yoga and the art of...

asheville - spring 2014

digital / slightly rendered

belly-breathe as you lean into the turn at seventy miles an hour down the Saluda grade and cordite smell from the big rigs' brakes fills your nostrils and you lose the physical distinction between the bike and your body and your brain.  fluid-flow down that long, sweeping mountain thinking not too much yet sensing the engine's seven-thousand explosions per minute while the road vibration charges up your spine like wild mustangs.  second chakra, third chakra - right up through the top of your head - emerging from the crown of your helmet like a fighter-jet's contrails.  "I should have named her kundalini!" I yell as the black motorcycle pulses its way homeward and awareness separates from my body as I watch from above the motorcycle and rider effortlessly making their way down this ribbon of pavement.  stretching, breathing, twisting, turning - finding the edge, I smile and think there must be a word like namaste for this and in a flash-moment I realize  that word is a sound: a long, drawn-out whisper said with a big smile, "yeeaaahhhh..." 

...the divine aliveness in me honors the divine aliveness in you..

**********

1950's Vintage Kodak Duaflex II

120mm re-spooled to 620mm

Ipford Delta B&W iso100

(developed and printed at The Asheville Darkroom, Spring 2015)

Ali's Dance

Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt – marvelous error!

That a fiery sun was giving light inside my heart.

It was fiery because I felt Warmth as from a hearth,

And sun because it gave Light

And brought tears to my eyes.

Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt – marvelous error!

That it was God I had here inside my heart.

-Antonio Machado

Dogwood in Spring

Holga CFN120 / iso120

North Carolina 2014

He had come here to think and to forget...

The last few years had been spent travelling and observing the ways of the world. Ali thought long and often of the story his mother and mentor had revealed to him that day several years ago and had come to embrace the blessing of his life’s beginning with gratitude.

Yet he felt uneasy. Travel was the only activity which seemed to soothe his restless nature. And it was on one of these journeys that he had met her.

In an open marketplace in a faraway city he spied a young woman working alongside her parents in their simple market stall. She appeared only a shy teenager but her extraordinary beauty and quiet gracefulness struck his senses so completely that he knew he must come to know her.

Over the course of the following year, Ali lived and worked near the marketplace and indeed came to know the young woman and her family well.

With an open heart and a loving nature Ali made himself known to the girl and to her family and community. Their world became his world.

During the months that passed Ali and the girl shared many joys together and the ecstasy of human love.  Theirs was a connection on all levels which everyone seemed to acknowledge.

They were sublimely happy as Ali’s love grew ever deeper.  Every thought was of pleasing his beloved.

Yet in the end, as these things go, it was not meant to be and, therefore, could not be. Ali’s heart was shattered. He made his way to the hermitage where he intended to hide from the world.

And he tried very hard to forget.

Some days his thoughts swirled unmercifully. How could he live his life with this emptiness inside? How could he have come so close only to be denied true love? The pain of separation he felt at times was almost unbearable as he thought only of her. He lived most days with such intense longing that he begged for some resolution, any resolution, to occur.

Would he spend his whole life longing for her?

Would he spend his lifetime with only a memory to embrace?

Ali’s dreams and his waking thoughts were filled with visions of Shireen, the beloved of his soul.

Time passed.  Ali, kneeling in the garden one day under waning sunlight and suffering with his heartbreak, heard a woman’s call to him.

“What we seek is found inside our seeking.”

He stopped his idle thoughts and came to sharp awareness.  With his eyes still closed, Ali spoke quietly but evenly, “I came here to forget, not to seek.”

Several moments passed. A flight of rushing birds called to one another. A gentle breeze refreshed the garden. He thought of Shireen...

“You came here to remember, Ali” the woman said gently. He looked up and against the glowing sunset saw a woman smiling sweetly, with a look of loving compassion and true concern on her face.

“It is inside the longing, in the pain of the separation, where God is found,” she said.  Her words made Ali feel uneasy yet their truth rang true to him.

