…there was the word. Word.

I couldn't resist

I just love language: its textures, contours, nuance, peaks and valleys. I love the most extravagant high-minded pretention, and I love “dude…wait, what?”. This is like Grade 9 English, but each word has multiple layers of significance: its basic sound divorced from meaning, its barest and least embellished meaning, its etymology or history, its homonyms, and my personal fave, its connotative meaning. That’s the entire catalogue of what the word evokes in its reader or listener. Lately I’ve been enjoying using connotations to pop culture, song lyrics and advertising, not least because there are so darn many of them. Sure, some tweedy prof somewhere thinks that this is just winking in-jokes, but come on: tell me that the combination of “palm+olive” stands in connotative isolation from the brand name? Not possible. How about “word” itself? It’s a colloquial statement of solidarity or agreement, it’s software, it’s a dessert topping AND a floor wax! [See what I did there?]

DFW mentioned this embarrassment of intertextual riches w/r/t television in “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction”, and he also talked about the tweedy resistance to making pop-culture reference, and he ALSO discussed how easily this can devolve into a series of weird little coded in-jokes, so basically this whole post is cribbed from this essay, but I’m-a spin it my way [I hope].

The coded in-joke part I find particularly interesting, because the reason I talk and write this way is to INCLUDE, not to exclude. Let me see if I can come up with an example:

A.“In your practice, you will cultivate increased physical strength and mental agility, but we are served well by B.K.S. Iyengar’s admonition in his classic “Light On Yoga” where he describes the relationship between the sisya or disciple, and his guru. Iyengar writes: ‘Power without humility breeds arrogance and tyranny. The true sisya learns from his Guru about a power that will never leave him, as he returns to the Primeval One, the Source of His Being.’ Please sit in meditation and offer the fruits of your practice to this Great Source.”

B.” In your practice, you will cultivate increased physical strength and mental agility, and I’d be no kind of teacher if I didn’t encourage you to think seriously about what you’ll do with all this increased energy. The best advice I’ve heard on the subject is when Peter Parker, who you might know better as Spider-Man†, is starting to get a bit cocky what with the walking up the walls and swinging from buildings thing, and his Uncle Ben lets him know that ‘With great power comes great responsibility’. Arguably Uncle Ben’s words encourage Peter to become the hero that he is destined to be. Let’s sit together and think about our responsibilities, and how this powerful practice might serve them better”.

Yes, I know that not everybody has seen “Spider-Man”. But not everybody has read “Light On Yoga” either. Both of my little examples here are saying similar things, and although one is obviously more stuffy than the other, which one do you think people would connect to? Which one did you connect to? How many people have watched The Simpsons? More, or less than have read the Hatha Yoga Pradipika‡?

I guess it comes down to whether you really believe this yoga stuff is meant to be shared or to be exclusive. It makes you feel pretty darn clever and fancy to learn something esoteric and strange, but is that the purpose of the teaching? It’s been exclusive for many hundreds of years. Has this exclusivity served our species and our world?

Anyway, back to the words. As much as I enjoy a big florid, arcane passage in the Pratyabhijna Hrdayam, if I can’t translate it into love song lyrics or an episode of “Friends” in about 25 seconds I know that I either don’t get it or it’s not relevant to my students [most likely the former at this point, but that's the trick; if I don't get it, I certainly can't teach it]. I’m exaggerating a bit, but honestly, the way I want to choose my words is to connect and integrate, not remove these teachings from our reality. And our reality is a world of syndicated sitcoms and DVD extras and the Safeway and traffic and season premieres and finales. The Word is sat+cit+ananda, not just cit+ananda; it’s not how much I know that will take me to bliss, it’s what is REALLY around us as the ground of these teachings.

†Desiree Rumbaugh actually used the Spider-Man thing when she was here; great minds and all that.
‡ Yes, I know several intransigent Luddite hippies who scorn TV and similar. Not just “don’t have a TV”, which I sort of admire in the same way that I admire pro athletes, but actively harsh on the whole project. Don’t worry, you can always wear a tinfoil hat to protect yourself from the US government’s mind-control program. Luckily they are so intransigent and Ludditic they won’t get on the Internet. This calls for a

Evvie and her brother from another mother, Velcro (this was taken shortly after she flew in to Van)

To the tune of Hall & Oates’ “You Make My Dreams”†

Well you track around a metric tonne of litter
You’re a filthy little critter
You mess up my happy home
There were times I thought I’d make you into a sweater
Now wouldn’t that be better
But then I’d be alone, aw yeah

Because you, you are my Evvie Loo [Loo loo, loo, loo, looloo, loo, loo]
Well, well well, you, aw yeah, you are my Evvie Loo [Loo loo, loo, loo, looloo, loo.]

