"Focus" and "Territory"

A few poems written during Dedication Yoga


Focus

My intention is just,
well, what is yours?
Lifting from the dark
shadows of this walled
creation I've constructed
to preserve a sense
of chaos in this arena,
the internal voice of reason --
what is the reason
for all of this -- saying
I love the wrong way.  I don't
know why or how but
I do, consistently, end up
this way (crushed) -- decayed
from the inside out:
so shiny and brilliantly flawless
until the surface splits
wide and that gangrenous
spirit is revealed
as the hero within.




Territory

There's a circle to this
strategy, a before-and-after-
and-in-between.  I fall
in step in the sideshow
of it all, not up or down
but neutrally eye-level.
Hi.  I see you
clearly.  Do you see me
in this silent cacophony
of sight and sound, a disorder
of order so vibrant I want to call it
by a formal name, like Arnie
or Clementine, both real and bogus
enough to get your attention.
I want you to see the method
to this madness -- how richly preserved
I am in this place.  There is no need
for blessings anymore --
there is only a result.
This is that.  Unheard.

Being Present

Sarah B. taught Week 4 where the theme was being present, using the mantra "I Am/Here Now."  This is what I wrote!

- Sarah W.

Sarah said something during class today that I made a mental note to remember and then promptly forgot.  That's how brilliance works sometimes.  Subtly. Invading the bloodstream as anonymous cells that keep things moving.  I know what she said was a play on words about being in the moment.  The Dependable Now.  That's not it, though.  Someday it'll manifest itself as a thought in my head and I'll think of Sarah and smile, perhaps without fully understanding why.

Take right now.  I have Kelly Clarkson's voice in my head singing, "I forgive you, I forgive me.  Now do I start feeling again?"  What brings this song to my head?  Why these words on relentless repeat on a beautiful day on a hill overlooking the city, surrounded by the peace bestowed by yoga?  This is my moment.  This is how it's being absorbed by my bloodstream.  A murmur of conversation floats nearby and I think of earlier when Sarah and I walked around administering savasana adjustments on the group as a family of five wandered by, their conversation replaced by slack-jawed staring as they solemnly strolled by our concluding practice.  They didn't know what they were witnessing, but they knew enough to witness it without the laughter and competitive hear me hear me hear me tone of voice they'd used only moments before passing by.  Intuition plays an instrumental role in defining now, even for people who are out with an intention different than your own.  There can be solidarity in this gray space, this fleeting moment.

For me, it's a song about forgiveness.  If I went around and asked every practioner, a different answer would be given.  It adds perspective to this place.

There is a subtle influence in the way we breathe and how that breath is inevitably mingled.  There is a lesson being learned, even if we don't know what it is until later.  

Ahimsa

Ahimsa:   (Sanskrit:  अहिंसा) is a term meaning to do no harm (literally: the avoidance of violence – himsa). The word is derived from the Sanskrit root hims – to strike; himsa is injury or harm, a-himsa is the opposite of this, i.e. non harming or nonviolence.




These are a few poems written during the ahimsa-focused class from Week 2.



Ahimsa

When everyone else retreats
to the shade, I move to the sun,
like the heat of nature is where
I literally can shine.  This is a kindness
to myself, a way to let my solstice
come to life.  Without this choice --
light or dark -- I don't know
what I'd be.  Maybe a swirl
of hot and cold, like
the nature of it all.



Ahimsa B

You won't understand
why I'm crying
so I put on sunglasses
and fall in line.
There is no easy way
to tell this story
of self-punishment
for a crime I didn't know
I committed until someone said,
Hey, hey you, you fucked
this up.  I did, I guess, I did.
Why else would the words
be said?  My wounds
aren't exactly self-inflicted --
they're more like absent
until you rip away the scabs.
All this time, I thought it was solid
flesh but now I know it's not.
And that's probably my fault, too.
This is a kindness -- it is a wake up
call, it is a dawning of the day
as it is, as it should be, as it always
will be from this moment on.
If you could see my eyes,
you'd know the depth of this truth.

But I will keep my sunglasses on
and do my best to conceal
the aftermath of me, ripped apart,
but healing from the inside out.


Ahimsa C

There are so many variations
on this pose, so many opportunities
to shine in a new way.  Say,
did you ever take the time to say
thank you for being here today?
And when I say here, I mean
in this literal limited moment
on this pinpointed spot
just as you are, no more,
no less.  It's hard to know
when you've done enough --
being grateful for the splitting seconds
is a full time job where the deadlines
burn you out and then build you up,
the proverbial phoenix, the conduit
of momentary bliss followed
by momentary bliss on repeat.

Pilot Program, Take One!

Today, the "studio" was a hot-and-sweaty ninety-plus degrees but with a lovely breeze and a wide blue sky above -- perfect for the start of our Dedication Yoga pilot program.  We had six practioners of varying skill levels join us for the one hour practice plus twenty minutes of writing on Prospect Hill in Somerville, Mass.  For those of you who don't know, this spot offers a gorgeous view of the Boston skyline.  Sarah and I had snuck up there last week to do a trial run and I'd been pleasantly surprised by how quiet and peaceful that corner of Somerville turned out to be.  Today was no different as our students arrived with yoga mats and water bottles in hand.  Sarah and I decided to rotate teaching, so I was on deck for the first class (she'll take the reins next week).  As I taught, Sarah did some adjusting as well as demonstrating and before either of us knew it, I was cuing the group into savasana, the final resting posture.  Then everyone found a spot in the shade (or if they were crazy like me, in the sun) and got to work writing or drawing about this week's dedication, the mantra "I am/here now."  Even though I taught, I opted to write as well, finding myself writing a few poems, a genre that I love but rarely write these days.  

Here are some samples of what I wrote:

Untitled Poem 

A conversation for another day:

sparks fly off of rooftops,

nerves frayed and worn.

What could complete this cycle?

What could seal this fate?

I sit in the full stare

of the sun, shining with hard 

earned sweat, and I barely remember

the cold of winter as the welcome

breeze strolls by.  Here, I am face to face

with bees at work and I think

how pretty the weeds are, even, on this day.

I know there's a change in season

and a time for it all to be so clear,

but as I flick away the buzzing

near my ear, I don't even pretend to care

about what will come when it will come

Prospect Hill

It's a sleepy hill and an active town --

why, just down these cement steps

is a square full of bars and cars with people

in them.  Seems funny here, though,

where the only sound is a flag flapping

in the breeze and the occasional song

from a bird.  It's like they all forgot 

about this place.  But I never could.

Some prose:

I haven't written poetry for a few months now.  I'm all about fiction these days.  But the idea of "I am/here now" draws my focus to lyric verses and line breaks and well cadenced word choices.  Poetry for me is about simultaneously looking out and looking in.  It is simple and reflective.  It's creating a life that's already established, just making it arty.  Fiction writing is a labor of love -- it's starting from scratch -- it's building flesh and bone from the first dividing cell.  So when I decided to focus on fiction this year, I subsequently lost sight of poetry.  I barely write it anymore.  My creativity is already stretched so thin.  But when asking a class to think about the phrase "I am/here now," it brings my mind immediately to poetry.  It brings me into my verse.

Today was simply amazing.  Thank you to everyone who came out and who shared their practice, their art, and their time with us.  We'll see you next week.

Namaste,

Sarah W.