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Simply Complicated

I can’t remember where I read this mother’s account of her son’s last words: “It was all so simple. “ He was referring to life.

 

I stopped reading though her account had just begun. For the profundity of his finding in that moment took me aback where in another time it might have just seemed another hackneyed observation. And also, because I am a mother of sons.

 

But that statement indicates that there is no reason to worry. It disrobes the drama that is worry. It implies that everything is O.K. while these days it definitely feels like everything is certainly not going to be O.K.

 

It’s simple, eh? We are here to love and be loved. That is simple and beautiful enough. But I have rarely heard of a human life unfolding seamlessly.

Cheekwood optic fiber cotton candy Bruce Monroe by Rob Lindsay

Despite a desire to love and be loved or because of it, when someone doesn’t treat us well a worm of doubt assures us we are not worthy and the bad feelings get paid forward in future relationships.

 

Evolution as actualization begins at birth. In spite of the immense beauty that surrounds and buoys us, it is discomfort by way of desire or avoidance that keeps us moving.

 

Beyond that, we do not live to love only. We live to survive and survival comes first. In a system that demands we compete to survive love can get lost in the shuffle. And the shuffle has gone beyond our inside circle. Our connectivity is both support and pain.

 

Memory says that things are not O.K. We wrestle the future. We enter the news and become part of the stories that shock us. Acts unspeakable and not understandable are committed by people who are like us in most ways. Mutation happens within our tribes. We are tribal. In small ways and large, people act badly. Equilibrium abides because in small ways and large, we also act kindly.

 

We extend a helping hand to nations beyond ours but our service is a form of dominance and the seeds that spawn the grain are tainted. Our produce is a reflection of corporate power. If we enjoy the agricultural that created a Honeycrisp apple we can’t be surprised that technology also brought forth monster seeds. It comes at once. A revolution of technology followed a revolution of industry and fostered worldwide revolutions of disgruntled reactionaries who keep our hair raised and our fear at code red.

 

Nothing is simple. Or is it?

 

Spirit guides point me to a commonplace hearkening I’d become deaf to. Turn the other cheek is not so different from love your enemy or even love no matter what. No matter the circumstances, the human is urged to act alone as an act of rebellion. Defy fear. Do not hate. Love despite all. The act of loving oneself and one’s testy neighbor is revolutionary. That is the telling of non-reacting that is yoga washed in Buddhism.

 

In this midnight awakening it seems true and possibly simple. If we only loved from the first consciousness there would be no fear. Without harm or threat of harm things would be less complicated. But we messy human beings came wired for fear. We come with internal landmines that might or might not be active.

 

 

The wrestle with demons is the fable of heroism, the story of good v. evil we crave. If it is not in our own lives we seek it in stories of others. Perhaps that is what was and is so simple; To know our own nature and abide calmly in it.

 

 

 

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One Precious Life in The Third Act

 

I am not a religious person

I don’t speak of God

But sense the order of things

The smallness or bigness of things

 

In meditation I hear myself say;

I don’t want to contribute to society

It’s a reaction

To the onslaught of opportunities flung in the face daily

Through the electric waves

That scream aimlessly from every wired port

 

Electricity is appealing

Particularly in storms

Last night the storm scared the pants off people cowering in their beds

And burned my friend’s folks house down

I stood naked in the brilliant night

Comfortable in the lightening

A sense that lightening makes me strong

This electricity

 

Not so much the metal messengers when

They carry shock waves of disaster, fear and demand

Lightening may equal disaster and fear as well

So perhaps the relevant word is demand

 

 Through the internet they beg; know this, learn this!

So often it would be better to learn what I have forgotten

Like shopping in my own closet

I think I need a new blouse

But here in the back is one I’ve forgotten

I don’t need new things

I will not bury myself under but

Pull from the treasure of my past

Piling on others things

Isn’t this the definition of gluttony?

One must be discerning to keep exhaustion at bay

 

I do not react to ‘contribute’ in the apparent way

And consider as I hear it

The small ways

In the beauty of the garden

The delicacy of the dinners

Helping students find their way

Placing the flower in the vase

The conversation with a friend

Efforts for those I love

And for those I do not

But who need me none the less

In which one cannot be other than in service

 

Mary Oliver’s question lingers;

What will you do with this one wild and precious life?

