Screen Time

I sleep with my phone on airplane mode. Upon waking and coffee, the day’s ritual includes returning the phone to its open receptivity. Upon changing the setting, I feel myself lean back, as though to avoid the expelled pressure of withheld communications; the pings of incoming text messages bang around the quiet room like rapidly fired tennis balls shot from a machine.

I work in a restaurant where a family of five will spend a hundred dollars on dinner and never look up from their phones. One man sits upright and friendly, gazing at his salad like he a lost a bet, while the woman across from him shops for out of print tennis shoes on the black market. In the drink lane, from whence non-alcoholic drinks come, servers retrieve their phones from the front pocket of an apron with the same alacrity a toddler scoops a pacifier into its mouth from the dirty floor; scroll Instagram, Facebook, SnapChat, Pinterest.

I didn’t want a smart phone. I kept a flip phone not for economy but so I might spend my time well. I resolved when I got the sleek new device that I’d manage myself, would not become one of those sad saps eating dinner with a hundred people on Twitter while leaving my dining companion alone. I resolved not to text at red lights, no way in hell I’d take pictures of clouds. I wouldn’t consider launching a blog post from such a small screen – how would I ever edit properly? I would take no selfies, never indulge hashtags.

Dear Reader, with the exception of posting a blog from my phone, I’ve done all of that. I scroll articles about time management and motivation, shop for books about feminine spirituality and contemplative prayer, I post listings on Etsy and peruse the newest independently published tarot deck I might add to my collection. I use the Insight Meditation timer to keep me honest, so I actually sit in meditation for as long as I intend. I look up gemstone meanings and try to decide if I need that smoky quartz pendulum. I look at other Etsy shops that specialize in malas and compare my prayer beads to theirs. I wonder if there is a place for me in this online world where everyone writes and sells their specialty until there is nothing special except one thing – and that one thing has nothing to do with online.

I have thought about establishing business hours. I keep odd hours, proof of which is in the time stamp on this post, but that’s no reason not to let my students and clients know when they can expect to hear back from me. How about Tuesday through Saturday 2 pm – Midnight? That’s reasonable.

Beneath this inquiry into business hours, I learned that I feel queasy at the thought of not responding quickly to inquiries for fear of seeming negligent in business or callous in temperament. I don’t want to come across as some half assed, un-grounded yoga teacher (I seem to recall a very reasonable yoga teacher once telling me, “Yoga practice should make you feel very grounded.”) So when the volley of pings fly out of the phone, the cats and I respond to texts and emails as they come in. This, of course, leads to oversights, as my mental acuity is not its best before early afternoon.

I find myself feeling resentment and constriction around the very device which is meant to serve my business and, by extension, my clients. I am grateful for the work I get to do, whether it’s designing a unique mala inspired by a client’s spiritual practice or arranging a time to trim an out of town friend’s hair. I have noticed my inability to set boundaries around screen time has made it harder for me to appreciate and be present for the people it helps me serve.

The marvel of our twenty-four seven connectivity is that more and more of us feel severely disconnected. I know I do. It is also a time trap, creating a gulf between my aspirations and the ability to act on my hopes and dreams while scrolling a stream of motivational images on Instagram – learn it, live it, be it. Whilst falling down the spiral I swore I would not go, I thought I could resist the psychological effects of using social media to promote my offerings and wares, but it is impossible.

In a world where high tech and HD are the icons of modern culture, I long to let the edges of my world blur like the moon in a misty sky. Where the hashtag vibehigher, elevate, rise are prominent among spiritual entrepreneurs, it feels like a striking contrast against the primal urge to send down roots and become still, to take my seat on the Earth and connect with the energy that swirls deep in my spine. How can I ever #elevate if I don’t have anything to hold onto?

The idea of turning off my device creates an uneasy feeling, like what comes when turning one’s back on an addiction. The phone in my hand, the scrolling screen that trains my eyes and mind to read flashing images and respond to advertisements, is a device meant to improve our day to day; enhancing our ability to schedule, communicate, take pictures, and plan. But how easy is life if I can’t live it, because I’m too distracted by the device in my hand?

Interestingly, my Teacher is now on Instagram. She is using it to share teachings, post little practices and share insights. I love and cherish this because as a long distance student, it is a new means of connection I dearly appreciate. She talked about it a little bit in class and said that anything can be used with Consciousness, which helped me see how unconscious I’ve been around screen time, media use and online shennanigans in general.

