They are all gone.
After a busy morning of breaking down the last of camp—the Privy Tent and the Shower Tent—stashing garbage, washing final cups, after saying goodbyes to the airport crew who will bump down the mesa road in the pickup to load into a van to the airport and fly back into civilization, after goodbyes to the drivers with many hours of road ahead of them, I stop. I feel the stillness. Soon, everyone will be home to proper showers and baths and laundry and clean hair and wifi, eating what they want when they want, feeling things moving and fluttering inside them. It is too soon to assess the retreat, too soon to understand internal motion. Read more
One evening, near the end of the 2018 Movement Monastery retreat, we did Witnessed Self-witness. It yielded for me what our minds might consider a surrealistic episode, yet for the body this is a normal perceptual way.
The exercise: Witnessed Self-witness. Couples sat cross-legged, facing one another murmuring. One person spoke with eyes closed, tracking sensation in the body and speaking out loud these self-witnessings while the partner listened. In this retreat, we have explored listening, or visually witnessing, in a new way. We moved beyond responsibility for and guardianship of our partner, and opened to being influenced. In the Old French and Old English, the meaning of ‘influence’ was “the flowing in of ethereal fluid affecting human destiny.” Read more
I sat with Ric, Carleen, and Betsy sipping water with lemon on the patio of Santa Fe Bar & Grill. It was late afternoon. Overhead, a pergola with thick festoons of wisteria shaded us. Across the patio, a waterfall gurgled. We relaxed together after a Dancemeditation workshop. It felt as if we had lifted aside heavy drapes of a circus tent, left the ordinary world, and entered a non-ordinary world. I talked and my mouth made shapes, throat and larynx rolling pitches on the exhale into words that eddied out with the dithering humminess of a Winnie-the-Pooh variety. My mind sat beside the waterfall where a little girl picked up a leaf and dropped it again and again into the infinitely changing burble. My body purred. Read more
The cycle of light and dark means we are turning as Earth—a dervish—faces the sun then the wide cosmos. The salubrity in light and dark is a matter of degree; bright light and blinding light, soft dark and blinded dark. Dusk. Closed eyes. Sleep. Hiding. Beneath a crust of autumn leaves tiny shoots grow. In shadowed places are freedom, gestation, peace, recovery, quiet, liberation, respite. Read more
My practice yesterday evening…
The sun had just set. Outside, a frigid wind pummeled the house. Inside, I danced for 40 minutes then lay down under a pile of sheepskins while dance tracks—Sheesha Lounge—bounced softly around. Out of nowhere, a casual, offhand invitation arose for one of my most significant sexual partners (why was he still lingering in me?) to leave my body. Then a sequence of invitations—please, I invite you to leave words came on their own yet from me to what was, apparently, in me. Long-term boyfriends, one night stands, two ex-husbands, and finally, after a bit of coaxing, abusive partners. Each went in a faint puff of the relationship’s predominant tone. One by one by one by one…I had to be patient with this ceremonial retinue of fleshy intimacies. The occupying armies departing after many years. Read more
Finding an Evensong
I have a well-established morning tea time—some call this a ritual, though I prefer the term Morning Tea. I have a lovely tea set—a pot to steep actual loose tea leaves, a beautiful china cup, a silver spoon to stir in the milk and stevia. I sip and write in my journal. I write whatever I need to write; drafts of blog pieces, screeds, notations of what I accomplished yesterday, notes on what I need to do today. Morning Tea is precious to me and I allow very little, save for an early air flight, to disrupt it. Read more
Many of us write journals, diaries, confessions. These are each different in tone and in self-relationship, yet each is personal–we speak to ourself. I write daily in my journal, so it could be a diary (the word ‘diary’ being a daily record of events and experiences, coming from the Latin ‘dies’ for ‘day’) but I am including the notion of confession not for its connotation of sin but rather of disclosure. I write to know what I think and feel, to hear myself, sometimes to reveal myself to myself. Here are excerpts. Read more
From writings about helping my father as he completes his life.
Late night. Alone in my bed. The wind sighs heavily in the maple trees, sifting through branches with fewer and fewer leaves to rustle. The sound sits on me. I feel my feelings. Windows of connection with my father shrink. There are no longer infinite moments. I digest this. I feel this. Read more