This is not the first or even the second act

I now know the curtain will go down

How many years are left in wholeness?

Where wild youth did not care

Or believe in mortality

Now wild stays under the skin

And less inclined to engage beyond;

I will not be bullied into the pen

 

Join this

Fix this

No and maybe

I see ways small and quiet

To offer this one precious life

To both of us

 

What is undone here?

Really, not all that much

I notice things are big and small

Endless urgencies press the swollen gates

I hold my ground in quiet ways

To save this precious life

 

Author’s note: Contribute is the word that came to me but it held more meaning than to help. I’m reworking my website and have been given suggestions on marketing that include a slew of social media sites. And I don’t want to have to contribute so to speak, to that life in order to create mine. And there is the weariness of being inundated daily by requests to sign on or up or give signatures, money etc. and no sooner do I acquiese than there is an additional request. It’s not just the endless information that comes at us but the time spent sifting through it. Where do the days go?

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She Moves In Mysterious Ways. It’s All Right.

Or Is It?

 

This pear is too pretty to eat but there’s an order to things

Fulfill your purpose or rot

So I do the thing that makes sense

To me

Kiss it

Take a picture, say goodbye and thank you

Cut it up and eat it covered with shiny flax seeds and sprinkled sprouted almonds

What would you do for love?

beautiful pear

 

I used to kiss my knees every time they rose to greet me in a yoga pose

Just a yoga teacher doing what came naturally and I taught them to do the same

I didn’t second guess myself

Some of you remember that

Would you do that for love?

 

I rode a wild horse through the woods that bolted and charged for the stable

Fearless friends raced to save me but that horse threw me hard as it could

I didn’t move for a long time

They thought I was dead

Bounced and bounced and still

I didn’t bother to get checked out

It made sense to me at the time

In hindsight, to you, it may sound foolish

You may be right

Or not

 

 

I took an untamed path down a ski slope and landed on my shoulder

My arm hung suspiciously behind me and refused to move in any way for many days

I didn’t bother anyone about it

Which made sense to me at the time

I was young and wild

I didn’t noticed that shoulder was wrong till a yoga pose brought it to light

But it didn’t really bother me for almost 40 years

Till a foolish yoga teacher brought me down

 

I hold the pose called mountain

Eyes closed I notice I’m not standing on my bones

My muscles are doing the bone’s job and I’m getting exhausted just standing here

I lack the grace that is balance

How long has this been going on?

 

I think of the poses that aren’t in this plane

You know, the cockeyed ones, the twisty ones, the ones that turn part of your pelvis forward and part of it back

I wonder what’s happening to my spine and am I standing on my bones or are my muscles being used badly

What would you do?

 

I want to live a fearless life, like you.

I won’t know the consequences till I make the action

Your body is not mine

You may suggest something to me but you don’t know for sure

I may suggest something to you in your wild life

But you may not listen

Here in zero gravity we are trying to hold on and we are hoping to let go and we never know for certain what will happen before we jump

 

You are a mysterious person, doing mysterious things

Like motherhood

Every child different and you don’t know how to be but there’s an order to things

You do what you think best so they don’t go bad

You are trying to affect energy you’ve never seen before

It moves in mysterious ways

You will become energy you have never been before

It moves you in mysterious ways

 

We are all kin and sometimes I am the mother and sometimes the child

In all ways the student and mostly the teacher

But no matter

Mystery is when you don’t know the outcome

What would you do?

 

This pear is too pretty to eat but there’s an order to things

Fulfill your purpose or rot

What would you do for love?

rob lindsay photo, roblindsaypictures.comP.S. When my husband Rob Lindsay takes a picture of something he loves, he turns it into art. 🙂

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Not Ready To Be Born Though This Endless Winter

Two o’clock and dark as dusk;

 I sail home on flood waters glacial and grey

 A furious sky banished the sun

It tries to crush us

Rush into the house grasping wet packages bursting with promise

I light the hearth and organize the groceries

Admire the warm lamp light on blue walls and

Red tulips in a silver vase

The house soon saturated with spice and vanilla to keep the damp dripping at bay and give the oven purpose

 

My dog dances under foot as he knows the last walk waits for the waning sky and too late will be too dark for a decent outing

