soil 

and I will plant myself down

And, there, I will grow and fruit.

Cut me down, my wings will unfurl

and my heart will soar.

Both are the same to me.

-kc

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.