Full moon or Gibbous, Swansboro NC (Michael Grady photo)

gibbous moon slants

poems composed in darkness

feverish heart beats

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carolyn and priscilla lasecki kieber

Death reminds me that there is really only one way to live. From the heart of love.

Returned last night from burying Mom in North Carolina. A devoted Catholic, Priscilla Lasecki Kieber embodied the heart of bhakti yoga.

Whether she was sitting on the beach, enjoying the beauty of the rolling oceanic waves, preparing cake for a crowd of company, or volunteering in a community group, I’ve always admired the way she lived beyond the fray of “talk.” From a steady and patient center, she infused her relationships with the steady gift of herself.

Her home was was filled with Madonna icons and crucifixes ~ symbols of the objects of her love. She seemed happiest when she was in church, whether at daily Mass or evening novenas. A blessed string of rosary beads were never far away from her praying hands. If she missed a Sunday service, she was heart-broken. How soon would she return to the abode of her Beloved?

Her devotion to the Divine gave her a steady stream of wisdom and strength throughout her 87 years.

Trinity Evangelical Lutheran Church window, Amherst NY

Friends sent me poems of comfort this morning. Here is a short stanza from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran:

Only when you drink from the river of

Silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain

Top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your

Limbs, then you shall truly dance.

In death, as in her long life, Mom is surely dancing with her Beloved. It is through taking small steps and opening our hearts, one kind word at a time, and refraining from one little meanness after another, that we can join her in this Blissful Tango.

Mom would have loved this video of Henri Nouwen’s sermon on THE BELOVED:

READ MORE: a lovely blog post on a bhakti workshop by one of my fav German yoginis, Lilylotuswillow: http://lilylotus.wordpress.com/2009/09/17/david-newman-workshop/#comment-312

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Form and Meaning Arises (carolyn grady photo)

One who perseveres on the path of noncovetousness gains deep understanding of the meaning of life. (trans. B. Bouanchaud)

I DO pray for aparigraha to blossom in my life like a spiritual flower showering me with the clarity and buoyancy of a saint. This yama, suggests I relinquish that which I hold onto. I need to lessen my grip. It’s a manner of looking at the world, myself, my relationships, and of course, my STUFF.

This late December season which holds my birthday as well as the Christmas potlatch does tend to stoke the fire of WANTING. This wanting always throws me off a bit because I’m usually  contented with life and feel the need to GET RID of stuff in life-simplifying gestures.

As I grow older, less becomes critically important for me to own/do.  The years teach me what I can do without.  When Mike’s grandmother was in her nineties, she used to tell us “less is best.”  The year we lived in a small apartment in Bombay taught the whole family how little we could live on/with—and still have a happy life. It was a blessing that I didn’t always appreciate. After I returned to the States,my life in India took on a special radiance that I slowly realized came from simplicity and a lessening of the grip STUFF has on me. This awareness also grew from a growing sense of the riches present in my life, a sense of overflowing abundance.

Nischala Joy Devi ( The Secret Power of Yoga) discusses Aparigraha in terms of “awareness of abundance, and fulfillment.”  By meditating on abundance, noncovetousness naturally disappears. When practicing lovingkindness or metta meditation, I add abundance to the fourth line of the mantra: May I live in ease and abundance. It’s part of the process of evolving away from my poverty mentality.

A poem from my collection Barefoot & Upside Down:

the crumbling bark café

beneath an overcast sky

I lean against a tamarack

and spy the red-shouldered

hawk’s eyes on me

there is nowhere to hide

from her keen sight

we both keep still and watch and breathe

eventually her mate circles and cries

I feel so big and my body

growing earthen

overhead the clouds fly like planes

two red-breasted nuthatches in a dead jack pine

poke their beaks in decaying wood

it’s lunch at the crumbling bark café

I imbibe the tender wind

the moist air

splash in the ditch singing in overflow mode

wonder if I’ll see the garter snakes this year

a ball of glorious reptilian copulation

surprised me once before

seeking the specials du jour

I find a young sapsucker

tapping holes on a cottonwood bole

a chestnut-sided warbler intently feeding

in the old sap wells where insects

swarm to sugar

and a female oriole

so sophisticated  in yellow and black

explores hole to hole along a horizontal ring

slipping her slit tongue again and again

my belly growls

why do I never have enough?