In luck as the sky pauses for breath, we race into the bracing wind without worry

Packed in ice

No flame or fire touches once aching limbs heavy on warmer days

Now weightless

Fluid duck feet scoot me through a silken pond

 

A pack of deer pause; ghostly shadows frozen in the fog

They neither fear nor welcome us but take us as passing phantoms

We stare back and wait till they float across the field as one spirit

 

No cars pass

No others walk past

I am all sense but no sense to stop though the light is waning

Enchanted in this mist

It is my dog who finally stops and looks up to say it is time to turn back

I hadn’t realized we’d gone so far

 

It will be pitch before we see home and now it begins to rain again; a grisly rain to bow our heads

Though soaking feet are no pleasure the sunless sky and solid air have a hold on me

Don’t pull away from me

You are not ready to move on

 

It is true

Once the clock passes midnight of the old year the promise of renewal comes quietly

The light begins to shift

The plants move under the ground

That promise of renewal means rise to the occasion!

I am not ready

 

We do not stop

We did not stop

Our phones attached to our bodies

Our computers ever clanging

 

We raced around and braced against nature

To keep our pace

To hold our schedules

 

Where once one was unlucky enough to just try to survive

Now ease becomes burden as survival is assumed (though not for all)

And the icing on the cake is now the cake

And the sweetness becomes cloying

Choking

 

Here this life of unchanging pace is not the survival of life against death

But the gruesome survival of transformation not subtle but violent

And coming every quicker

 

No time to check the tide of rising power of those drunk with self interest

As the forward thrust of high, always high tide threatens to swallow us

Clashing humanity clawing, advancing was ever so and there is no complaining

 

And so

This night as every night

When I slip into heated sheets in a room kept purposefully cool for nothing less than my pleasure

The habitual smile as I slip into the cocoon

Is the relief of one who knows that hibernation must be embraced in small ways

 

Stay the tap- tap- tap of doing

To melt into the cocoon

To pause in this transitory bliss

A moment is not too short for gratitude

 

There are only many moments together

In this endless winter

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Enchanted

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 More A Mass of Surrendered Nadis Than the Self With This Face

 

The one I recognize as me runs into the storm.

She has for as far back as I can remember.

What hypnotist’s spell was put on me and in what life time did I agree to this?

 Daylight turns green casting a yellow hue over the earth under the weight of an accelerating sky.

As far back as I can remember.

I step onto the forested pathway to the rocky ridge as the wind picks up the hem of my shirt.

The woods are empty of humanity but mine and mine seems more a mass of surrendered nadis than the self with my name.

Around the climbing bend I feel it more than see it in the darkening light.

The hawk sits on a branch at eye level.

Streaks of bared wood reveal newly sharpened claws.

I don’t recognize the bird’s markings and make a note to look it up once home.

For now I determine to become its companion if it will have me, as we sit in wait for the tempest to rain down.

Yellow leaves fly sideways like sorcerer’s plates.

Wind blows the bird’s feathers as my hair whips my face and neck but we are unruffled.

And my feet begin to dance the way they do when the thunder crashes and the rain is a roar that does not yet touch earth sheltered beneath a thousand leafy branches.

I can’t stay still and bid the bird good day.

In my goofy way I start to laugh and feet that never run on pavement or plan to run at all are carrying me swiftly through the forest.

The squall starts to wane as I near home, soaked and satisfied but less so to see the sky move away.

It’s often this strange timing.

I’m back to the one who has this name, who has this hair, who does this job;

 The one you know as me.

Until the thunder claps and the sky gets close and I am not that but nature remembered gone to find her lost tribe.

For nadis: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nadi_%28yoga%29

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America the Beautiful

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In the gloaming we stroll across Centennial Park’s fields, past the Parthenon to the band shell. My husband’s camera hangs around his neck, his hand holds mine as we make our way through the lightly scattered blankets and lawn chairs.  This is the gathering of disparate people joined by their love of big band music, dancing or the nostalgia for sweet simple summer nights gone by.

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Folks have brought their dogs and babies, old folks and young folks bring their snacks and drinks and friends for conversation. A single snow cone vendor graces the grass at the tent’s corner.  He lies back on the truck bed behind him laughing and talking softly with his buddy.  A single yellow light shines softly down. There are no crowds, no noise, and no rush.

