Yoga .....control on the mat and into my life

There are many days in my life that I am grateful that the art,discipline presence of yoga has entered my life or shall I say that I have been learning how to accept the presence of yoga into my life and value its presence. Today is such a day. Often on a "good" yoga day I use words like ease,smooth,light,gliding,one of less effort. Today none of those words really describe a quality of "goodness" or "rightness" that came with this morning's practice. Of late, in my interpersonal sphere I have been feeling that experiences,feelings,words sometimes come at me with a randomness that seem out of my control, that I would not invite into my space if it truly were under my control. It is my choice, and under my control, how I respond to the various fluctuations and perturbations that stir me up.
Today ,as I got on my mat, I was feeling somewhat unhinged that so much of what is said to me ,expressed to me or enacted with me is far beyond my control as I do not have any control over the words feelings and actions of others. As I began my practice and began engaging my bhandas and the whispering flow of breath following and my body began deliberately moving in the sequence of asanas in the standing series came back to me as usual ,I had this profound sense of relief, an "aha" moment, that this mat is my sanctuary,this is probably the only place and time that I feel I am most master of my choices, that I do make choices that are under my conscious control in regards to the quality of my breath,the length of my breath, the rhythm and flow of my movements, where I choose to gaze how I choose to stretch or contact my muscles to move my joints.It is a foremost aspiration of mine that through this awareness of making deliberate choices and the visceral memory that my choices imprint upon me, that I will use these skills in the work and exhilaration of living every day....

What is .....Timelessness

On my way home from work today I was listening to this timeless tune by the timeless Sandy Denny. I was thinking about what constitutes timelessness and appreciation for the good timeless experiences that often come to me on my path and brighten my days,such as sweet tunes, good friendship , the capacity to listen and hear another human being's story and kind and thoughtful words

"what makes my toenails twinkle....Poetry"

Dylan Thomas said: "Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision that depends in its intensity on the strength of the labour put into the creation of the poetry. My poetry is, or should be, useful to me for one reason: it is the record of my individual struggle from darkness towards some measure of light."

And he said, "Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing."

These words ring true to me everyday of my life,it too, for me is what makes me laugh,cry, ponder,ask,answer,wonder,dazzles,beguiles,understands the churnings of my heart and soul

Late October Color

October
by Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes' sake along the wall.

Such color on a late October, Sunday afternoon,"Make the hours of this day slow,make the day seem to us less brief!"

Unrequited Dreams

This past weekend,I attended a small family gathering,a dinner at a family oriented restaurant to celebrate the passing of the bar of my little brother.The focus was on my brother to congratulate him on his hard work,effort and success.At the beginning of the meal, my uncle who I do not see all that often as families seem to move apart from one another over time.My uncle is only sixteen years older than me,so he was a teen when I was born.I am the oldest grandchild , the first grandchild of that generation.My parents married very young and I entered the world when they were 19 and 20 years old.My father had lived on a kibbutz in Israel for a couple of years before I was born.My parent's dream was to return to that kibbutz with me when I was one years old.
As life happens,the return to the kibbutz never happened and I vaguely remember it in the context of the continuous cantankerous marital discord that I witnessed during my childhood, the subject would come up as if somehow if that dream had come to fruition the layers of unhappiness,sadness,discontent would melt away.Many years have passed, my parents went their separate ways and unfortunately all that I recall of their relationship is the constant fighting and my fears and confusion and wishing they would stop.I have virtually no memories of a peaceful loving partnership, no tangible evidence of any of their shared dreams,that is, not until this weekend.
At dinner,at this family gathering,my uncle called me over.He said he had something for me.I thought it odd as it was not my celebratory day,after all it was my brother's day.My uncle slowly pulled out of the pocket of his camel colored corduroy jacket,a new appearing passport.I had this strange moment of deja vu and I knew without any doubt what this was.I had tears in my eyes and said , that is me as baby.With a bittersweet nod , he said yes.I opened the green little book and sure enough ,there was one year old me, like a little doe with bright passport picture lights flashing in her baby eyes,sitting on my not quite adult mom's lap. the passport was meant to take us to Israel, to the kibbutz dream .Oddly ,all week I have been a state of extreme hope and optimism, thinking clearly about my dreams and what would truly give me happiness at this stage of my life, how to achieve realization of my own unrequited dreams.Until now,I had no tangible evidence that my parents shared any dreams at all, it seemed to me that my beginnings started with two very young people who had a very tenuous angry partnership.Holding my passport of infancy in my hands and seeing the one year old me sitting on my mom's lap as part of their dreams to plan and share a life together helps me feel more whole and hopeful , that my beginnings did have hope, something for me to continue to nurture.I see my beginnings as different,I see myself in literally a light I did not know existed before.....