There are times when you are yelping in the hallway

Evvie as a baby, and Mr. Goodtimes (ne Ian Goodhue)

I think you do things the hard way
You could wait until the dawn
But your tone’s so sweet, you make us laugh and snicker
And I suppose that your way’s quicker
To get your dinner on, oh yeah, I said

you, you are my Evvie Loo [Loo loo, loo, loo, looloo, loo, loo]
Well, well well, you, aw yeah, you are my Evvie Loo [Loo loo, loo, loo, looloo, loo.]

EVELYN SOLO:

Listen to this! Brrrrrrrang? Braaaaaang? Breeeow?

ME:

You soundlike a caaaaar alarm, but you don’t have any lips, it’s okay….

Heck yes! you, you are my Evvie Loo [Loo loo, loo, loo, looloo, loo, loo]
Well, well well, you, all night, you are my Evvie Loo [Loo loo, loo, loo, looloo, loo.]

This is a very strange thing to be writing about on the Intertubes; so strange, in fact, that I’m not exactly sure how to go about it. It’s what I’d really like to write about though, so it’ll be good to see if I can figure it out.

I’ve always had a have-my-cake-and-eat-it-too approach to spirituality: namely, that I resist being saddled with one of those outré monotheisms because they’re just so darn unfashionable, and plus, what if I want to do something that my codifed faith doesn’t let me do? Don’t want to get caught in a lie, or get in trouble, or live a life of denial, so I hedge my bets. However, I have always prayed since I was very young, and in spite of a high-school relationship with a Dead Kennedys fan I haven’t been much of a vocal atheist. I acknowledge the softheadedness of the foregoing; I’m just saying.

As I grow I see both the logical errors of religion, its perils and disasters, AND its relevance, with more clarity. High school kids who fancy themselves clever [pedants in training, presumably] love to rile up their Catholic-school teachers or fundamentalist parents with the raw numbers of how many have been killed sorting out God’s various iterations, and it’s a pleasing gotcha for the kid but it never seems to have the intended effect [“Really? Well, shoot, let's just forget about the whole thing then”]. In spite of those clever, clever kids, the darn spiritual world just keeps turning up like a bad penny: Pema Chodron, Hildegard von Bingen CDs, Eckhart Tolle and the whole Oprah contingent, Rumi calendars at the stationery store. And of course Madonna and the Beastie Boys [viz. “Bodhisattva Vow”], &c. &c. I know and have read a whole whack of people who are contented to consign this entire branch of humanity to the Idiot Pile, even the Dangerous Idiot Pile. I think it’s fascinating in the same way that I think watching television and noticing what shows like “Fringe” tell us about what is common societal currency [Massive Dynamic is MASSIVE! and Dynamic!]

I lack the skillz and the knowledge to get into even rudimentary theology here; all I can really do is pay attention to what these people and their related products and services think are important. Turns out it’s a bunch of things that I think are important, like cultivating virtues towards those who challenge you, becoming more aware and mindful of your actions and choices, and infusing the moments in your life with a deeper consciousness. Like Tolle, I see the common misstep made by those of faith when they stop listening and start blowing things up; I don’t think it’s that they BELIEVE, it’s just that they stopped paying attention. Their belief is sort of a red-herring, which yer more virulent brand of atheists likes to find and poke with a sharp stick. Like I said above, satisfying for the adolescent atheist, full of sound and fury, signifying a fight between family members or a D-grade on an exam.

Anyway, with all of that going on in the old cranium I thought I’d left the idea of God as Bearded Sky Dude behind a long time ago. He’s so very unfashionable, that Sky Dude. Hard to find people in my particular demographic who will cop to believing in a God like that! So when I began to grow in my yoga practice and started a more devotional form of meditation, it was interesting when the mantra that came to me was “Not my will, but Thy will be done”. Hmm. Paging Richard Dawkins, Richard Dawkins to the white courtesy phone.

The divine, as manifested in Gary Larson

This mantra helped me through a bummer time in my life, and also helped me through some incredibly challenging yoga classes also. “Thy will” took on the form of whatever teacher I had, and it just made sense [esp. reinforced by various pop-yoga short forms that deride The Ego [TM]…poor ego, always getting the short end of the stick] to set aside what I wanted to do [“my will” being: leave this incredibly hot room, or come out of Natarajasana] and just do as I was told instead.