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It’s time for the dance instruction. People quietly gather on the dance floor; mad grins held back behind shining eyes and tapping feet. Young girls in old fashioned party dresses reveal long limbs and shining countenances framed in silken tresses. They are simply beautiful in the way young girls are before outside pressure tells them to be other than themselves.  They come with groups of friends but the dance breaks alliances open as hopeful men of all ages and sizes and wages offer their hands in the dance. There is no class system here. No rules of age or color or gender. I suddenly realize I have not heard a cell phone on these nights and how unusual it’s become to not need to be anywhere or with anyone but where you are.

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The instructor picks a dance to teach. The band waits:  Gals on one side, guys on the other.

Now the band starts up; a 16 piece band with a conductor and singers waiting to the side for their turns at the mike.

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Girls dance with girls, babies dance with each other; grandparents sashay by with a grandchild between them.  Here is a handicapped young man sandwiched between two older parents. The mother leads and the father follows with a hand on his back.  Here is the double dipper. Man this guy can really dance. He takes partner after partner and these young girls dance like pros. No matter the dance or how fast he leads, they flourish like fish thrown back to water.

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He’s introduced himself to my husband the picture taker. He’d like some photos please. They exchange numbers. Turns out he’s a film maker too: Going back to Iraq to shoot a documentary about the Kurds.  The dance is a meeting hall though no hall is here. Here is space defined by strings of colored lights and a wide expanse of roof, by the periphery of happy conversation by the waning light of day as it turns to the cooler blush of the moon. No one is a stranger though in truth no one looks familiar: That’s unusual for Nashville and though I don’t know these folks, on big band Saturday nights they are my kin.

_MG_7574_Red Dress Dip_Master copy

The bandleader announces an unusual song for this venue; America the Beautiful. It’s a slow dance and a measured moment.  I love the song but it would be like me to carelessly change the words in my head for a habitual moment of cynicism.

Oh beautiful for contrail skies

Monsanto poisoned grain…..

And I do but toss them away just as quickly. I love every word as it is and I believe in the sentiment which is reflected in the manner of the humanity that in this moment envelops us; the humanity that includes me, that is the best of a collective dream of a country.

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose stern impassioned stress
A thoroughfare of freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America!
God mend thine every flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law!

O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife.
Who more than self their country loved
And mercy more than life!
America! America!
May God thy gold refine
Till all success be nobleness
And every gain divine!

Well, that’s some of it and though it be idealized I send it out today on the Fourth of July in memory of helmetless bike rides to watch my brothers at the Little League field, dripping ice cream cones before anyone told me that dairy was wrong and the heart swelling love of a little girl with her hand to her heart paying homage to a country she trusted and believed would ever hold her dear.

Let freedom ring.

Thank you Rob for the pictures.

Footnote: It’s been pouring all day. We gave up on the idea of watching fireworks opting for a quiet few hours at home before meeting up with friends. I wrote this post as local fireworks rolled like thunder. I hit the publish button and walked past the screen door. The rain was barely coming down. “Come on”, I called to my guys, “let’s get in the car and find some fireworks” and in minutes we were headed downtown. I was still wearing my skimpy yoga clothes from morning class. We didn’t even think to cover up. The weather had turned cool and windy; so unlike Nashville July. We found an easy parking spot overlooking the river and walked down toward it. The Band Perry hit their last note as the first firework hit the sky. The Nashville Symphony seamlessly played in. It was spectacular; another magical musical Nashville wonder. As we pulled out of the downtown traffic and hit the open road the rain came down again.

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Total Recall

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In the worst of winter you recall a child;

 

A simple creature who did not rush

But digested the life; one thought with one action.

Not parsing time or pausing to weigh the worth of a task

But wholly absorbed as only one who has nothing to answer to can be absorbed.

 

Who asked for what was wanted without assuming the answer

Who ate only when hungry and drank from thirst not habit

In the times before moral outrage

The short window of innocence

When you constructed your dreams from nightmares;

Manifested desires in fantasy that went unchecked.

 

Before you were restless,

And burn -out became numbness.

 

Remembering what you turn to others to teach you now            

Before you ran to textbooks and spiritual guides

Before you quoted others to make your point

And distractions replaced your memory with advice that crowded out the cells that knew before.