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Walking in the Autumnal Forest of Color

Fall
by Edward Hirsch

Fall, falling, fallen. That's the way the season
Changes its tense in the long-haired maples
That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves
Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition
With the final remaining cardinals) and then
Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last
Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground.
At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees
In a season of odd, dusky congruences‐a scarlet tanager
And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever
Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun
Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance,
A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud
Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything
Changes and moves in the split second between summer's
Sprawling past and winter's hard revision, one moment
Pulling out of the station according to schedule,
Another moment arriving on the next platform. It
Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away
From their branches and gather slowly at our feet,
Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving
Around us even as its colorful weather moves us,
Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets.
And every year there is a brief, startling moment
When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and
Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless
Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air:
It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies;
It is the changing light of fall falling on us.

Song of delights

another tune I heard this weekend by Suzanne Vega,a little bit of paradise...

"Thy woods,....and all but cry with colour "

God's World
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.
My soul is all but out of me, let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

This fall seems to be bursting out in color more than ever to me.I am not sure if the there truly is more vibrant color or it is me that is seeing the world just so alive.This weekend,as I walked in the woods, I so understood Edna St,. Vincent Millay
"Thy woods,this autumn day,that ache and sag,and all but cry with colour!

Music takes me on many voyages

Last night , I had the great fortune to see and hear the great, Suzanne Vega live,what a treat!It brought back so many memories to me,again music taking on me these fantastic voyages to different time in my life. Thank you Suzanne Vega.

"Look upon these brilliant creatures"

Last week, i saw this egret flying over an autumnal pond at the arboretum. It reminded me of these words
The Wild Swans at Coole
by W. B. Yeats

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine and fifty swans.

The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold,
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes, when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

Music drifts us away.....to the deepest green...

They were magic nights in the Lobby Bar
With Brendan Ring playing Madame Bonaparte's
Every note that the piper would play
Would send me away, send me away
Away through the window, away through the rain
Away 'cross the city, away in the air
To a field by a river where the trees are so green
The deepest of green that you've ever seen
Where once you have been you can go back again
You can go any time, you can go any time
'Cos it's only in your mind

They were magic nights in the Lobby Bar
With Ricky Lynch and his golden guitar
Singing;
"Autumn in Mayfield and the barley was ripe
And the harvest moon hung low in the sky
We were children and our mothers were young
And fathers were tall and kind"

And every word that Ricky would play
Would send me away, send me away
Away through the window, away through the rain
Away 'cross the city, away in the air
To a field by a river where the trees are so green
The deepest of green, you've ever seen
Where once you have been you can go back again
You can go any time, you can go any time
'Cos it's only in your mind

They were magic nights in the Lobby Bar
When Ger Wolfe would sing like a lark
Singing;
" I am the blood of Erin, spilt in an empty cave
I am the flower of Ireland, out on the drifting wave
I am the lark of Mayfield, tumbling down the hill
I am the child of summer, I can remember you still"
And every word that Ger would say
Would send me away, send me away
Away through the window, away through the rain
On a carriage of music, away in the air
To a field by a river where the trees are so green
The deepest of green that you've ever seen
Where once you have been you can go back again
You can go any time, you can go any time
'Cos it's only in your mind

"It was autumn in Mayfield and the barley was ripe
And the harvest moon hung low in the sky
We were children and our mothers were young
And fathers were tall and kind."

another tune from the radio today, yes music can send us to far away places and also bring us home

"The best I can"

I heard this on the radio today, such a simple,but useful message always "the best I can". an old Woody Guthrie tune
Gonna Get Through This World

Well I’m gonna get through this world
The best I can if I can
And I’m gonna get through this world
And I think I can.

Well I'm gonna work in this world
The best I can if I can
And I’m gonna work in this world
And I think I can

I’m gonna get through this world
The best I can if I can
I'm gonna work in this world
The best I can if I can
I’m gonna get through this world
The best I can.

Well I’m gonna walk in this world
The best I can if I can
And I’m gonna walk in this world
And I think I can.

I am gonna talk in this world
The best I can if I can
And I’m gonna talk in this world
And I think I can. And I think I can.