What I hadn’t bargained for was the hidden premise in the poetry of this little mantra of mine. Sure, I was seated in lotus and there were murtis of Ganesh here and there, and we chanted OM &c., but my God was still Bearded Sky Dude and I was the lowest mortal worm. “My will” and “Thy will” were OPPOSITES, and He could see my desires and they were WRONG WRONG WRONG, BAD NAUGHTY. Come out of Natarajasana? Puny human, I shall smite thee with guilt at having not sufficiently transcended The Ego [TM]. Not do the ENTIRE Ashtanga primary series? Why, are you not feeling well?

I had what you might term a philosophical restructuring during my Anusara immersion, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth as Bearded Sky Dude was set aside. He did not go quietly. He still shows up from time to time to say things like, “Well, just because you wish it doesn’t make it so!” and “You WOULD want to bail on Hanumanasana, lazy sod”. The philosophy that I am now cultivating is that wishing it can indeed make it so, and that I can come out of Hanumanasana whenever I please, because I was made in His image and although cursed with a thin beard I have a spark of the Creator in me. [See Tantra for more details; I certainly am] Let me be clear, since I suspect I haven’t been: I’m saying funny, mean things about my perception of God because before I felt like we were separate, and opposites. The voice is obviously not that harsh all the time [although it can be], it’s just that the premise it operates on is that my desires need to be set aside because that is Thy Will. As opposed to: It is Thy Will that I desire what I desire, and I will serve your intention best by getting quiet, figuring that out, and working towards a better world. Ya dig?

Okay. So. Right around this time I stopped my longer seated meditation, especially mantra practice. There was no need for this; nobody told me to. It just kind of…happened. I’d still do shorter, centering sits, and if we were asked to sit for a long time in class I didn’t have a problem with it or get fussy or fidgety or anxious. I just wasn’t doing it on my own. I usually ended up in the lobby before class, talking with my friends and students and teachers. This was a shift. I lost my mala [again, not on purpose, it just happened]. And lately I’ve been missing that practice, so I decided I’d give it a shot.

I tried my old mantra, and it was like a dial tone: nobody home. Bearded Sky Dude did not show up to berate me. I tried some other faces of deities, Hindu and otherwise, hoping something would resonate. Nothing. They all just seemed too limited. But then when I got very diffuse and theoretical I lost the heart component of what I was meditating on [braham nirguna, without aspects, is very tough to ensnare with my puny synapses]

I am looking for a God-face that I can see clearly when I sit. S/he has grown on me, too big to be compassed by my old techniques, too big to be battled, too big to be kept in a little linguistic or historical box. I’ve been out in the world, doing what I believe to be her work, trying to get a handle on the enormity of the divine that I have welcomed into my mind and heart…but it’s bigger than I thought, and in some ways I miss the familiar faces of the limited divine that takes on these aspects so that we might see it more clearly. I just can’t FEEL those right now. I’m not sad; it’s really interesting to me. The best part is that I no longer perceive myself in opposition to the currents of the divine’s will. I am, as my teacher John Friend says, flowing with grace; I am the fish who can’t see the water she swims in. Not bad for a years’ work.

*ahem*…Oh hemp shower curtain, though soil’d by hair-dye of darkest raven black from All Hallow’s Eve, thy woven strands prevent a mildew’d bathmat, impress mine friends, and intimidate mine enemies. Praise be thine!

Could I compare thee, natural loofah dishsponge, to another not so natural dishsponge? I thinkest not, as your absorption rate is as lavish as any others, plus thy loofahey top is so easy on mine fingers, whilst all the while being tough on cak’d on grime.

Poised to be returned to thy maker, Preserve Recycled Plastic Toothbrushes tower, like some mighty stand of pine, vertically in the apothecary’s cabinet. I blush for shame at pressing too hard when I brush but forsooth, thy bouncy bristles broach a brisk buyer’s bliss. How I lust for thy sisters, Preserve Recycled Plastic Razors, Cutting Boards and Prep Bowls; nature has graced thy family with no small share of beauty.

“No Fake Crap!” thy bold label proclaims; no shrinking violet, thee, but Blue-Q’s Get Real sunflower-oil-based lavendar body lotion…ah, ’tis a fair flow of dactyls dangling down thy bottle. Neither fussy pump nor gooey screwtop keeps me from thy emollience.