Because Consciousness is the name of the game and I want to practice what I teach and study, I’m going to establish a day in which my phone goes on DoNotDisturb mode (this allows a list of contacts to still ring through) and I put a 24 hour restriction on my apps. I’ll use a kitchen timer to meditate. A notebook and pen for chapter rewrites (these will probably be the best chapters), for music I’ll listen to the radio.

When I return my phone to its open receptivity, it will be with the intention to attend to each incoming message and inquiry with the same level of presence I hope to offer folks standing right in front of me. When I post on social media, I aspire to come from a grounded place, so what I share might be helpful and, though I am loathe to use the phrase, Authentic.

To do that, I’ve gotta disconnect first. I invite you all to join me in this little experiment. I would love to know how it goes for you.

 

The Azalea Sutra

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The sun came out for a little while on Thursday, just long enough for me to think about going for a walk. By the time I cross the street to walk by the privacy fence with the forever barking dog behind it, the sky was cloudy again and a brisk wind reminded me it is still only early Spring.

My mood is elevated by the hints and touches of Spring peeking out at me. A pink magnolia tree, with petals strewn around its base like the red carpet at a wedding, sparks little shoots of green from its branches. The moss clinging to magnificent oaks is freshly saturated by the recent fog and is thoroughly audacious in its greenery. My sycamore out front is still bare, but tall and winding skyward. The camellias are still going strong, if not a little heavy on the trees, like they grow weary of all the wet weather and wish for sunlight to dry their faces. And then there’s the damn azaleas, pink and white in turn.

For every rose bush, oak tree, hibiscus –  the sago palms and gardenia bushes, there seems to be a hundred azalea bushes. I’m walking along with this light springy feeling in my chest, something like one might feel at the sudden arrival of a pastry stuffed with a light cream, and I wonder why those god awful azaleas are making me feel so happy.

It’s the pink azaleas that draw my eye the most; they’re a shade between bubblegum pink and the fuchsia that was so popular in the eighties, just a tone darker than what Sheena Easton used as her choice color of blush. The blooms congregate on these massive bushes, their green showcases the passionate blooms like the black night illuminates the stars. The white azaleas remind me of swans swimming among gentle waves of leaves, little handkerchiefs adrift of the hands of nature.

Whilst I power walk in my neighborhood, I take a stroll down memory lane. I remember the Azalea Trail painted in a pink stripe down both sides of the street where I lived in Mobile. To be honest, I have no idea what the purpose of the Azalea Trail is, other than to designate the rout that the Azalea Trail Maids must follow in their parade through Mobile. I’m not sure what their purpose is, either, but I bet it’s some kind of southern society I want no part of, especially the part where you have to wear a dress that looks suspiciously like those damnable Azalea flowers.

NationalAppearances

I remember finding leaves that got painted in the Pepto Bismol pink that missed the hue of anything natural by a few shades. Sheena Easton’s cheeks looked more natural in 1981. These leaves intrigued me, by either their misfortune or good luck, I’m not sure. I also scratched out rocks from the street’s pavement that were painted the same shade by a truck that drives for the city, painting streets, while all around my house the azaleas blazed.

Azaleas are synonymous with this time of year. The end of that interminable Mardi Gras and the start of Lent, for you heathens who don’t know what that is, don’t worry, neither do I. The distinct feeling of the the wind’s touch in the month of March whispers optimism, renewal and a touch of delirium from vitamin D deficiency. There is a promise at this time of year that is more Earthy than some far off mystical experience or promise of salvation or enlightenment. It’s the promise of life, to be exhilarated and frustrated with daily existence, to be disenchanted by feelings of monotony while holding in heart and mind the ability to enact the drama of your wildest dreams and most creative aspirations. We are reminded of the simplicity and audacity of life when flowers bloom, kittens open their eyes, the sky changes from sunny to overcast, a sudden thunderstorm appears overhead, sunlight breaks through the clouds. In an instant things can change, a small green sprout will surprise a branch with its happiness.

I love the Spring almost as much as I love the Fall, but I’ve hated azaleas for as long as I can remember. I round a corner in my neighborhood and must contend with seeing a massive wall of azaleas, white and pink and green. They are taller than I am, and I notice this sensation of happiness in my body, like bubbles or butterflies dancing. What the hell am I doing with this happiness while there are azalea bushes vexing me with their presence?