“What you feel so strongly inside is your own longing for the Divine.”  Ali listened as the woman spoke.

“All longing, all sense of separation, however painfully we may come to know it, is the beckoning call of the One,” she continued. “It invites us ever closer, toward true realization of Divine Love and Wisdom.  Try to surrender to this, my son. In this way our Creator's infinite mercy and compassion is made manifest.  Your work is to transform the powerful love you feel for Shireen into higher love for God.”

“That is why you have come?” Ali now spoke.  “To teach me?” His first mother opened her arms and silently bid Ali closer.

“I did not come here to teach you anything, my dear.  Not at all - I came so you may shed your tears.”  And cry Ali did.  He crumpled into his mother’s arms with sobs of sorrow, his body violent with release and exhaustion.  Tears from lifetimes of separation and searching flooded his mother’s breast. And there he remained, suspended in timelessness and surrender.

As Ali’s tears gave full expression to his heartbreak and fear, the tension inside him gradually softened as he entered a realm of deeper understanding.

Indeed, all longing at its deepest level is a longing for the Divine.  And grieving can become the bridge between separation and union.  Ultimately, for all of us, the tears of yearning one day give way to tears of perfect union.

Ali looked into his first mother’s eyes with wondrous recognition as she held him close.  What passed between them was not expressed in words.  Yet in that moment Ali understood the meaning of her visit along with the promise,

“Close or distant matters not....what matters is connection.”

~

Ali stumbled along the path back to the cottage as moonlight showed the way.  He fell into bed exhausted as angels kept their watch.  He rose before daybreak and made his way to the garden.

A weakened yet wiser Ali stood and watched the eastern horizon turn several shades of crimson.  He breathed deeply of the jasmine and surrounding fields of wildflowers, their fragrance a balm for his still-tender inner being.

He clasped his hands in grateful acknowledgement of all that had come to him and had led him to this place - the threshold of his journey home.  Ali knew his path would not be easy, yet he knew he had been given a precious gift.  While the young man again breathed deeply of the fresh earth and the morning dew, soft light graced the land with majesty and goodness.  As the new day’s sun silently announced its arrival, Ali felt a sense of peace and smiled.  He turned and headed for his hermitage, saying to no one in particular, “Now, a pot of tea to revive me!" 

~

It was a perfect late summer afternoon.  Solstice was near. The scent of honeysuckle lingered in the air.  Ali sat back on his heels and raised his eyes toward the setting sun as the glow of dusk filled the garden with golden light and dust motes whirled.  The smell of rich earth reminded Ali that a good day’s work was now complete.  He leaned further back, closed his eyes and let the warm sun massage his aching muscles.

He thought about the many full cycles of seasons he had spent in this simple hermitage and how the subtle shifts of nature had brought him some measure of peace and contentment amidst his inner turmoil.  The simple dwelling and adjacent gardens spoke to him and for him.  He was happy to be in solitude and close to nature with days spent planting and pruning and watering, nurturing the garden, caring for his soul.  Ali stood and slowly began turning in place - allowing his arms to raise and his back to arch - his head thrown back in abandonment as he gained momentum.  He listened only to the music from within as tears glistened on his weathered cheeks.

~

I am yours.

However distant you may be,

There blows no wind but wafts your scent to me,

There sings no bird but calls your name to me.

Each memory that has left its trace with me lingers forever as a part of me.

I am yours.

Nizami, 12th Century, rendered by Eric Clapton

...there blows no wind but wafts your scent to me...

Conscious Contact

"Infinite consciousness is infinite.  It can never lessen at any point in time or space.  Infinite  consciousness being infinite includes every aspect of consciousness."
- Meher Baba, The Everything and The Nothing

Spring 2014, North Carolina

Holga 120 CFN / 120mm Ektar 100 / rendered to B&W

"In the field of consciousness research—and also in physics and astronomy—we are breaking past the cause-and-effect, mechanistic way of interpreting things. In the biological sciences, there is a vitalism coming in that goes much further toward positing a common universal consciousness of which our brain is simply an organ. Consciousness does not come from the brain. The brain is an organ of consciousness. It focuses consciousness and pulls it in and directs it through a time and space field. But the antecedent of that is the universal consciousness of which we are all just a part."

