a yoga gem

Discipline of practice is a training to gear and harmonize the external aspects of the personality, to listen to the call of something deeper within, so that the fine, subtle vibrations arising from within do not get muffled by the noises going on in our external senses and in the conscious mind.
- Pandit Usharbudh Arya, from Yoga Gems, edited by Georg Feurerstein

From this to that

I've been thinking quite a bit about my bad work habits over the last few days. Half a life-time spent in advertising, where deadlines are constantly looming and there is never enough time to do it right but always enough time to do it over, and over, and over again has created a wierd combination of intensity and procrastination in my way of working.
But there's no substitute for the practice of practice. And even when a deadline looms, as it does for this jewelry order I am working on, it's important for me to keep in mind that there's no substitute for the process.
Today was not a particularly fruitful day. At least it didn't feel like it. But I know that despite the lack of quantity, there was essential work happening. The last few days I've been jamming, blocking out the chaotic distractions around me. But today I just had to do a few loads of laundry, vacuum up cat hair, clean up after my aging ailing cat. Even clean up after myself. So today was composting time. And tomorrow I will start fresh.
I took the pics above as a way of egging myself on. Documenting what I am doing while I'm doing it, is an important part of the process for me. I don't like to wait til I'm completely done. I like to see where I'm going while I'm going at it.

Chanting and Burning

Yesterday morning I was trying to get organized to sit down and make the 100+ found metal necklaces that I took the week off to accomplish and was feeling extremely overwhelmed by the task. So I turned on the cd player and popped in the new KD recording All One that was a gift from my friend Cheryl Champagne (isn't that a great name?) About half way through the cd, my angst just melted away, and not only melted but transformed into an incredibly powerful energy that I felt radiating out of my entire body. So much so that I was moved to pull the box of already made necklaces into my lap and hold them in my hands, imbuing them all with not only the energy of the chant, but the intention that everyone who come in contact with these pieces feel a peace of heart and wholeness, a complete acceptance of themselves, that they are exactly who they are meant to be and exactly enough as they are.
This morning, in my e-mail inbox was my weekly Freewill Astrology from Rob Brezny, and it was with particular joy that I read his pronoia pronouncements. We get so wrapped up in the angst of our culture, it's a miracle that any of us pull ourselves out of the muck.
Burning Man, the Black Rock Desert Festival that flies in the face of all that muck, is in full swing this week, with the man burning in 3 days. Check out the live streaming from the home page, complete with tunes. Most people think of Burning Man as a counter culture event where people just go to have sex and party, but underlying the festival is an intense belief in the power of art and community. Radical self reliance and a gift economy are the two of the main tenants of the event. Something our world could use a whole lot more of outside the realm of the Black Rock Desert.
If we thought of everything we bring into the world, in the form of our work, our relationships, our everyday transactions, as a gift to the universe, a gift that had no beginning and no end, a gift that was both given and received, would we waste so much time on our endless angst? That is what I will be carrying in my heart today as I send out proposals, continue necklace creation, and whatever other gifts I can bestow on the universe today.
Including this link, to Officezilla which Larry told me about on the phone last night.

Home

This is why we brave the traffic every week. Home sweet home. Over grown. Falling apart. But still the place where we come back to ourselves.
Most people go home every night, but for the last several years, Larry and I have camped out in the city during the week, working, taking karate, eating sushi on Monday nights, and counting the days til we can return home again.
Once we're here, there's another whirlwind that begins. Because we're only home two days a week, we can barely keep up with the things that need fixing. Most of the weekend is spent doing laundry and getting ready to go back into the city!
I always dream of a lazy summer, but this year, I haven't even gotten my hammock up! And the pile I started last year in the kitchen for a yard sale is still there, ever bigger, but no closer to getting outside and into someone else's life.
There's tons of art going on in the Hudson Valley, but I rarely make it out on Saturday nights unfortunately. This Saturday I did my best to get to the closing reception for my freind Ann Haaland's exhibition at the Wright Gallery in Kingston, only to arrive just as they were loading the last of her paintings into the car.

Ed Butler's gallery is a beautiful space, very organic, with wonderful windows, which were filled with sand - I'm not sure if it was for Ann's exhibition or they're always like this.

