Sabbath #133

This morning at the field the dew was thick. My feet were wet through in minutes. It’s the time I take our puppy to run so I can have theses few minutes to write. The temperatures are still cool early and I wear my old coat. I wear the black yoga pants I’ve worn the last several days, mud-splattered. As of yet I haven’t even glanced in a mirror, my hair pulled back and this morning the Cubs baseball hat. I’m starving and striving for routine. How odd it would be to do the same thing at the same time of day, or day of  the week. For years everyday has been varied, different jobs, different locations. So in a few weeks I’m leaving a business location I have had for nearly 35 years. I’m moving some of this business with me to a different location and I have begun two new jobs. At the center of all is writing. I say that then look at how I spent my time yesterday. Most of the day was spent preparing for and teaching a Yoga and Journaling class.  I loved looking for the poems to use; Mary Oliver, James Wright, Rumi, Jane HIrshfield. Breaking into blossom, a thread. In the mix I practiced yoga. I want regularity. On Mondays do this, on Tuesdays do this. Just as soon as I have it set in my mind how it might be, I see that I have scheduled a trip to California to visit family or Vermont to work. So possibly there is no resolution other than to name the important activities: writing, reading, time with my husband and family, exercise and go from there. Making a living, another category. And this is just a musing of what might be. This week: write a poem a day. This week: finish the content for the website. This week: go to the gym. This week: discover something new and then include it in a poem.

Sabbath #131

This Sunday I am back in Onancock, home after nearly two weeks. Pleasure and more pleasure. My friend, Julie, and I attended training in iRest®-Yoga Nidra in Petaluma, California. On either side, we visited with my son, his wife and their children and my daughter who recently moved to the Bay area. This moment, I could pick any number of subjects to write about: my return, the wisdom of an ancient meditation practice and it’s effects, the delight of being with family, shared  experiences.

I’m always calculating the time in California. Right now, 6:13 in the morning.

When I am with my children and grandchildren, my heart is open like a flower following the sun. When I am not with them, my heart closes like a bloom closing at night. I learned this in Yoga NIdra.

I want always to be open hearted.

Something unnamed has settled within me.

I experienced eyes of love transform another human being and then a room full of sixty people: Yoga Nidra.

My six year old grandson asked, “Can dead people speak?”

Writing poetry and practicing Yoga Nidra are both sensory experiences welcoming and inviting in all that there is.

One human being to another.

Everyone is doing they best that they can at their level of consciousness.

I am doing the best that I can, learning every minute.

I’m waiting for the bells to ring.

Resolute.

Return.

The bells ring, a long sermon.

Yesterday I cleaned and washed laundry all day, reorganized the dressers and closets.

Approaching another challenging week.

Heart’s desire and heart felt desire.

Radiant and radiate.

California time: 6:58 am