**************************************

Bernard Bouanchaud takes us deep into the heart of this Yama: ” When the mind no longer worries about acquiring and keeping goods, we understand where we come from, where we are, and where we are going. We discover the meaning of existence….”

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I am tackling the NANOWRIMO challenge this month, so blog posting has taken a back seat, I am sorry to say to my loyal readers and friends. However, what a great time to begin a haiku-post tradition expanding Laughing Yogini’s Poetry tradition? 

There is a great tradition of linking haiku and meditation, particularly zen practice ~ look for a post on that topic AFTER November. Photo coming to this page soon.

In the meanwhile, I recommend you check out Mahala’s Friday Flowers. How I could ever have the audacity to post any of my flower pics after seeing her incredible PHOTOGRAPHIC  MEDITATIONS is something I may figure out in the next life.

Enjoy!

***************************************************

single dandelion

chilly autumn morning breaks

monotonous green

***************************************************

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What is it that I am waiting for? Why do I think I am not good enough or strong enough or smart enough or beautiful enough or kind enough? Why is the ripeness, the fullness of my existence so difficult to accept?

Why do I think someone is more ~ or less ~ then my self? Why do I not see the wholeness in the world around me?

Why is union so elusive?

There is a beauty and joy as the trees in the northeastern US give up their leaves every fall. The world ripens. My prayer is that I may accept and be grateful for the ripeness that is me ~ that is you. However momentary that may be.

Here is a video produced by A Network for Grateful Living (ANG*L) of Poet Jane Hirshfield performing at the Poetry of Gratefulness event at the Herbst Theatre, San Francisco, CA, February 3, 2008. I recommend a visit to: http://www.gratefulness.org…a non-profit organization dedicated to the practice of gratitude. You may want to check out some of the other very worthwhile videos while you’re there!

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Studio Panterra garden fairy (ckg photo)

What is certain in this life?

CHANGE. Only change.

If I am filled with utter happiness, I can sure that at some point, I will no longer enjoy the feeling.

If I am crying my eyes and heart in grief, I know too that that sadness will not last.

You will not last. I will not last.

The stress of this moment will not last, neither will the relaxation.

We are constantly shifting energy in a decaying body thinking fleeting thoughts and feeling a constant flow of emotion.

Whew! There’s something to observe during your next asana practice.

In the meanwhile, here’s a poem:

autumn storm

sliding on

a leafy

mess

underfoot

touching

whirlwinds

of leaves

crisp curled

past lives

living

my sky

so much

like yours

endless too

charged sun-

light’s warmth

& frisson

drew us

towards

the cronk

cronk cronk

of geese

instinctual

flight

and call

what happened

to us

unsettled

milkweed

seedpods

shatter

scattering

embryos

my life

and yours

flying

apart

the skyscape

darkens

every

shade of gray

sleet

needles

blow

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from the collection, BAREFOOT & UPSIDE DOWN:

This place spreads

Without intellect,

Or sincerity.

Trees bust boundaries with the sky;

In the valley, wildflowers dangle

Everywhere, simple animals skitter.

Visual harmonies break,

Create a palette of incongruous

And unknown mores.

The sky keeps

Claiming sight as it drifts.

Nothing is still.

Nothing tells me

Anything of truth or untruth.

I have no sense if the clouds are clouds;

If a storm is approaching or departing;

If I’m in the aftermath of a bizarre

Spree of nature or if I am nature

with arms of reaching tree limbs

and shiny dark petals for eyes.

So, this is what I do

I spread my arms

And twirl.

Eying clouds, like butterflies, flitting

I collapse on spongy ground

My guts begin to split

And liquid laughter pours

From a cold and rushing spring.