 

When stacking stones was holier than parent’s handclapping at your grammar school play

No one told you consciousness creates matter

But you expected that.

In the days before the whirring machine blocked the flow of your thoughts;

Your fancy created the world

Just hand from pen to paper.

 

You were fertile

But not yet fertilized.

 

Child hood ripostes were correct but you were not so clever yet.

Protected by the castle walls, you could not yet comprehend the battlefield

While chanting songs to ease the smart of other’s glances:

I Know You Are But What Am I

I’m rubber you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks back on you.

It takes one to know one.

You had the words but no comprehension to back them up.

The knowledge you had, had no words to describe.

You made no choices but time chose for you. It would not stop. 

Inner guides met outer guides and plotted to keep you and those did collide at the first reckoning

But age made you sober;

For better where collusion carved awareness

 And worse when you forgot yourself.

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In the End It Is the Same.

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Morning meditation and a minute in when you whisper:

 

Let go of being right, let go of being wrong.

The unsolicited lesson is plain as the bare daylight that’s new by the calendar but not new yet for me.

Being right is an endless defense.

Being wrong is guilty or stupid.

 

I didn’t realize that took up so much room until

A knot in my belly I hadn’t noticed before abated with those words and

I realized I’d been tossing other people’s problems for them lately but forgot to let them go.

 

Isn’t there always something to be right or wrong about?

Life is a continuous wheel of riddles.

Opinions of right and wrong are essential in knowing how to proceed but

If right thought creates right action the gloating might choke you.

If confused thought creates wrong action the guilt might kill you.

 

If I am right without desire to defend that, if I am wrong but carry no shame

I cease to be a storage unit.

And then it’s largely opinion anyway.

 

Let go of being right. Let go of being wrong.

Who said that? I don’t have a face for the messenger in my head.

Overstuffed from a feast of yesterdays, this body is instantly and unexpectedly swept bare.

Conversations past and battles gone by, go by now.

 

And today you whispered; despite and because.

Two sides of the same coin have the same worth and pay the same bill.

Whether heads up or heads down may seem to make a difference,

In the end it is the same.

 

No memory comes but I am aware of itching angry gnats under my shoulders.

I pour imaginary water over them and sense them sink and disperse.

What difference is it what flame beneath the skin pushes us forward?

Positive or negative may be mute where reaction to either compels us to choose the same path.

In the end it’s the same.

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The Storm Descends and There is Only This.

 

roblindsaypictures.com

roblindsaypictures.com

Downloading lessons I once knew but forgot and will forget again is time taken that might be spent howling at the moon.

 And howling would feel better and righter and holier than those efforts that disconnect me from my own downloads forgotten in the dust of bins unused and forgotten. ~Hilary

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Unseasonably warm under an almost sunny sky I shun my winter coat and scarf and head down the lake road to the woods that I hope will be empty of visitors today. I am not disappointed and choose the long lingering South Cove trail.

Approaching the highest and farthest point of the forest, black clouds surprisingly storm the sun on a furious gust of wind. An upward gaze at the fast moving masses tells me I’m in for it but I press on undeterred by fury’s company.

The storm is upon me.  Rain makes no entrance but descends with unnatural gravity. I’m dodging furiously flung branches and bracken by trees trained for turbulence; arching and flexing madly to stay upright. This is no breeze but a gale force wind and I am far from shelter, a lone lately delicate human without a phone.  I’m in danger and turn ready for a battle home. Lightening scorches the suddenly pitch sky and thunder’s beating hooves pave my way as I hurl myself up and down the winding path taking my chances with woods as there is no shelter by the lake and though the trees have no thought for this rootless companion, I feel secure on their turf.

Weightless, I’ve left gravity’s heavy domain. Feet that struggle to stay the course on solid earth lift me effortlessly as I navigate twisting hills and valleys, heedless of roots and rocks that trip one up on the most cautious of hikes. I watch myself from outside this self, aware that this galloping wingless flight is not possible. I am nature’s simple creature nimble as the deer scattering up the hill to my right, ears back and eyes narrowed against steely rain.

