Theory and practice

"We can talk about intensity, or we can experience intensity," reasoned our Shaman. We must've looked lost. He went on to explain, but when we persisted in puzzlement he asked us to stand in a circle. He began a series of easy foot moves, accompanied by his wooden whistle. We followed his lead.You could feel the energy rise from our post-lunch malaise. He played and we danced, movements that included a stomping of sorts on the dirt ground. When we finished he asked, "what is more valuable, talking about intensity or experiencing intensity?" The question was rhetorical.

The choice between personal and natural intelligence

A piece of cultivating spiritual practice is learning to exhibit natural intelligence over personal intelligence. Personal intelligence comes from a single source (our truth), a single point of view that at its best carries a limited amount of knowledge and experience. Natural intelligence, on the other hand, is the amalgamation of personal/earth/sky/plant/ancestor wisdom. Our practice can aspire to act in every moment with the right state of mind--representing the wider natural intelligence.

Tapping into the bright light inside

"I invite you to come to your mat," calls teacher Jo from the front of the studio over her garage.The five of us settle in cross-legged on yoga mats facing her. 

"Now find that bright light down deep inside that is loving and forgiving, the place where you are your best self. This is the place we begin our practice," It makes me tear up every time she calls me to sit in this way-- three years or so. This yoga matches my style, relaxed, taught alternately by Jo and Steve. We do yoga to music here, a unique practice in itself.

"Breathe to recognize your connection to all things around you," and set an intention focused on your joy or well-being." Coming back to my mat--after an injury and an odd schedule that made regular attendance exhausting--exceeds my expectations. 

Because my body is out of practice, each move is a welcome scratch to its itch for exercise. Each muscle I release reconstructs my well-being, a small patch at a time. Today yoga is spiritual practice.  In my internal monologue I say thanks for being able to bend and stretch my now perspiring body. I take off my sweatshirt. As the chatter continues I think "this is double coupons--exercise for body to mind and body to spirit!"

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On my way home my mind wanders to herbalist Kevin when he told me of his past where he was an admirable yogi, meditator, mindfulness practitioner in his back-to-back classes and study groups. One day he realized that none of it made a difference unless he was able to apply the skills in every action, in every moment.

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After lunch, right before the rain, I take my bright spot with me outdoors to work on behalf of Pachamama and Great Spirit. It is part of my reciprocity agreement (give as much as I take, take only as much as I need). With a group of neighbors we are restoring a wetland area behind our house to sustain a family of beavers, and the astounding results of their industriousness--including a resident hummingbird, and visits by such stars as a golden eagle and a flitting band of cedar waxwing. Here I free a small patch of native ferns from a tousle of acrid smelling nettles with gangling roots easily peeled from the dank topsoil. I reconstruct universal well-being, a small patch at a time. Today recreation is spiritual practice. I sing, "I listen to the birds, I hear them sing. I hear them sing. The birds are my sisters, the birds are my brothers. We sing together and we sing to each other . . . " A quiet sky returns song in a myriad of voices, first the clacks of a raven, then a robin and a flicker call back-to-back, followed by a chickadee, then a nervous bunch of bush tits.

To be open

As I lay in the tent, my husband ready to sleep in the mummy bag alongside, I ran the tapes of our first day back on the desert. Our shaman led us in a bit of review, and nostalgia. We came this time hoping to connect more deeply with Pachamama and Original Wisdom. For me an intention to be open. When I chuckled my sweetie asked why. "I want to be open," I said . . .  "if I only knew what that means," I laughed out loud. He chuckled at first and then joined me in the belly laugh that encircled our rain fly and evaporated upward into the starry desert sky.

Trying to Open

beyond the reach of the brain

Finger’s taste of Woolly Bear

without insistence on a name . . .

more than fuzz, less than bristle,

delicate costumed ball.

Nostrils filled with basil or sage,

annexed as if by magic

to a distant time and place.

Taste buds depolarized by dusty rock, 

as if saliva is the only remedy 

for such indulgence.

Ears lulled in the moment

where soundlessness 

meets the crashing chorus of crows.

Eyes struck by the glowing edge of a

v-shaped gaggle of geese

synchronized with the appearance of the sun.

A knowing the compost is tired of onions,

longs for peaches and pears.