Ed was a bit discouraged when I spoke with him after missing Ann's reception. Apparently it's been a very disappointing summer for art sales. But I have heard that this summer has been a difficult one in other arenas as well.
I imagine most of us are spending our discretionary income on gasoline. Or saving up for what will surely be a very expensive winter for heating oil.
The next exhibition is Michael Fattizzi's prints and oils, with an artist's reception Saturday, September 3, 5pm to 8pm. Wright Gallery is at 50 North Front Street in Kingston. The phone number is (845) 331-8217.
Kingston is a great little town. There's a farmer's market on Saturdays. And Jane's Ice Cream, where you can not only get some of the best ice cream on the planet, but some pretty fabulous sustenance before dessert.



Now, what has this all got to do with inspiration you ask? Well, I'm home for the week. Not exactly on vacation, but working on pulling together an order of Street Bling, my line of found and reclaimed metal jewelry. While the day was somewhat hectic, bouncing between making necklaces and doing some triage for a project and presentation that just couldn't live without me this week (yes, I am being facetious) - it is just now settling into the quiet hum that makes this home.
I have managed to create chaos in the last bastion of order in the house: the living room, where I meditate, chant and chill with the cat on my lap, stare out the window and take naps. It now looks like every other room in the house, with art in the making.
I take solace in the fact that a March post on Anna Conti's blog was about an artist whose house was filled with the bread crumb trails of his art making life as well. Not a corner untouched. And machinery too!
So while working this week I will try to bless the mess and maybe squeeze in a moment or two to fill up a few large garbage bags for the thrift store. If I'm feeling overwhelmed by possessions and workload, and I am -- it's helpful to try to see it in light of abundance.

Pilgrimage

Once a week I make the trek from city to country, returning home after a week of work and karate. Every Thursday or Friday night, Larry and I sit in the traffic that inevitably awaits us on the East River Drive up through the Bronx and the Major Deegan.



In The Art of Pilgrimage Phil Cousineau writes about the sacredness of all travel, even our daily commutes. And while I've taken this book to be a personal bible in many ways, it's still difficult to enjoy our exodus until we hit the tree-lined Taconic State Parkway where my whole body feels like it opens up.
Every day is filled with mini departures and arrivals. Last week I took my niece to the airport for her flight home to Isreal after a two week visit. I'd taken my nephew's friend to Newark for her flight home just a few weeks before.
Going back and forth through the Holland Tunnel always reminds me of being a kid and trying to hold my breath as if I were actually underwater. I remember exploring silently in my head the mystery of exactly how the water stayed out of the tunnel, never fully understanding it. Tunnels still hold a kind of deep dark mystery and excitement. It's similar to archetypal woods and caves. There's a sense of trepidation upon entering, an emerging sense of relief. The highways themselves can feel like pathways to unknown places despite the specificity of our destinations.
I wonder how to embrace the inherent excitement of travel without the all too frequent fear and nervousness that were instilled in me as a child. I breathe and chant, talk to myself about how little it really matters if flights are missed, delayed or cancelled. How stalled traffic is an opportunity to sit still and be.
I feel as though I am constantly changing lanes: from work to art, city to country, solitude to society.
In a workshop I once took at Mirabai in Woodstock, an author whose name I can't remember here, talked about his philosophy of autopsychology. Basically, you take what's going on with your car as a metaphor for what's going on in your life.
Mine has over 150,000 miles; it starts, sometimes stalls, sputters and bucks. But once on the road it's smooth driving. There's a rolled up sleeping bag, two stuffed animals I put in the car to donate to a thrift store but can't quite manage to part with yet, and momentos of hikes that never quite make it into the house: bits of rabbit fur, sticks and bones. Kwan Yin sways from the rear view mirror.
Not too long ago I proposed an installation for an art exhibition entitled Traffic in which I would turn my car into a sacred art mobile. I imagined upholstering the insides with fabrics reminscent of nomadic tribes and covering the outside with religious icons and magnets of all types. The proposal wasn't accepted but I haven't abandoned the idea completely. In its own funky way my car is already my magic carpet. As my physical body is in life.
Today as I sit in front of the computer working on a freelance web content assignment, my adventures will be more synaptic than physical. An inner pilgrimage, another sort of creative holy grail. One day closer to the weekly road that takes me home.