Not breathless or tired or fearful of falling, I’m sharply aware that the hip that at times cannot even stand a step has been reborn. I don’t falter though the earth has turned to rivers of mud and I do not slip on these shiny rocks or down these ravines and I watch myself do the impossible pressing forward at top speed urged on by the screaming mayhem.

I hit the lake road just as the wind releases its final weapon; hail. I have to make it through the unprotected path between the lake and lagoon. The white caps on the lake threaten the banks and I am strangely curious whether my ankle that cannot run more than a dozen steps on paved surface without seizing will carry me on. I have no choice but to hurl full speed against the wind, hugging the left bank against a wind so strong it threatens to toss me into the snapping turtle lagoon. I beg my legs to hug the road and lean into the wind getting farther than I’d thought before my ankle gives way.

Not self conscious, not unconscious but I am one consciousness while the mind hovers idly by and wonders; is this adrenaline? What a marvelous drug.  No. Adrenaline has carried this body, this mind, this matter through impossible odds and this is not adrenaline alone.

This is the taste of truth, the glimpse of immortality of energy manifest as divine and not separate from but one. I know. I have been here before; a reckless and trusting member of that which makes and moves everything, I’ve been taking my chances, playing the odds in untamed circumstances since I was a kid on a bicycle.

 

Some things you just trust from the beginning.

Home and I realize my hair is tangled with ice and my clothes and shoes can hold no more moisture and what’s this familiar thing still clinging to my face? It’s a shit eating grin.

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Exposed. Willing to Undress.

Reposted from Exposed in the Journal pages of activeyoga.com. Originally posted on Tuesday, February 26, 2008 – 12:32 am _MG_1953Hil_new year's 2011_cropped_websize


Toward winter’s end the land is laid bare and the grayest of days reveal tints of silver, sage, teal, aqua, tan, taupe, smoke, umber and sienna.

No leaf is left to dress and every bird nest bared shows well for the next tenants.
I walk alone or with my dogs, no gaggle of geese with me, counting steps and calories.
Why stay on the roads when the deer have made such lovely paths for me!

There are treasures here and I collect things in my pockets to carry some mystery home.
In this cold bright air stands a cluster of pines by a stream I’d never noticed beyond the usual veil of deciduous forest and I raise my nose like my dogs will and draw deep in hopes of finding an offering of that favorite fragrance hovering in the stillness.

Rob Lindsay photo/Radnor

Rob Lindsay photo/Radnor

Here is someone’s driveway and farther in the woods a quiet home of moss covered stone that seems to grow from the ground and here is a guest cottage overgrown with ivy nearly hidden in a tiny sunken meadow.
Bare now is a long gone pet’s worn headstone in a neighboring yard which summer sheltered in wild grass.

A cluster of daffodils heralds Spring and marks the headstone from afar and I think
How could the daffodils shine so well if competing with the sun?

And like a photographer shines his light brightly to dissolve the details of a model’s skin so that no wrinkle or shadow mare the beauty,
By the absence of the sun, in this grayness I can see every shadow, and detail, and texture of the trees.
They have faces and bodies.
They have battle scars and history written upon them.
By their rawness, I’m drawn in.
Such honesty welcomes me to my self by example and I feel at home here.

Hilary Lindsay acrylic on canvas

Hilary Lindsay acrylic on canvas

I consider the contrast of humans. How are we fully appreciated or approachable as covered up as we are?
How are we at home with each other?
It’s a politically charged year for the nation. It’s a politically charged year for the yoga community. 

I wonder about the aversion we Americans have to discussing sensitive topics. I listen to two students of mine agree with each other that you never discuss politics or religion. One of them is a popular musician and the other a public figure. They are guarded for their livelihoods.

But I think of the emerald green glistening moss on a lichen covered rotting log that had captured my attention and imagination for more than just a passing glance on my walk and thought what a pity it is that we are too sensitive, too fragile to look at the beauty in the mold and rot and decay as well as the flowers.

Light’s camouflage does not remove these things but leaves them undiscovered and denies them the attention that might reveal there is beauty in the argument, there can be fury without hate, that our sensitivities to what we don’t understand need not be preserved by aversion but dispersed by discussion.

In the grayest of times, we are unveiled. If we were really home, would we not be willing to undress?

 
Hilary

reprinted on Rebelle Society as Undressed.

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