A green shoot of awareness juts from this barren branch of habituated loathing and I recall that for as long as I can remember, my mother has hated azaleas. Every single Spring she would disdain the blossoms unfurling their petals in abundance all over the damn place (admittedly, I use significantly more profanity than my mother ever has, expletives are my own). With that whole mysterious Azalea Trail business afoot in the Spring, there were plenty of azaleas to hate. She was reminded of her dislike around every corner, and she reiterated it often. Ironically, my mother loves every other flower. She can recognize different varieties of the rose, can root anything that has been alive within a decade; she adores the scent of magnolia, cuts plumes of ginger blossoms for me to put on my altar, violets stay alive in her possession. She once resurrected an aloe plant that died immediately from being given to me as a Christmas gift.

I am startled to discover I don’t hate azaleas at all. I think I might even be fond of them, if I’m to listen to the sensations I feel rather than the impressions I’ve adopted. When I see these bushes I think of being a kid in Alabama going to see my great-grandmother on Easter. I remember Spring breaks, cosmetology school, all the miles I ran in all the neighborhoods in which I lived. I think of this neighborhood where I live now and feel grateful.

This accidental little experiment made me wonder what in the hell other inherited opinions I carry I’m not yet aware of. As I make deeper inquiries of myself, my power walk slows to a pace more conducive to contemplation. After another block or so, I am heartened, because being able to discern the mental impressions and entrenched nature of thoughts is one of the purposes of yoga (and by yoga I mean meditation, not handstand in a bikini).

The mind can be such a tyrant. It knows who is right and what is wrong. Azaleas are bad, hibiscus are good! As someone who practices meditation with some level of regularity, sometimes the best I can hope for during a practice is for the grip of my mind’s opinions and judgement to loosen up, admit to being wrong, or sometimes harder still – admit to just not being right.

This moment feels like a little, but important, wedge between my incessantly thinking mind with all of its preferences and determinations and the mind that is a tool for care and creativity. I recently increased my daily meditation time, not by much and that whole “daily” part yet remains to be seen, but this insight came at such an opportune moment, bolstered by the bird song and other cliches of Spring. This stuff works, and I might add even more time to my sitting meditation practice to find out exactly how well. It might even become daily.

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Lightning Bug Lessons

I like twilight noises. I especially like the raspy lilting of cicadas and the throaty welp of frogs happy at night fall. As I sit in a quiet house on a quiet street in Atlanta, I can hear the steady cacophony of creatures beneath a twinkling urban sky; it’s early for night creatures but all the day walkers on the street seem to be sleeping. It’s just me and the alley cats, the crickets and rain.

After I arrived and unpacked, I went to the front porch to watch the day fade into that time when the landscape is in sharper focus because it doesn’t have to compete with the brilliant light of the sun. With my journal on my lap, I write a page about the marvel of a room in which I’m staying at the ashram during my trip to see my Teacher. I am in the room of a long time resident who is not currently home and the blessing of this is the photos, art and sacred objects in this cozy space. If I don’t have a dream about Jesus in this room, I can give it up forever, I’m just saying.

While I twirl the pen around my ear, a message winks at me from my phone. A car passes. A bird lands on the sidewalk then walks across the narrow, car lined street. I love this street and I love this ashram. As the stars come out and quiet descends, I feel the pangs of homesickness, like the twinge in leaving a lover at the airport.

To my left there is a twinkle in the bushes. It is a slow pulsation of light in midair.  I’m not ready to start having visions, yet I see it again; a yellow light, hovering and blinking on – off – on – and I see the silhouette of the bug it belongs to.

A lightning bug. I’d forgotten all about those. They are a relic from childhood, a legend like dinosaurs. We know they existed once, but don’t think about them so much unless they’re in a book we read or show up in a memory. But there it is, like a velociraptor tiptoeing down the street, like coffee with a dodo.

My phone blinks less artfully than the bulbous butt of this bug, and without thinking I open the screen and reply. While I text touchscreen letters onto a sleek mirrored screen the lightning bug maneuvers over to the porch, blinks again, then disappears into the magnolia bush. I look for him, my phone screen face down on the wood planks. There’s a twinge of regret that I might have missed befriending him while I was screwing around with my phone. As the shadows lengthen around me and streetlights come on, I know reality is never found on technology. It is in the myths of nature, the turning of time, and the breath of light we must pay attention to.