Mark Knight flying - Pedernales Falls TX - (Nate Grady photo)

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Happy Fourth of July to American yogins everywhere.

Beyond the flashy fireworks and barbecue festivities, this is a day to reflect upon the meaning of freedom and to celebrate the birthday of our country. Revolutionary War soldiers certainly felt as if Colonial powers were impeding their lives and their freedom. For many of us however, the celebration is checkered by a history that was often cruel and pocked by the nether aspects of  humanity.  For instance,  the culture and political community that existed on the continent was nearly obliterated.

How can we reconcile the shame with the pride?

Have you taken time today – even ten minutes – to ask WHO AM I while sitting in silence and listening to whatever burbles into consciousness? I feel truly free when connecting with my SELF, the Source of energy and life itself. Does the past impede your present life or can you free yourself to live truly open to this present moment? Have you ever felt truly free?

Some thoughts to pepper your practice:

Do you feel constricted in your life?

Can freedom be achieved in every single asana? What is the key?

Is there a place or a practice that helps you move and act beyond shame and pride? Do you even think that this is possible? How does this relate to freedom? Is freedom a worthwhile endeavor? What do you consider more important?

What are the chains keeping you from living the life that is YOURS?

Is personal or spiritual freedom possible without political freedom? What price are you willing to pay for each of these liberations?

How can a sense of lightness, humor, and joy infuse the challenge of becoming more free?

Here is a five minute sacred pause meditation from renowned teacher and author of RADICAL ACCEPTANCE, Tara Brach, that was created by OMEGA.

When I watch the fireworks tonight in Swansboro, North Carolina, I’ll think of the struggle for personal/spiritual freedom that this community is dedicated to and I’ll clap for y’all at the first appricot squiggle bursting overhead.

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Poetry can be used as a wonderful tool for your meditation. There is a layer of a good poem that is “off the page.” When I teach poetry, I ask my students to try to understand, not only the literal interpretation of a given poem, but also whatever levels they find off the page.

Often, we read this layer with our hearts and have a difficult time explaining that level of the poem to another person; we’ll say it’s hard to put into words or we’ll say “you know” a lot while nodding our heads. It’s the layer of the poem that speaks to us the loudest and with a universal message of what it means to be human. We know, and again it’s a nonverbal knowledge, that the other person understands, or maybe I should say FEELS what it is the poet is trying to convey.

When listening to or reading poetry, RELAX open your heart center, and invite your Self to become the poem. If that sounds too airy-fairy to you, just sit back and softly focus your awareness on each line of the poem.

The first video, created by IshqDaFakeer, contains the lovely Soundtrack: Oceanic (Part 1) by Anoushka Shankar.

Here is the transcription of the poem:

Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu
Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion

or cultural system. I am not from the East
or the West, not out of the ocean or up

from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not
composed of elements at all. I do not exist,

am not an entity in this world or in the next,
did not descend from Adam and Eve or any

origin story. My place is placeless, a trace
of the traceless. Neither body or soul.

I belong to the beloved, have seen the two
worlds as one and that one call to and know,

first, last, outer, inner, only that
breath breathing human being.

The second poem-video, “Say I Am You” was created by rahmama2. The music is by the composer, Eleni Karaindrou, and is the theme music called “Eternity and a Day” from the movie, Aggelopoulos.

And if they don’t speak to you, don’t worry, I’ll post something completely different next week.

After you have “experienced” each video, you may wish to sit quietly with your eyes closed for a few minutes and let them reverberate in your heart and mind. As you do so, welcome whatever bubbles into your awareness consciously. Then let that thought go as you create room for whatever else may come before your mind. Do this as long as you feel comfortable.

If you’re inspired, by all means pick up your pen and paper, or head to your keyboard and let loose. Mevlana would be pleased with your efforts, I’m sure.