Joseph Campbell, Mythic Worlds, Modern Words, New World Library, p. 286


"What is striking, and potentially revolutionary, is that a small but growing number of scientists think of consciousness not as a consequence of electrochemical activity in the brain, as has long been assumed, but as a reality unto itself.  In this view, consistent with Vedic suppositions, consciousness is the substratum of existence and assumes the form of thoughts, feelings, and perceptions through the operation of the brain.  In other words, the brain is not the creator of consciousness, but a kind of processor, just as a television set processes electromagnetic signals and converts them to images on a screen."

Philip Goldberg, American Veda, Harmony Books, p. 298

Dreamy Stuff

through the viewfinder / WNC fall 2014

digital, slightly rendered

My dreams the last few weeks have been somewhat of a mosaic. It is like I am inside a space probe, skimming fast just above the surface of a planet (or some plane) as different images and features scroll across my ‘screen’. I have had several nights where this is my dream experience and when I wake I cannot put together any sort of narrative or theme – it’s just a rush of features like people with large heads, or colors, or a traffic jam, a mass of people going in different directions, or a close-up of someone’s cheek. The content changes, but usually not the perspective.

I move along quickly, watching and seeing but I do not stop nor do I see anything that is familiar on the personal level. It is a mass of symbols but I cannot grasp on to any one thing or theme. It is a landscape of sorts – the crowded surface of something inside me that is seemingly all crushed together and is on display. Like picking through a huge mound of trash (or treasure) looking at everything at once but not seeing a pattern emerge. No sound is present and I am most struck by the speed at which these images appear and disappear beneath my point of view. I am definitely ‘above’ this field of images; and I am travelling very quickly. But again, I don’t ascertain any story or prominent image. This is not unfamiliar – I have experienced this in dream state before. But it is a very curious sort of dream and I wonder what the unconscious is trying to communicate to me. Frankly, I love the sensation of ‘skimming above’ this multitude of images, but when I try to understand the narrative I get somewhat anxious as if I am missing something and cannot understand the conversation.

Just recently, I had two short dreams that were more singular in imagery. The first was a dream in which I was passing by a familiar place near my hometown where there used to be a small pond. In recent years the pond has been filled in and a small house has been built. In this dream, I pass by this area and think to myself, “This is where Vanderbrook’s Pond used to be.” I look in that direction and there is a huge pond there now – the edge of which is very close to the road - far bigger than the original pond. This new pond is full of water and is almost overflowing. The water is murky and swirling around (maybe burbling up from below?) and seems to be moving as if it is a river – but it is a pond. I am on the surface of the pond in some sort of vehicle (I cannot recall) and I am moving around on the pond. There is a shoreline and lots of water, but I do not seem afraid. I am watching the contours of the pond and am surprised at how large the old pond has become. It is a pleasant experience yet I am tentative since I do not especially like being on the water when it is this turbulent and strong.

At first I could not see the significance of or message contained within in these dream experiences, but after I wrote them down in sequence, and placed them in context of the work that has been unfolding recently (including the Tarot card reading), I think one aspect which is presenting itself is that of ‘seeing possibilities’. I think the dream of the swelling-to-almost-overflowing pond is of particular import since this seems like it is an image of latent possibilities just underneath the surface (of conscious awareness), waiting and clamoring to be made conscious. It is a somewhat dangerous image, too, since that kind of water makes me pause out of a sense of care and safety, but it is nonetheless a very potent image in regard to what may come next in my life. Although I know better than to think in terms of linear ‘progress’, I do sense some sort of pattern in regard to another level (or perspective) of awareness in all these dream experiences. Recently, I have been meditating for short periods of time during the week, just to ‘set the template’ in my physical body and in my everyday routine in order to establish a deeper and more regular practice. So I look forward to the rhythm of meditation and dream work in parallel…without expectation and without too much judgment or thinking.