I stare at the street. I think of my cats, of getting to see Swami tomorrow, the novel I intend to finish editing and who I might con into reading it. I contemplate the Cats of Ancient Egypt exhibit at Emory I’ll see while I’m here and delicious vegan hotdogs with my friend. There is no order of importance to the catalog of my mind, it is ambling like the lightning bug in the bushes. Twilight turns darker and the night creatures grow louder. These sounds are comforting, like the noise from an air-filter while I sleep. The buzz and chirp of the street relaxes my mind.

I gather my journal and phone, but before I lift myself from the stoop I see that yellow breath of the lightning bug, brightly floating and friendly. He is the only one I see, and I wonder romantically if he is the last of his kind and what he does with himself. How long will he live, how will he carry on his lineage?

I’m in my comfortable, borrowed lair still thinking of that lightning bug. He offers the message not to become distracted from what is real by the murmurings and winks of the modern world; otherwise we might miss the sudden flash in the magnolia bush, the spark of realization in the heart. The lightning bug says we don’t have to flash too quickly, a slow steady pulse will do. And if someone isn’t giving you the attention you want or need, pass on by and keep doing your own thing.

I looked up the symbolism of the lightning bug. I figure if an animal crosses your path suddenly after a 30 year absence or repeatedly in a short span of time, it’s interesting to investigate what they’re trying to tell you. That sparky little guy brings tidings of illumination and the message not to underestimate marvels and miracles just because  they may have an uninspiring appearance during daytime hours. The breath is intrinsically linked with Light – the lighting bugs flash bulbs are created by a chemical reaction between certain enzymes in the presence of magnesium ion, ATP and oxygen. This is not very different from humans; deeper breaths = more Light.

“That which is night for all sentient beings is like day for one whose senses are controlled. That which is the time of awakening for a sentient being is like the night for the introspective sage who sees.” The Bhagavad Gita chapter 2.69

 

The Mysticism of Mondays

About a year ago I sat with the resident tarot intuitive, Uma Simon, at Kashi Florida and had my cards read. About a year previous to this she did a reading for me over the phone. At the conclusion of this reading, I told her that I, too, once read cards. I hadn’t realized I’d been missing it until the admission fell from my lips.

I’d stopped reading tarot cards when I realized how ardently I’d been wrestling with them. Somewhere between terrible romantic relationships for my entire adult life and going into yoga teacher training I became exhausted by the various methods of mental and energetic martial arts I employed against the Universe. My plea was often, “Tell me what in the f*ck to do!” while attempting to get the Cosmos to submit in a badly executed leg lock.

Uma gave me some advice at the end of that conversation that opened the door to reading cards without the plastic and superficial focus of fortune telling. It seems when we try to foresee the future it can cheapen the moment; from this I have learned from my renewed interest in tarot that what it really deals with is the present moment and everything we bring with us into it. It deals with the same space as meditation and other spiritual practices, making tarot its own sadhana. In this way, tarot may offer inspiration and perspective without the gravity of neediness that accompanies the desperation of, “Tell me what in the f*ck to do!”

I’d gotten rid of all my decks except for the Ancient Egyptian Tarot, which interestingly can be found on Amazon right now for about three hundred dollars, used. No you can’t have mine and no, it isn’t for sale. I also kept the Tarot of the Cat People and Halloween Tarot, all of which I kept with the same reverence I store old paperback romance novels I can’t bring myself to get rid of, up to and including Quantum Leap fan fiction (I am not kidding).

Invigorated by my conversation with Uma, I began buying new decks. I relish the new, independent decks out there now, from the wild and naked She Wolfe Tarot to the demure, tea stained Ophidia Rosa Tarot. Dear Reader, I became a tarot slut. I love being able to look at the cards online before I buy the deck and all the unboxing videos. I think the colors and audacity and sometimes irreverent simplicity of twenty-first century decks are amazing. I feel like a time traveler in a new era. I also bought the Rider-Waite Smith deck because that is what Uma used and I wanted to have it in my collection as an homage to her because she empowered my reading so sincerely.

My most recent purchase is Mystic Mondays – Good Vibes Only  – which is an independently published tarot deck that probably went through a fundraising cycle for its first few incarnations before getting picked up by a publisher (congratulations). I’ve looked at this deck before and thought to myself, “Prana Devi, you can’t take all of them home.”