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from BAREFOOT & UPSIDE DOWN, poems by carolyn kieber grady:

Awakening Saint Carolyn

They still call me their Christmas Carol—

I was born during a Buffalo snowstorm in ‘54

On a Jersey estuary I caught crabs in coffee cans and learned how to bail

I don’t know anyone who died in Viet Nam

though rock n’ roll and napalm twist like splinters in my mind

We wore plaid pleated skirts white blouses and blue jackets

drank wine beneath the front steps of school

The landscape of my childhood still fills me with dreams

Like my sisters I was born tough    affable

bossy and smart

When the charismatics sang I am the Resurrection and the Life

I floated somewhere near heaven

Six of us crammed into a rowboat during the flood of Polly’s Pond

and the Shrewsbury River—it was the only way home

On half-days of school I’d organize hitchhiking races and concoct personas—

the persona du jour relieved my teenage boredom

I built playhouses complete with gardens of iris and daisies

While I fed patients lunch in the nursing home the TV droned Watergate

Sometimes I listen to birdsong when I should be reading

During the Cuban Missile crisis we were timed walking home

Like my brothers I grew into humor as a way of life—

each of them is a comic — together they’re a chaotic riot of laughter

I skipped school to go to art galleries and hang in Central Park—

Washington Square guitars still strum in my head

I worried my breasts would burn while nude sunbathing—

our wallets stolen— we ran the tolls all the way home

Once I almost mistook Dylan Thomas for God—

his green fuse drives this soulflower

I fell in love with a wise quiet man who taught me patience

and who mends my heart

India grew rampant as a bittersweet vine in my life while

teaching in Mumbai—I can’t shake it off—

During church processions I sang as if I could save the world—

I think that’s still possible though now I sing sweet tweeps on Twitter

I am afraid of my visions though some would say that what you can’t see can’t hurt

For too long I wore his hands around my neck like a necklace

I swiped Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason out of my father’s library

and read through the night

It was the Summer of Love— my eighth grade class trip canceled due to riots

I am phobic of lightning but am unafraid of people

We fell in love over peanut butter sandwiches and picking apples

Please don’t ask me to drive— I failed my test seven times

I never went to Woodstock though I learned all of the songs

When I marched for peace, punks who wanted to bomb Nixon disillusioned me

I skipped school to go to the New York Public Library to research

uses of metaphor in Moby Dick to surprise our English teacher— who had escaped the

draft by teaching in Mater Dei—he called me a wiseacre

They called me “mother” when I held their hands in the prayer group after school

We spoke in tongues but didn’t know what to say when the elders

said we were possessed by evil

I went to every school dance though I grew tired of Springsteen’s band

Being flipped around in the foamy Atlantic storm surge I lost my sense of “up” —

I never really learned how to surf

I try to answer the cardinals in their own tongue

I practice being upside down and breathing

Three times I ran away from home and was arrested once

As a Child of God undercover in the Pine Barrens my job was to hide the stove—

they called me Sherebaya—I cooked what was begged or foraged

There was a riot in the Bergen County Correctional Center—

I wasn’t really sure what to do

I had repeated nightmares of the world ending:

often I saw the drawbridge opening with me dangling

Sunning on a beach in Maine when the police came —

an APB said “wanted” —no more sleeping in the coffeehouse

or witnessing to addicts and hookers

Three felonies charged—it was impossible to remain innocent

The man on the moon seemed so very far away

On the morning of my wedding I ran three miles— I don’t run anymore

Dysplasia usually turns cancerous in ten years—so far I’ve had a bunch of surgeries

and wonder how much is left for them to cut

In the folk group my favorite song was Glory To God

There is a pond whose crowd of weeds and odor of ripeness heals—

I begin to die a little when I don’t see it

Like the Turkish poet, Nazim Hikmet, I hear voices— this is his form

Today I listened to birdsong instead of reading

My patron saint is Charles Borromeo—there is no Saint Carolyn

Suffering from overexposure on Algonquin Peak, being chased by a rhino in

Nepal, and being held at gunpoint were the scariest times of my life

Can a person love trees more than people?

Sometimes the boundaries fade and I am certain we are the same—

one being with many bodies

I still spend most of my life dreaming

though I am trying to awaken

this very moment.

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