I’m gonna walk in this world
The best I can if I can
I am gonna talk in this world
The best I can if I can
I’m gonna get through this world
The best I can.

di di di

Well, I’m gonna clean up this world
The best I can if I can
And I’m gonna clean up this world
And I think I can.

I'm gonna leave this world behind
The best I can if I can
I'm gonna leave this world behind
And I think I can. And I think I can.

I’m gonna clean up this world
The best I can if I can
I'm gonna leave this world behind
The best I can if I can
I’m gonna get through this world
The best I can.

di di di

Ripening Leaves of Fall

October
by Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes' sake along the wall.

Today, I took a crisp hike at the Morton's Arboretum in Lisle, IL.The colors of fall were beginning to take on their full glory.When
the colors start becoming vibrant my melancholy of early fall as summer drifts away begins to dissipate.

What do you think compassion is?

I woke up this morning quickly glancing at my Facebook page and was struck with how many posts used the word compassion,suggesting that we all become these serene compassionate generous beings.I began wondering what they all really meant.I think compassion has become the new Mc Donald's,it is literally on every street corner,every home page,every blog including my own.I am kind of sick of the cavalier ,generic,unhelpful usage of the word,so I have decided to ask you who may come onto my blogspot ,"what does compassion mean to you".I will start by saying something about what it means to me.For one thing,since childhood I have daily been beseeched even in adulthood ,by my mother to be nice,to be kind,to rise to the occasion,to repay evil with kindness,to never retaliate,to have pity,to be generous,to see the other's point of view.I guess my mother was preparing me to become an angel or a saint even before I had a chance to be a person.Entering the world of angels without being a person for a while is a great disadvantage in the career of angels.To be a worthy angel, one needs to roll around in the muck and mud a lot to feel and experience the life of personhood in order to eventually do any good.Doesn't she know that,I guess not, maybe she has not had the correct angel training herself.
So,my idea of compassion is the acknowledgement that basically we are all no different from one another in our capacity for good or evil ,it is a mat ter of circumstance often that propels us to do good or evil.Saying that, I also acknowledge that in many ways we are hugely different from one another in basic ways such; as intelligence,personal appearance,ability to tolerate pain or frustration, the capacity for motivation,creativity,problem solving, how much love and care we received as children,how much love and care we individually need.I think compassion acknowledges our uniqueness and our differences and in light of that what is realistically possible for a human being to be and accomplish in a lifetime.Compassion is about knowing,recognizing and forgiving ourselves for our expansive vastness and our claustrophobic limitations.Compassion is our knowing that based on individual endowments we have different abilities.Those endowments are mostly not our choice,so instead of comparing and criticizing,perhaps it is wiser to have a broader point of view and we can share our strengths rather than hoard them for ourselves.I I invite you ask, to share what the word "compassion " means to you...





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Passing through a phase

Passing Through

by Stanley Kunitz

—on my seventy-ninth birthday

Nobody in the widow's household
ever celebrated anniversaries.
In the secrecy of my room
I would not admit I cared
that my friends were given parties.
Before I left town for school
my birthday went up in smoke
in a fire at City Hall that gutted
the Department of Vital Statistics.
If it weren't for a census report
of a five-year-old White Male
sharing my mother's address
at the Green Street tenement in Worcester
I'd have no documentary proof
that I exist. You are the first,
my dear, to bully me
into these festive occasions.

Sometimes, you say, I wear
an abstracted look that drives you
up the wall, as though it signified
distress or disaffection.
Don't take it so to heart.
Maybe I enjoy not-being as much
as being who I am. Maybe
it's time for me to practice
growing old. The way I look
at it, I'm passing through a phase:
gradually I'm changing to a word.
Whatever you choose to claim
of me is always yours;
nothing is truly mine
except my name. I only
borrowed this dust.

"Passing Through" by Stanley Kunitz, from The Collected Poems. ©W. W. Norton & Company, 2000. Reprinted with permission
This again from the Writer's Almanac,
This again,my "fall funk"I too am passing through a phase, I guess we all are interminably passing through a phase. I share the sentiment of never really having been a birthday party girl.For now, however, I do enjoy being as well as being who I am . I have only just begun the "comfortable in being who I am phase" in the middle of my life. I do not want to practice being old right now,I am content not practicing being, but actually being. Perhaps a colorful crisp ride on my bike through an autumnal forest will bring me out of this funk more into this being...