Some of you may remember Monastic Mondays, a practice I had years ago when I was in teacher training. Sometimes called my Pants-less Holiday, I’d resolve not to do anything any more necessary than meditate, write and possibly go for a run (I would wear pants for that). Monday is a day sacred to Shiva, so I adopted this practice as a devotional practice, sometimes doing a semi-fast or practicing a coffee puja – you know, normal stuff.

It was the one day of the week on which I was uncompromising. I wouldn’t take or make an appointment, I wouldn’t even leave the house. This time of hermitage is important and sacred because I work in the public, with the public, almost every other day of the week. But then I started teaching yoga, which in some ways is just another way of working with the public, even though you can usually assume the clientele will behave a little less like the damn public and a little more like human beings.

I taught two classes on Monday, adding this to my schedule thinking that teaching a yoga class couldn’t possibly impinge on my monastic holiday but would, in fact, enhance it. Teaching yoga is a sacred offering, after all. Y’all, I was a new teacher and didn’t know any better. By the time I realized I’d sold my only sacrosanct day of the week it was too late; the studio owner held my feet to the fire. Of course, I allowed it, so bad on me.

When the Mystic Mondays tarot crossed my screen on Instagram with the announcement that this was the last round of self-published decks and the next batch would be printed by a publisher (congratulations) I felt a flutter of panic because there is something innately special about the effort and quality of the self-published tarot deck. They seem to have a little more of the artists’ hand on them, they are a little closer to the origin of all art. So I visited the website, where I read the inspiration for Mystic Mondays tarot: The name Mystic Mondays is inspired by fresh starts and new beginnings. We have the power to set intentions that will carry on with us for the day, week, year, or even a lifetime. Mystic Mondays is a lighthearted way to introduce spirituality into your daily life, and most of all, to have some fun while you’re doing it!

I realized I previously treated Monday like a reset point, a day home following sometimes grueling weekends of restaurant work. Monday, of all days, was a daylong spiritual retreat. I found for myself something opposite of the Monday blues, where we set and forget intentions for our day, week, year or lifetime.

Mystic Mondays arrived on Monday, which I take as an auspicious sign. My life is different than it was when I was in teacher training, I am busier but the nature of my work is no longer chaotic. I’m not strung out with the dogged determination to be a full-time yoga teacher; I am content right now with the work I do because of the freedom it gives me. Even so, I go through days when I think about challenging the Universe, to rush and wrestle, perhaps against the stream, for the life I imagined for myself eight or ten years ago.

I’m inspired anew to take these goals, intentions and moments of simple being Monday to Monday, perhaps day by day, and if I’m really smart, moment to moment. The future is waiting ahead of a million choices and breaths, the past can not breathe for us. But in the moment is where every inspiration has been brought through into reality. The moment is where I wish to sit, enlivened perhaps by brightly colored pictures of inspiration and perspective.

 

 

Mala Puja

My first mala was a silver capped Rudraksha I ordered on the internet about twelve years ago. It’s a half mala made of 54 beads and doesn’t fit all the way around my wrist in the bohemian chic yoga fashion we have all come to know and love, but it’s a good mala anyway. I learned there is such a thing as Shiva, mantra, and prayer beads as a necessary accessory simultaneously – I shopped immediately and with abandon.

I chose the silver, chain linked number for the same reason I bought that shirt with the zipper all the way up the back that time – style and function. By my estimation, if it’s chain linked then my mala isn’t likely to break, which back then would have been a travesty because I didn’t yet know how to make or repair them. This mala needed to be sturdy because I was hell on wheels; determined to do both spiritual practice and maintain the half drunk social life I cultivated all the way back in beauty school, it wasn’t uncommon for me to do my japa (mantra repetition) in the CVS parking lot where I bought my cigarettes on my way to the bar.

This mala, in particular, has seen the best and the worst I have ever had to offer. This mala witnessed nightmare boyfriends, all night benders and career changes at the speed of light. It was with me in teacher training and the first time I went to Kashi Atlanta; I wore this mala around my neck and I felt both conspicuous and liberated.