And yet…oh, fortune is vain, except that fortune which guided me to Method products: truly, the greatest passion of my heart, in which the other fair denizens of thy kingdom shrink to glowing eco-embers. Thy innumerable forms are as the chimera: multipurpose wipes, high efficiency laundry soap, essential oil dryer sheets, almond wood floor treatment. Sweet Method, may flights of Al Gores sing thee to they rest.

Most of growing older seems to consist of finding out that the world is the exact opposite of how I thought it would be. You’d think that this phenomenon would start to slow down as I age but if anything I get my mind blown on an increasingly regular basis.

The latest revelation that’s been in mental embryo for the last few years has been on the subject of “centering” or “being centered†”. I teach yoga to actors at Second Avenue Studios as an adjunct to their scene study classes, as another way of cementing their connection to their medium and [let's face it] encouraging them to relax since acting is probably one of the most psychically stressful things you can do [it's like going out for 5 job interviews a day and getting rejected for all of them, and that's a GOOD day; I have no idea how they manage it, really]. Almost everyone has a pet centering exercise that they can use to prepare before a performance or audition, usually including some combination of the following:

• a visualization or meditation

• breathwork of some sort

• stretches or yoga postures

• a physical release, like fluttering an exhale through the lips, shaking out the limbs, rounding up the spine from a forward bend

[Aside: I think it's pretty groovy that these exercises, although I'm sure they were influenced by yoga if not outright cribbed from it, whether the actors know it or not, include the aspects of a hatha yoga practice: breath, mind, body...it's like a little mini-practice right there on the spot]

The underlying belief behind these is that normal life is filling you up with bodily tension and undesirable mental stress, and that in order to return to Centre™ one must “clear out” somehow: hence the limb-jiggling, primal scream therapy, long sighs and exhalations.

+ four year old + golden Labrador = a challenge to equanimity

And with all due respect and big ups to the actors in question, this is the misapprehension I’m talking about. When the advertising collective consciousness shows us what being centered looks like, we see: blank modern spaces, Zen gardens, esoteric air fresheners. Hollow bamboo. Women with glazed eyes in long drapy minimalist fashions and tiny secret smiles emerging from an essential oil bath. It’s an aesthetic, precarious, perfect, incredibly easily undermined vision. It’s a clearing out, an emptiness. It’s beautiful, fragile, and utterly unsustainable. [Those women in the ads must do NOTHING but Swiffering and laundry. How relaxing can that be?]

I’ve had my share of being behind the scenes getting ready to perform or play and trying these little O-magazine techniques. Ah, a long breath in, and long exhale, and

WHERE IS THE SECOND PATCH CORD FOR THE DI BOX?

Right. Okay. Let’s try this again. Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean. Inhale, and a loooooong….

DAMMIT I CAN’T REMEMBER THE LYRICS TO THE SECOND VERSE OF LUSH LIFE; CURSE YOU FEEBLE BRAIN

&c. Spirituo-mental mayhem ensues. It’s the psychic equivalent of a child putting poster paint on a white wall, and it includes the initial judgement, savagery and then subsequent guilt at that savagery [“Why am I getting so angry?”] What I am coming to understand is that clearing out and emptying, while absolutely essential to the centering process, is only half of the story. Once you’ve shaken the tension out, once the body/mind is a blank canvas: what will you fill up with? What part of you will you consciously feed? Centering is drawing back together, coalescing around a vision that you wish to make manifest. Nothing can upset that strength. You’ve shifted the inner white wall, the blank aesthetically gorgeous heavily marketted canvas, to a lush primal collage, and your inner child can put as many red handprints on it and thumbtacks in it as she likes. So when you feel like you need to find your centre, FEED your centre. Shake out, stick your tongue out, roll around on the floor, do what you gotta do, prepare yourself to create AND THEN draw in…get solid and strong. Then bring beauty to the world.

Ideally, I’d illumine my inner intuition, inculcating an inward incline, so that intensive idealism would increase. Instead, I incur inertia so intransigent that I ignore the illumination. I intend to increase impetus and intensity.

Maybe mania made a mockery of me. Maybe a militant, massive mangling of my medulla managed to mash the means of making more magnificence. Man, might I be micromanaging? meandering towards mediocrity? My own might makes manifest the most mellifluous melodies.

Usually you’d be used to ushering in understanding. Unknown, unfelt urges work on you; unbidden and unseen. Use them.

Still, shattered seams still show under the surface. The salient sites are sore and scarred. It’s scary to see how soft and sequestered the centre of the soul is. Strength seems to surge from this softness. Surrendering is simple and sane; so surround the soul with similarly savoury secrets.