through the viewfinder / WNC fall 2014

digital, slightly rendered

So it’s pattern recognition which seems important lately. I can only imagine how interesting it would be if we could see our behavior patterns captured in animation over time – we would likely laugh at the predictability and the repetitiveness of our lives. Not to say this makes our lives mundane or unimportant – it’s just the obviousness of it all which I think would make us laugh. But it’s also important, and meaningful, if we can get ourselves to the point where we can reflect, de-focus our sharp attention to what is all too readily apparent, and notice subtle patterns surrounding us. I think it’s a part of ‘waking up’ and that is good work for anyone. Can we ‘see’ the patterns we establish as we go about life’s challenges and choices? Can we interpret larger patterns into which we fit – sometimes awkwardly, sometimes effortlessly? Can we see the patterns of behavior in relationships and in certain environments? We have free will, yes, but as one of my teachers says, in so many words, “yes, free will - to the extent that a dog on a leash is free to roam the radius of the leash.” Personal patterns layered against larger patterns which are viewed against archetypal patterns can form ‘maps’ of the journey we find ourselves engaged with. And who wouldn’t want a ‘map of the journey’ by which to guide our choices? Spiritual teachers remind us not to “mistake the map for the territory” and this is an important thing to remember. But any sort of indication or reference point – however primitive or symbolic or seemingly incomplete – can be a true blessing for one’s life. I believe patterns to be dynamic, helpful devices our unconscious presents to us whose purpose is to help us traverse the way toward union with the unchanging One, the perfect pattern of the Higher Self.

+++

That One

I pass by these walls, the walls of Layla

And I kiss this wall and that wall

It’s not Love of the houses that has taken my heart

But of the One who dwells in those houses

- Nizami, 12th century

~

The restaurant was one of my favorite places.  Attracted by the pleasant atmosphere and the interesting people, I visited often.  It seemed to give off a good vibration that I liked immensely as I imagined the many lively conversations shared among companions in this place - real, honest conversations about all sorts of things with no interest in closure or agreement.  Just conversations based on the pleasure of human discourse over a satisfying meal.  I imagined endless discussions of life's joys and sorrows, of politics, religion, or the pursuit of Truth.  And, of course, love.  I opened my book on the table in front of me as I waited for lunch.  It was my great good fortune to be in that restaurant on that day because the experience of a lifetime unfolded before my very eyes.  I could not help noticing the elderly couple sitting at the next table.  They were fascinating.

The two had been silent for quite some time.  Yet they seemed to communicate with each other so effortlessly.  The familiarity they had, one for the other, was remarkable.  Every so often they would extend their hands flat over the tabletop to let their fingertips touch ever so slightly, ever so gently.  Their eyes were focused only upon each other.  Using tender gestures and simple smiles, everything in their immediate proximity took a backseat to their interlude.  They seemed to share a secret so deep and so rare that it mattered not what day it was or what tomorrow might bring.  

It was not selfishness that drove their intensity.  Their demeanor was neither hurried nor strained.  Whatever was communicated seemed natural and without effort.  The two were completely present to one another.

Theirs was an ancient dance.  Played out more times and on more levels and throughout more lifetimes together than ever could be known.  They fit together perfectly, without thought or pretense.  Without even a name for what passed between them.  I was entranced and watched shamelessly and strained to pick up every nuance of their intimate play.  Seeing their subtle movements, I knew their love to be sublime.  Their silent conversation was rich with potential and I knew this was no ordinary meeting.  They were completely alive and I was becoming intoxicated by the energy that seemed to flow forth from the space between them.  They became a still point in my ever-changing world.  Their countenance had substance, meaning, and fragrance.

They had been lovers for a very, very long time.