At some point, I wanted a new mala. This is when I decided to learn how to make my own and the rest is history. I make prayer beads all the time now; for sale, for gifts, for friends and teachers in training and I feel very lucky to to do it. That first mala is something special because I realized it could be done, that I could envision it and then have it in hand. It is black ebony with gold flecked acrylic accent beads and a black and gold elephant charm beneath a small Rudraksha (the same brown seed bead of which my first ever mala was entirely made) – this mala looks like it should be around Michelle Pfriffer’s neck in Married to the Mob.

married to the mob

You may wonder whatever happened to that unbreakable chain linked mala that got me all the way to the cushion to begin with? When I learned that it’s appropriate to drape a mala over a picture of a beloved Teacher or Guru, that’s exactly what I did. I don’t know how long those Rudraksha beads circled Neem Karoli’s image, but it seems like a long time. The silver began to look dull and the tiny dog tag with Shiva in place of a tassel tarnished so it was hard to make out the image of the meditating Lord.

I’m not sure exactly when, but that mala fell into a tea light so that two of the silver capped beads were coated in white wax. I wasn’t sure how to clean wax out of the crevices of Rudraksha beads and, having decided that it lent an authentic, well loved took to my altar, left them alone until last week when I wrote “clean wax off mala” on my to-do list in my dot journal.

I don’t know what inspired me to add this to my to-do list, but once it was there I felt like I should actually do it. I’d moved the mala from the wood frame to the bowl of a blue lotus candle holder once I decided to clean it, and I retrieved it from its ceramic cradle last night. I looked dubiously at the tarnished metal, uncertain of my plan to rehabilitate it and not even sure why I felt inclined.

Alas, I took it to the kitchen sink over which I began to pick at the wax with my thumb nail. I was delighted that it flaked off easily enough, but there was still the matter of more deeply embedded wax. My plan was to boil it out with hot tap water, which worked like a charm. The wax melted out of the small channels of the dark beads quickly.

I turned on the cold tap and gathered the mala in my hand so the water could wash like prayers over the entire strand and with the cool water running over my hands my mind wandered back to Kashi. I thought about the Kali puja I attended with my Teacher. It was the February weekend workshop that culminated in a timeless practice of devotion through which I sang kirtan among my friends.

I witnessed my Teacher offer her hands to the care of Kali in the temple where we practice and learn. The room was awash in sunlight but we were all transfixed by the devotion and offering of time and attention taking place before us. There were candles and incense, fruit and chocolate, ghee poured onto a flame, there was a garland and flowers for the Mother. There was a palpable awareness that none of us would ever be the same.

Like the snap back of the space/time rubber band, I realized standing at the sink with my hands and prayer beads in running water that to practice puja means to take care, to tend to, to attend to. In a flash, this realization changed the whole feeling of cleaning this mala from the physical removal of debris to an act of devotion to that which is in service of the Divine. What else is a Mala meant to serve?

I dried this mala and noticed it felt lighter and sparkly, though the beads remained dark from the recent flood of water and years of use. I oiled the beads with jasmine oil and a silent passage of mantra over the beads to tune into the mantra, the mala and the Divine. I spent some time polishing that silver tag bearing Shiva’s likeness so that the tarnish lightened to a patina.

I realize as much as I have wanted to be told what book to read or which website might teach me about puja, it’s actually something that dawns like light in the heart. I might have been told a million times in a thousand lives, but having been shown is like the equivalent of muscle memory in the energy body – retrievable, irreversible, immanent. It is actually and absolutely the product of Grace.

But with this information regarding puja, it opens the practice of puja to limitless possibilities. Even self care can be a form of puja to the Divine dwelling within the body; drink plenty of water, eat good food, walk on the Earth.

Make effort on behalf of the good.

Give your full attention whenever possible.

As my Guru would conclude her emails, “This is my puja, and this is my prayer.”

Sunlight made visible
the whole length of a sky,
movement of wind,
leaf, flower, all six colours
on tree, bush and creeper:
all this
is the day’s worship.

Night and day
in your worship
I forget myself
O lord white as jasmine. 

 

 

The Smorgasbord Moon

unicorn

You’ve got your super moon, your blue moon, the Adam’s Family-esque blood moon and you’ve got your total lunar eclipse! You don’t even have to choose between which lunar phenomena you want to enjoy because by the time you’re reading this blog all of it happened at the same time.

This is one of those astrological events that makes me feel like I need to do something. In the very least I should cleanse my crystals, but I don’t think you’re supposed to do that during an eclipse, even though you are supposed to take advantage of the extra light of the super moon. Do you see how complex this could get? It’s like trying to figure out how to dress for a wedding and a funeral simultaneously!

