30 day commitment

I am beginning a 30 day yoga commitment as I settle into my new home in Montreal. Fall is decidedly in the air which means letting go, accepting change of pace as days grow shorter, and harvesting for the winter ahead. This is a commitment to dedicating my days to the divine, and surrendering to what is as the seasons change in my heart & home.

October 30 day commitment:

  • Reflection on dreams
  • Divine Light Invocation in the morning
  • 4 sides of sun salutations in the morning
  • Karma yoga 1-2 hours minimum
  • Reflection on Swami Sivananda's Daily Readings
  • 108 Divine Mother prayers/mantras
  • Thich Nhat Hanh visualization exercise before bed
  • Reflection on days actions before bed
  • Media black out before bed & before yoga practice
  • Practice single pointed focus, no blame, compassionate listening, and mindful breathing in daily actions.

Hari Om Tat Sat

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Summer plans

My time is very precious to me, and I have less of it then I would like. As always there are more invitations, projects, and books to read then I could ever fit in the hours of a day, but now in particular I’m guarding it more carefully. I’m tired and going quietly mad. I crave time to create. I crave privacy. A private world away from city lights. It’s summertime and the green things are luscious & ripe bidding me hide myself in their dark foliage. Undressed in mysteries. I’m looking to spend less energy on spending my time. A conservation effort to save the wild things. My pen points exactly to what it wants. Exacting ink from the page as blood from my arm. Slick with sweat, brow crossed, double back, pen wet with lips parched of familiar voices. The city is buzzing and I am silent waiting for my time to strike. Clouds are forming around this creative peak. Obscured temporarily, you will hear my thunder approaching.

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Year of yin: living memory

May, I want to hold you in my arms gently like a new born baby. So red and soft like a mouth. So tender and delicate like a wild rose.

My arms can not contain all of your quiet wisdom like the dead of night. So dark and soothing like a whisper. So thick and solemn like a smudge.

My feet cross gently through your pastures in the grey morning like lovers secret prayer cheek to cheek. So sweetly tempting like fresh bread. So warm and nimble like a candle. 

May, you have unburdened me in your shy wisdom, and carefully heaped on new cares for the watching. My life is full of your loving missives, and yet I fear all that you would offer me.

My eyes are weary from straining to see your shapeless form like moonlight on the mist. So vivid and ephemeral like a dream. So white and cold like fresh snow.

My pen falters to capture your silent musings like the roots that weave their history underground. So deliberate and deep like a well. So knotted and sturdy like a lock.

I welcome you dressed plainly in empty thoughts like a beggar turned messiah. So humble and weathered like a stepping stone. So wry and mischievous like aged whiskey.

May came to me on borrowed time. Gone before she was realized. Fleeting in retrospect, long in practice. Accompanied by her apprentices passionate carnal hunger and dire thirst for knowledge. Patiently she guided my hand, showing me how to paint sorrows and joys in the same stroke. All I can do is practice what she taught me as one hour becomes the next. Me always trying to out race the sun; her always waiting in the shadow. 

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on solitude

When I have spent enough time alone in contemplation the whole world seems possible again. Birthplace of childish wonder. A beginners mind. It is in this state of rest that the essence of my soul calls to the multitudeous outside and accepts it as home inside. Seeking to know each better in the reflection of the other. To be present with oneself is to be present with the world as it unfolds. As a page feels fullest before it is blotched — inviting possibility in a blank stare.

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