Apparently the old couple came to this restaurant once a year.  It was a date that was carefully chosen and greatly anticipated.  Spring equinox.  That time of year when darkness and daylight are equal in proportion, a time of balance and also a time marking the promise of more light coming into the world.  Heralding the beginning of a season that symbolized the predominance of Truth and integration.  And it was a special time and an extraordinary place for the old couple.  They had found that for a few hours, in this place and on this day, they could remember and recount with clarity and joy the many lifetimes they had spent together.  In this lifetime they were truly blessed to see beyond this veil.

I remained attentive for the conversation I hoped would follow.  The next few moments were filled with deafening silence.  The kind of silence that occurs in that exquisite instant between an orchestra's full-voiced conclusion and the audience's eruption in applause.  I was transported as they began to speak softly to each other.  I knew then that I had never known this love and I was struck by the sadness of that fact.  I knew I could only long for that high state.  It was pure, formless and seemingly complete.

“I love thee,” the man said to the woman.

“And I, thee,” she replied.

Even their voices were harmonious.  As they spoke, knowing smiles came across their faces and seemed to illuminate the scene.  I could not hear all that was said in the minutes following.  I know they talked of countless experiences of lives unfurled in many places and many eras.  Sometimes brother and sister, sometimes man and wife, other times mother and son, sometimes intimate companions.  Sometimes artists or royalty, other times beggars or outcasts.  A picture was painted of twin souls weaving in and out of existence, growing ever closer throughout their journey together.  Deepening in their love, they grew ever closer to the One.  Nothing mattered now since everything had been experienced and all things honored simply by living their lives with purpose and love.  I wondered what was next as my heart pained with the beauty of it all.  Their window of time for this meeting would soon end.

“Wouldst thou manifest the Divine for me?” he asked.  

The woman did not move but simply looked at her husband ever more deeply.  My mind was swirling and I was afraid I would lose consciousness because I was so close.  I could not bear to look directly.  I could only stare at their reflection in the wineglass on my table.  I sat motionless.

Their silhouettes told a story that had been unfolding for ages.  Knowing the inner heart of another’s soul, and trusting one’s heart fully to the other is only the beginning.  Allowing one’s heart to manifest its radiance and power to the other in complete surrender is to touch the higher realms of being.  To allow this willingly, as a gift to one’s lover, speaks of the nature of one’s true Self.

“Wouldst thou manifest God to me?” he whispered.  

Silently, the woman straightened, smiled and closed her eyes.  Her breath flowed naturally.  She became almost translucent in appearance.  Time stood still.  The radiant energy of her heart-center filled their intimate space to overflowing.  The divine feminine in all her adornment was indeed manifesting.  Her radiance was more beautiful than a thousand full-moon nights.  

Street sounds faded away.  A spring breeze freshened the entire area.  I was keenly aware of my own breath.  Every sensation I had ever known was amplified and played back through my heart and mind.  I had never felt so alive.

Her husband sat transfixed.  I watched as he lowered his arms to his sides and tilted his head back slightly, exposing his very pulse.  He seemed to bring his heart forward, offering it unguarded and vulnerable.  The divine masculine, surrendering all its power and outward motion to the service of love, allowed its true nature to be revealed.  The masculine – basking in the glow of love from the divine feminine – became receptive and yielding.  

In those few moments, the twin souls were as one.  

“I love thee,” the woman whispered, opening her eyes.

“And I, thee,” her lover replied.

I turned as a waiter bumped my table and sent the wine glass crashing.  I reached with reflex to try to recover.  I smiled through my tears and said everything was OK, no harm done.   Indeed, everything was perfect.  I looked up in time to see the old couple walking through the doorway, arm in arm.  By the time I had recovered enough to pay the bill and pickup my things to leave I noticed a young couple being seated at the table where everything had just played out.  Musicians tuned up on the far side of the restaurant, getting ready for an early evening session.  The young woman at the table looked at her lover and placed her hand on his, saying, “Ask them to play a love song, I feel like dancing!”

I did not go straight home.
I walked for a very long time.