Then there’s everyone on social media who is an expert on the heavenly bodies that influence our small, human existence. “Be aware of this, watch out for that….” They say. I just got a notification from a Vedic astrologer advertising, “How to survive this eclipse portal.”

No pressure or anything, it’s just a matter of life or death.

Catalyst Yogi delivers sometimes wild concepts in such a reasonable way I am able to benefit from his videos and posts. That’s an important skill for a spiritual teacher to have, you know, or how else are you ever going to get anyone to practice something called fire breath in lotus pose – am I right? He casually mentioned on Instagram regarding this lunar eclipse, “You’re about to get an energetic poke towards your destiny!”

Awesome. How about a little more of that.

But that’s also about the time I sat down with my blanket and closed my eyes, wondering what in the hell I’m supposed to do with all of this information. I want an assignment, you know;  write poetry on Target receipts and light ’em on fire, walk barefoot around the backyard widdershins and be on the lookout for the possum who lives under the porch, find out who ate the pink pool noodle and see if they need help.

While I was under my blanket, I remembered a moment in front of my meditation table not too long ago. You see, it is not uncommon to make an offering of fruit, incense or a candle. Typically the offering is to a favored Deity or placed before a picture of a beloved Teacher or Guru. Whilst leaving such an offering to a not so uncommon image, I felt suddenly gripped with an insecurity…. am I doing this right? Should I say something more, or perhaps less? Where should I put it and is that bowl nice enough? This is, of course, an approximation of the dialogue which was actually a sudden and inexplicable torrent of that kind of insecurity mashed into a split second feeling.

That ego is a tricky bitch, always trying to knock you off your game.

A reassuring grace followed, and though I was wilted, my practice wasn’t weakened from the momentary onslaught. Beneath the pressure of this super full blue blood eclipse, I’m going to share the thought that comforted me so much in that moment; you don’t actually have to do anything except show up for your sadhana (spiritual practice) and be as detached as you can be (Krishna had a lot to say about this; read The Bhagavad Gita if you haven’t already).

This is where you push back, I understand. There is so much to be done during these astrological alignments and portals and degrees of celestial awesome I would be remiss as a teacher to tell you to do anything less than EVERYTHING! possible to harness and release the magical energy locked – sealed! within the confines of these rare events.

Yes, I know.

But… do you ever feel like it’s too much? Do you ever feel like it is so meaningful that you get performance anxiety and instead do nothing? That’s where it becomes a problem, and that is when the fact that everyone on social media is a level nine astrologer tangles with our individual ability to dance with the planets and stars to the tune of our unique birth chart and relationship with the heavens.

Now you might be one of those Yogi’s who is perfectly capable of balancing the charge of a super moon with the reclusive combustion/yearning for ultimate purpose of a Leo eclipse, and if that’s the case you’re a better Libra than I. But if you feel overwhelmed by the information around this or really any celestial event, take a step back and get simple.

At the new moon think about what you would like to bring into your life.

At the fill moon consider what has come to fruition and might be moving out of your frame of vision.

During this cycle, or any moon cycle, don’t negate the rest of the phases of the moon in favor of conserving your focus for the new and full moon. For example, the waxing crescent is a fun time to pay attention to sprouts in your life. What talent or interest is flirting with your attention? Take a week or more to journal on this topic.

Go look at the stars without thinking about who or what might be where. Just appreciate their outrageous beauty and the fact that one of them might be your distant cousin.

I don’t think dancing with the celestial bodies should feel like work or be so overwhelming that we just freeze up around it. And remember, like when you leave an offering of fruit or flame, you don’t have to do anything except show up with devotion; the Divine is who receives it and transforms the offering into a blessing. If you want to get technical, it is also the Divine making the offering, just saying.

Sometimes being a witness with a wish to grow is enough to turn your presence into a blessing.

If you’re looking for grounded information I follow Jessica Lanyadoo on Instagram @jessica_lanyadoo she’s witty, well written and is usually very kind to Libras. http://www.lovelanyadoo.com/weekly-horoscope

Catalyst Yogi is excellent but not necessarily an astrologer. He gives accessible and reassuring insights into energetic goings on. Visit his blog catalystyogi.com

If you’d like something of the tarot card variety @thewelltarot gives a weekly shakedown that’ll help you watch your step and keep a sense of humor about it if you stumble. thewelltarot.com and sign up for her news letter.

