Leave No Traces
I hate the idea of writing things for you to do. It repels me. Hairs stand on end. Yet, here I am. I don’t pretend that humans are one size fits all. I don’t think that anything can serve everyone, and I often find myself rolling my eyes a bit when someone starts to shriek from the rooftops about how they have found THE way – the right way of eating, the right kind of exercise, the right spiritual path, the right thing to believe in. I do believe that there are certain lines of inquiry that can serve many people well. The answers that will arise will be varied, but they will be equally valid. This is one such line. The inquiry of what kind of traces are holding me to the past?
The Power of Working in a Group
I attended ‘workshops’ aplenty throughout my late 20’s and early 30’s, things focused on being bendy in yoga, things focused on becoming a Reiki practitioner, things focused on dissecting a certain spiritual text or methodology, but group only became a transformational force in my life later on. The early stages of my curiosity in spirituality always revolved around acquisition. I wanted to be more of something. More bendy, more well-versed, more possessed of magical healing powers.
One of the most insidious usurpers of both consciousness and destiny is the victim. The victim is a main component of the seemingly intangible shadow, and it lives in all of us; it talks with our mouths and walks on our legs. On the surface it does a fair job of getting us what we want and of keeping us protected, fed, and on top. In truth it is a destroyer of intimacy, de-railer of dreams and a general fuckwad.
So, here we are again. Reaching the end of another cycle, and welcoming the darkest (at least in the Northern hemisphere) part of the year. 2017 was a bit of a doozy. I have yet to connect with anyone who called it easy. It’s been a year that’s stretched us to our limits in almost every sense. It’s been demanding, and sometimes relentless. Also, it doesn’t seem like it shows any signs of stopping.
“Purity” is one of these words. Somehow it brings to mind a puffy-sleeved-seven-layer cake of a wedding dress made of some un-namable man-made material. I hear banjos. I smell aqua net. I am transported to sweaty back seat congress and resounding no means no’s. There is a demand. There is a judgment. And it almost always has to do with sex.
March 13th 2012
I have been wriggling away from this for years. There are a thousand reasons…all valid. But this time I said yes. No one really knows why.
March 12th 2012
Tarapith has been an exercise in surrender, bladder control and chocolate biscuits.
I had visions of me writing daily reports, recording the minutia of the experience…but in truth after 11 straight hours meditating in the hot sun on a cremation ground I have barely the power left to think, let alone write….
Thailand to India
February 23 2012
I’m up early and it’s painless. There’s a taxi waiting outside as I’m checking out, and he’s happy to take me to the airport at a reasonable rate. There’s no traffic. I giggle with the woman checking me in about how my departure date coincides perfectly with my visa’s expiration. She claims that the flight isn’t full and offers me a seat at the back with no one in the neighboring seats. Immigration is pleasant. Everyone is helpful. I begin to recognize foreshadowing.
November 28 2011
The thing I remember most about the conversation was the angle of the couch. Me, sprawled out in some Brooklyn apartment somewhere in 2003, virtually drawn and quartered between different realities. My mind moves back to that place and tries to crawl back into itself and fails miserably. I can’t remember who I was then, what belief systems were in place, what kinds of things made me happy, what moved me. I can’t put in place the driving force behind my being, I can’t remember toward what I oriented myself. I can’t really locate me in space.