And as I walked, just putting one foot in front of the other, I reflected on my life and attempted to find a place in my heart for the things I had witnessed.  My fear was that my own heart was too small to contain exquisite beauty and that my heart was too fearful to comprehend the Truth sitting just behind the veil of the old couple’s waltz.  I knew somehow that the gift was intended for me.  I knew that this experience on this day was no mistake.  Of course I tried with my mind and even my heart to allow this to come into me and heal me, to stretch me and to open me once and for all.  I did not know anything in those moments, not even my own name.  I just walked.  

Finally came surrender.  Internally, I bowed down to the Mystery.  In that moment, Rilke’s words came to me clearly and piercingly, as I had never heard them before.  “I live my life in growing orbits which move out over the things of the world...Perhaps I can never achieve the last, but that will be my attempt.”

Grace rushed in giving rise to the long hoped-for knowledge that someday I, too, would experience this inner knowing.  A moment of bliss flooded my being.  I sensed that I had glimpsed the shore of the Ocean of Love.

I recalled a dream of a woman cloaked in orange silk and knew that I must find her to continue my understanding of things.  Only in her arms might I learn higher love; only in her arms might I come to understand the Dance.  And that night, wrapped in her arms, I whispered, slowly, “I am circling around God, around the ancient tower, and I still don’t know if I am a falcon, or a storm, or a great song.”  And then she kissed my cheek.

I am yours.

However distant you may be,

There blows no wind but wafts your scent to me,

There sings no bird but calls your name to me.

Each memory that has left its trace with me lingers forever as a part of me.

I am yours.

Nizami, 12th Century, rendered by Eric Clapton

listen:

I Am Yours

Dervish Tree

February 17, 2014  

I dream I am watching two babies, both male, clothed only in diapers.  

I somehow know that I am looking at Jesus and John the Baptist as infants.

digital, slightly rendered

linville gorge, nc

october 2012

"The God of the Sufi is the God of all, and he is his very being.  

The Christ is his ideal.  

Therefore, no one's savior is foreign to a Sufi, for he sees beauty and greatness and perfection of a human being in everyone's ideal.  He does not mind if that ideal is called Buddha by one person, Krishna by another, and Muhammad by yet another: names make little difference to the Sufi: his ideal does not belong to history or tradition, but to the sacred feelings of the heart.  So how can he compare the ideals of the different creeds, which dispute in vain about historical and traditional points of view, without making any impression upon each other?  The ideal of the Lord, the Lord in the form of man, is the outcome of his heart's deepest devotion.  

One cannot dispute and argue about an ideal like this, nor can it be compared: so the Sufi believes that the less spoken about this subject the better, for he respects that one ideal which people call by different names."

Hazrat Inayat Khan

Volume IX - The Unity of Religious Ideals

Part VI - The Ideal of the Sufi

~

Rodin's Legacy

"You alone are real to me."  

Lou Andreas-Salome

Holga CFN 120 / 120mm Fujifilm / iso 100
Spring 2012 / Lake Lure, NC

Then I remember watching a man and a woman - wary strangers - moving through aisles of books and glossy papers in a museum shop awkward in the silent room since it is closing time and all of Rodin's sweaty monuments will soon again be alone.

And I think of what Rodin may have said to Rilke and that it is written down somewhere and codified and glorified but I am too distant or too shallow to delve in.

Somehow the man catches a whiff of the woman’s body-smell and goes a little crazy and is transported back about thirty years to that time he could not count and the place he never left.

Who knows what was really spoken between the two and like a gong being struck the man’s chakra system is jolted and he gets this sweet churn in his lower chest like God has just kicked him.

Circling slowly like a summer trout waving behind a rock the man tries to get a second sense of her but that curious admixture of greediness and shame simply runs him out the door.

Music starts to play while his discord and confusion continue and traffic begins to flow like platelets of blood and buildings rise in the distant dusk and the man presses the accelerator and swivels his rear-view mirror the first of many times.

~