Remember, not everyone on the internet is your friend and not everyone knows what in the hell they’re talking about.

 

Practical Magic

queen of cups

This New Year’s day happens to fall on the very same day in which the moon, our luminous satellite, is full in the night sky.

This is very auspicious.

Since getting on Instagram and enjoying all of the belly dance, tarot card and cat picture posts by resident witches, pagans and gypsies from around the world, I’ve discovered that everyone on the planet is an authority on astrology. I’ll be scrolling and see a long, emoji peppered post by a yoga teacher talking about how the moon is in Virgo so we better watch out, because it ain’t exalted there – or whatever.

I’m always like, “How do y’all know that? Where do you get your information?” Because I’m over here with my We’moon calendar trying to figure out what the symbol with the squiggly lines and horned dots is supposed to mean while the rest of y’all are planning your month around Pluto’s transits and solar flares.

The moon, on the other hand, is less foreign to me. The moon changes signs once about every two and a half days, so if you eff up a perfectly decent Moon in Libra by fighting with your spouse, you’ll get a re-do in about twenty eight days.

The new moon is a time for starting new projects and for setting intentions for what we would like to see increase in our lives. Think setting goals, re-aligning with your dreams, growing a business plan. Intention is something like a resolution, of which there are plenty at the New Year. Start a diet, get fit, finish the book, start the book, become a yoga celebrity, start college, ditch the loser, find a partner, quit drinking, quit smoking… you know what I’m talking about.

This is thinking in terms of, “I’m gonna do.” Not bad, but let’s turn it around.

The full moon is a good time to start thinking about what you would like to let go of, what you would like to see decrease in your life, what no longer upholds your dreams and aspirations or supports your work, whether that’s spiritually, mentally or physically. Think about what holds you back or enables procrastination. Y’all, the cosmos has set us up to do exactly that right here at the new year.

Turn your powers of discernment towards your day to day habits, contemplate what you want for your life and see where the two points are at odds. Question what you have set in place that keeps you from it. Instead of making a list of resolutions that you’re gonna start doing, decipher how you can get out of your own way and focus on that.

 

Now we’ve gotten around to the point of this post – your practice, should you choose to accept it. First, let me tell you that I have learned the fine art of using index cards in my spiritual practice from my beloved Teacher, Swami Jaya Devi. She has us write stuff on index cards all the time.

So here we go, starting right now, start thinking about habits that get in the way of what you really want to be doing with your life. Immediately one or two might come to you, but stay with it and see if there is anything beneath the surface. You can even take this into your meditation and sit with a nice, slow fire breath for about a minute and then sit in the stillness to see what comes up.

There may be one big hurdle that you want to focus all of your energy and upon which you wish all of the moon’s brilliant rays to shine. However, there may be a lot of small ways in which you sabotage yourself, so just write that stuff down, too. Now is a good time to remind you to approach this practice without judgement or criticism of yourself. Just remember that you’re trying to make a little room in your life to start a flower bed but you have to shovel out some dirt, first. Full moon is for excavation, new moon is for planting.

On New Year’s eve or day build yourself a nice little bonfire. Invite the kids and get some marshmallows and vegan hot dogs. Invite your family and friends and have plenty of index cards. Say a sweet prayer for guidance and protection to whomever you entrust your path and practice then invite everyone to write on their index card. No one needs to read anyone else’s, but between bites of s’mores place your card in the flames.

You may not be set up for a bonfire. Don’t worry about it. A fireplace or a coffee can in the driveway works nicely, too. But let me tell you something, this practice doesn’t have to be so woo woo. You can write, think, text, email your list to yourself and then delete it, recycle it, bury it. What you’re going for is awareness of self-limiting habits and then a method in which to transform it.

Don’t expect overnight magic, though we can hope, can’t we? We’ll have to work at it and remain mindful, but this is deeply symbolic to the human psyche and a powerful method of solidifying your intentions. Consider what you put in the fire to be an offering to your highest Self and to the inspiration you wish to have and to be. I wish you all the luck and all the space to express your creativity, compassion and genius in the new year. Remember to work with fire responsibly, make an effort on behalf of the good and share your stories with me if you’d like.

* Image “Queen of Cups” from Danielle Noel’s forthcoming tarot deck Moon Child, shadow deck to the Star Child Tarot. @moonchildtarot starchildtarot.com