Making Butter

I made butter yesterday. I think.  I poured heavy cream with a dash of salt into a cold mason jar, tightened the lid and shook it until the slosh of liquid thickened into the thwip of something that wasn’t quite Kerrygold but was far removed from Cool Whip.  I don’t know if it truly qualified as butter but on the first rainy evening of autumn my friend and I smeared it on fresh-baked rosemary bread and washed it down with homemade soup. It was delicious.

Yep.  Butter making.  Soup making. You might say I have too much time on my hands.  My toilet has never been so scrubbed, my hide-a-way bed so neatly hidden, my laundry so freshly washed and my dishes so deliberately stacked.

And I have to be honest.  I love it.

At first, when I lost my ability to fill the space between appointments, I wanted to believe I’d lost my drive.  I wanted to believe I’d become lazy. Isn’t laziness easily remedied?  You pull yourself together, up the caffeine and step on the gas.

But the only thing rushing through life has ever done for me is blur my vision.

So, for now, I’m going to let life slow down.  I’m going to take a more considered path.  And I’m going to make butter.

Dharma: Look Before You Leap

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The question of the day in the afternoon seminar I attended at the SYTAR (Symposium on Yoga Therapy and Research) conference in Asilomar, Pacific Grove, California was, “how do we know the difference between dharma and wishful thinking?”  In Hinduism dharma refers to our personal obligations, callings and duties.  And wishful thinking?   Wishful thinking is…well…just that.

You’d think the answer would be pretty straightforward.  In fact when I sent the question via text to the friend I go to with all conundrums of the metaphysical sort his reply was  “If you have to ask…”

I suppose he’s right.  I shouldn’t have to ask.  I should know.

But here’s the thing:  how many times have I been swept up by an idea or an intention or a goal that I was convinced was my path?  My destiny. The reason for my existence.

And for a few weeks it is.  Until it isn’t.

So you can see why I’m a little hesitant to trust my instincts.

Then again, I’m one of those people who might on occasion leap before looking.  But when it comes to dharma blind leaping may not be such a good thing.

My friend has a point.  We probably shouldn’t have to ask if what we’re feeling is dharma calling or wishful thinking.  Instead of asking and then desperately grasping at any answer, perhaps it’s simple stillness that’s required.  A moment’s silence.  The space to meditate with a quiet spirit and a calm heart.  When we can temporarily vanquish the turbulence of life only then will we find the clarity to look our dharma in the eye.

Dancing with My Heart

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Woman at left is painter Suzanne Valadon

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“Open your heart.”

What does he mean, open my heart.  My heart is already open.  Isn’t it?

I would describe it as a modified version of the classic closed-eyed-swaying-amoeba dance from 1967.  I was definitely moving.  I was even managing a steady rhythm although I can’t be certain whether it was to the music flying through the air or the music in my head. All I know is that my body swayed. It might not qualify as ‘dancing’ but I was having fun in my own ‘I’m just fine where I am’ way.

My friend, on the other hand, arced across the room. I watched him shift from the cerebral to the intuitive as he left behind convention and expectations. He moved like a planet abandoning its orbit, half satyr, half nymph.  A shooting star.

He was not alone.  The large studio was filled with men and women giving their bodies like offerings to the music.  There was nothing pre-ordained in how they moved.  It was a pure call and response.

I had yet to pick my feet off the floor or move my arms or walk more than two feet away from the safety of the sturdy wall at the back of the studio. I was happy near the protection of the wall. I was safe and content to continue my swaying amoeba dance.  I figured it was a miracle I was moving at all.

So I don’t know how it happened that I was suddenly in the middle of the room with my friend.  We were spinning and I was trying not to fall over and praying I wouldn’t stomp on his toes.  We whirled around one another, ducked under arms, turned forward and then back again.  A few minutes passed and then he leaned toward me and said,

“Open your heart.”

And when the track ended, my friend moved on and I moved back to the consolation of the wall.

