This bit here was written sometime in February. By grace we are gently guided home, over and over, to find that we never once left. The image appears to change but it does not. A million times the same picture is drawn, a million times the same song is sung, a million moments spent in silence, where all is one.
"After a couple of travel days and harrowing nights spent in the buzzing jungle, my morning routine has been disjointed to say the least. While in good spirits and ever in practice by every step, the dirt and dust, energetic debris accumulates regardless. Life settles into the flesh. In need of a good 'spring clean' I lay out my towel and small blanket on the cold stone floor of my new hotel. It is surprisingly cool and feels like a guest house on Arrakis, all made of hard earth. Last night I felt completely homesick for a house I no longer have. I missed New York. I missed my space. I still do, in a way. But it looks different now. Now in my refreshed perspective I feel at home once again. Time and time again I give thanks for the gift of this practice. On the other side of discipline and devotion lies freedom. Clarity. Thy will be done.
Upon beginning I find my voice frail. The energy in and around me feels thick and heavy like molasses, my stomach feels weak and my arms foreign. But I push through, and the burn begins. Thoughts spin and try to hold my attention. 'You're not doing it right', 'it should feel different', 'you're weak', 'you're a lousy yogi'. Lmao, jeeze calm down. They begin to quiet, sizzling in the pan. About halfway through I feel a dam burst somewhere in my chest and tears begin to flow. Unto you I bow. Unto you I surrender. I sweep breath through muddied passages until I feel my legs attached to my torso again. Like a circuit board firing up, lights begin to flash and the hard drive begins to spin. The current is flowing and I can breathe again. I am covered in a layer of sweat and fine sand from the floor. Thank you. Thank you.
Nothing mine, nothing I have done. Each morning upon opening my eyes again, say hello, thank you, and right myself that I may walk the path laid, free from the weight of the mud, gliding smoothly despite the influence of the survival strategies and unique patterns that have been etched on my slate, which too is only hardened earth. I sand the surface until the stone matches the rock from which it came. I am covered in a layer of sweat and fine sand from the floor.”