Take the teachings to heart. Turn towards trying, take time to touch the taut, tense top of this training. It’s too terrible to think of turning away. Truth takes trust.

The trickiest part of living a life of spirit, these days, is to keep your eyes open and your feet on the ground and not get so “woo” that you miss the vibrance of reality; which is hard, given the intoxicating qualities of spiritual knowledge and practice. Man, if I had a nickel for every abstract energetic Quality I’ve experienced through meditation or asana…I’d have enough to retire young. Colours, lights, vague feelings of well-being; visions of the future, of distant lands, of imaginary places. Contact with what I assume is the Divine. Also some experiences not so pleasant, usually resulting in multiple-hour crying jags. They were all real to me, and they were very strong and potent. And I definitely think they inform my practice and help me discuss similar situations with my students if that comes up.

They just haven’t helped me when I’m having an argument with a friend, or on voting day, or to remember my keys, or when I’m in line for the ferry. You know what helps then? The REALITY of the method of practice, not the energetic woo. The concrete techniques, and maybe most importantly, actually taking action.

Don't just do something, sit there

It’s Remembrance Day today, a holiday with many convoluted layers of sweet and bitter. What’s that line from Lord of the Rings: “Love is now mingled with grief”. In a way, our affection for those in our tribe actually ends up feeding armed conflict in many ways [when we feel those we love are threatened], and those conflicts result in loss, which would not be so poignant if it were not for our love. I never really know how to feel about this holiday, apart from wanting to volunteer at the Legion or something: I don’t want us to have any more wars, but I don’t want to undermine the honour of those men and women who truly, genuinely believed they were fighting for their lives and their loves, just because I have the luxury of pacifism. I want to remember, but I want to take action based on that remembrance.

Colours, lights and sound

This year we are seeing how taking strong action, on this crazy plane of reality, can have tangible results. On the US Election Day, in my classes, I talked about finding unity through our core reasons for voting, even if we ended up choosing differently: everybody wants to be happy. The American voters expressed, in a concrete way, their strong vision of their desired future. And a criticism [unwarranted IMHO] levelled by opponents of then-Senator Obama was that he was all woo, all concept, all Hope’n'Change. The ACTIONS of the voters were undertaken, at least I’m pretty sure, to make this concept concrete. Vision without action: insubstantial woo. Action without vision: a hard, exhausting slog with no purpose and no end in sight. The voters remembered what was important to them, and then they made their remembrances manifest.

I haven’t had the privilege of talking with veterans about the details of their experiences, but I believe that they are asking for more than our remembrance. They are asking us to take action to continue to realize their vision of what was so important to them. When you re-member, it’s not just a mental exercise, it’s a repopulation of the mind and the heart with what is central and vital. The natural extension of remembrance is action. The way back to Spirit is through action.

You know, when I initially began my first blog, I had hoped that its Incredible Cleverness would outsmart any criticism in advance.  It was all very meta, and if any of you hapless enough to click on that link are able to parse what the heck I was trying to do, big ups to you; half of the time I forgot what I was doing.  My many alter egos were meant to have their own ability to comment and fight amongst themselves, and theoretically even without the benefit of actual real-life readers my internal battles would be fought on these here Interducts for all to see.

Unsurprisingly, my drive to log these battles has waned considerably.  I mean, really. There are some funny bits, and I’m not saying I don’t still believe and think all of the bits that are on there now; I just don’t want to have to hide from my own words with all these little nods and winks and injokes.

Maybe it’s because my favourite author recently took his own life. I have been rereading all of my favourites and my heart has been so heavy, missing the potentiality of his voice.  He made the decision that he thought was right, and I realize it’s idle [also irrelevant] to debate this choice or speculate about his reasons.  I just don’t want to be silenced before I’ve even spoken, if you know what I mean.  He often wrote about being the critic of one’s own material, even before it was out of cranial-embryo, before it was ever typed or [God forbid] read.  That idea has stopped me from writing so many times it’s pretty embarrassing, and as a tribute to his impact on my creativity and my inner world I’m just going to go ahead and let it all hang out.

He would probably say, now that I mention it, that this is a classic technique to end-run potential criticism:  to actually say out loud that you realized that naïvite was the last great Millenial sin but that you literally were driven, DRIVEN I say, with pointy sticks and irate villagers, to disclose the incredibly dramatic and pathos-filled genesis of this particular weblog, and therefore undercut those smallsouled Philistines who are waiting to mark this paragraph as a run-on sentence and not a very good one besides.

Sometimes you have to be willing to look like a little bald-headed fat-legged baby to do what you believe is right.