What did he mean – ‘open your heart’?  Wasn’t my heart already open?  Just because he can leap around a room and not care who’s watching and I can’t doesn’t mean my heart isn’t open.

A chance encounter a few days later helped me understand what my friend meant.

I was at the Cal Train Station in San Francisco on Sunday with an hour to kill.  A family with a young boy of about four walked into the station and sat on the bench beside me.  The boy and I made eye contact and I asked him about his souvenir cable car filled with chocolate.  His brown eyes were lit with adventure.  He could not sit still.  He wanted to chase pigeons.  I watched him race back and forth with his dad, arms outstretched, laughing louder and happier on each pass.  His contagious joy echoed through the station. We all smiled as he ran with his shoulders rolled back and his spine arched.

And then I had the “aha moment.”  The little boy chasing pigeons at the train station was doing what my friend had hoped I might do. The boy was running with his heart leading the way.

It wasn’t the mythic heart my friend was imploring me to open.  He knows me well enough to know I have a seeker’s heart. What he wanted was for my body to help my seeking heart on its journey.  My friend simply wanted me to create space in my heart center so the mythic heart would have room to breathe.  Room to grow.  Room to laugh.

So this week I’m making a promise – to give myself space and to move through life just like that little boy at the train station who danced with an open heart.

Epiphanies and Death Trap Accordion Doors

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I was so lost in thought at lunchtime yesterday that I narrowly avoided being crushed by the folding doors at Piazza’s Fine Foods.  The good news – other than I survived intact – is that had the doors had their way I would have died with a smile on my face.

Yep.  That’s right.  I was smiling.

I don’t know why I feel compelled to mention my smiling brush with death – and let’s admit it – it’s closer to death by embarrassment than death by automatic accordion door – it must be the Summer Doldrums.

I like the doldrums.  Life slows down this time of year. Work dwindles while clients and their kids take vacation breaks.  At first I fidget for a bit with too much time on my hands.  I worry about the dip in income. But then the hot, sunny days slow everything down to a gentle simmer and somehow being alive becomes more about embracing my ‘aliveness’ and less about my cold, strident race to the finish line.

Because the whole mad race to the finish line really isn’t working for me.  Not only does the finish line keep moving but I’ve realized that I’ve been so busy racing against myself that I’ve forgotten to experience the world beyond my doorstep.  I’ve been watching everyone else – my friends, my clients, my yoga students – live their lives.  Meanwhile I’ve forgotten to live my own.

And as long I can master the art of stepping through folding accordion door death traps, the truth is, life is pretty damn good.

My Weekend with Hermann Hesse

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Siddhartha (novel)

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When someone is seeking … it happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything … because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal.

I have a stubborn streak.  I took me ten years before I saw the movie ET the Extraterrestrial.

And I knew only one thing about Hermann Hesse’s book Siddhartha:  It was the paperback tucked into the back pocket of anyone attempting to look more enlightened than the rest of us fumbling saps when I was beginning college in Nebraska.  Sure I wanted to hang with that clique, but I refused to fall for the hype.

So when a friend asked incredulously, “You haven’t read Siddhartha?” I had to sheepishly admit my literary and yogic faux pas.  He pulled the book from his shelf.  “Here.”

I took the book from his hands and thumbed the pages.  It looked thin enough.  Even though I had several books ‘on the go’, what harm would it do to take the weekend to read this one?

I opened the book and a bottle of Hefeweizen that afternoon.  Beautiful, lyrical prose.  I kept reading, the beer grew too warm to drink and the truth began to reveal itself.  Somewhere in the final pages I recognized my clinging, grasping nature.  More than that, I realized that what I was trying to grab hold of was an illusion.

There’s a part of me that regrets not tackling Siddhartha when it was suggested reading for my Philosophy 101 class.  But there’s another part of me that believes the book fell into my hands at the perfect moment.  My advice?  If the last time you read Siddhartha the Beatles were still together, consider reading it again.  And if, like me, you were waiting?  All I can say is, for what?