Grace

I've been writing a bit here about reading the Bhagavad Gita and Ram Dass' Living the Bhagavad Gita. I don't seem to have enough time in my life for reflection. But about once a week I manage to find the time to devote to chanting. Although my monkey mind continues with only moments of exception, as it does through karate, meditation and almost all contemplative pursuits, there are moments of clarity and grace. This morning tears streamed down my face for quite some time while singing. It is as if they come to wash away the hard crusted outer layers of living in the physical world. And strip away the artifices.
I have a tendancy to belt out while chanting. (I also have a tendancy to talk way more loudly than necessary and my hearing is just fine; it's a bad habit.) But this morning I found myself singing ever more quietly and hearing/feeling an essential childlike sweetness inside/underneath the way I actually experience myself in the world. It was a graceful glimpse at my core, and I think not just my core, but the core of humanity.
When we are children, our essential nature is sweet, untainted. But the world bears its mark upon us, we become socialized, our personalities layer over our essential being, and we become patchwork quilts of the people who raise us, the teachers who teach us, the experiences that mold us. Callouses develop that hide us from ourselves and others. The spiritual quest is not only a search for union with divinity but a reunion with our selves. We touch that self and the divinity at the same time I think.
At least I did this morning while chanting to Krishna Das' Live on Earth. I'm counting the days til the all night kirtan at Omega, and the release of KD's All One, an hour long recording of Hare Krishna.
But for now, it is back to my ever lenghtening list of things to do - from exhibition submissions to thank you notes and laundry.

10,000 water prayer beads

I am working on another prayer bead project, this time using the paper from consumer goods that require the addition of water, ie. tea and instant oatmeal. I'm planning on a series of 108 prayer strands of 108 prayer beads each, the traditional number of beads in a mala used for counting chant and mantra. Some of the other papers I will be using are newsprint from Joshua Tree and Cape Cod National Parks, which reference water in counterpoint to one another, and a pack of construction paper I found on the New York City streets soaked by rain into organic patterns.

summer sky

a beautiful sunset last saturday night.

Down Under

These are photos from an invitational exhibition, Traveling Tales, at the Aratoi Museum in New Zealand, that was organized by Camila Marambio. Camila was the associate curator of prayingproject at exit art where I performed my Bead Meditation.
She is in New Zealand for a three month residency, and has plans to send the exhibition to San Francisco next.
My piece is in the 2nd collage, in the upper left hand corner, and is shown with the paper bag in which it was wrapped. Traveling Tales was an attempt to create a connection from around the globe via art postcards which documented time and place in whatever manner the artist conceptualized it. The piece I submitted is an extension of both Bead Meditation and String Theory; made from the parquet wooden flooring torn up after a flood and the tarred paper backing that I have been working with for the last two years.
Art postcards are a great way to flex creative muscle. They can be fun and fast. I just picked up a pack of watercolor postcards from Pearl Paint. And submitted one for a fund raiser at A.I.R. around the same time I sent the one shown to Camila. On the back of both is written: worship the ground you walk on.

Ocean Inspiration

There's nothing quite like the ocean for creating space in life and soul. A quite walk on the beach shell fishing or photo taking. Breathing the salt air. Jumping into the surf. A few days out on the Cape last week just wasn't enough, and now I am dreaming of how to find more time in ocean air. For now just in photos, but perhaps sometime in the future, pursuing my MFA or taking a poetry or visual arts workshop at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown.

Expect surprises

The turn out for my 30th high school reunion two weekends ago was slim, but I was struck by how the conversations pick up like it was yesterday. And even more so, by how our perceptions of people can change in an instant.
You have a picture of each person in your mind, as a teenager, but as an adult, the edges either harden or soften and subtly shift. Thirty years later the kids you might have thought were a bit wierd all those years ago are interesting to talk with. They have stories to tell about their kids that aren't run-in-the-mill. It's like meeting someone new that you've known all along.
But what I love about reunions is that you are reconnected with people who know you like no one else in the world ever does. When you've grown up together, there are certain short hands, a certain kind of knowing beyond knowing. You don't have to say much. You can just be with these people and feel that all is right with the world.
It's exactly the opposite of meeting new people who you connect with right away - who you feel you've known forever.
Then, there are people we don't take the time to get to know in our lives, who surprise us with their generousity and humanity in a way that can make us take a step back and just say "Wow!".
I was a bit thrown off when just before karate class on Monday night, one of the more senior black belts walked up to me, handed me a bo (which is a long stick we use in prearranged fighting sequences as a weapon and extension of our arm) and told me it was mine. This was just as we were about to line up for class, which made it all the more confusing. I had to run and put the bo away, not really understanding why he had given it to me, and then fight my monkey mind from pondering the question as class began.
I don't know David well. Only that he is a doctor at a prison, he wears sneakers in class while most of us are barefoot. He's a long lanky guy who always seems to have a smile on his face. (There's a great picture of David at beach training on Victor Ozols' blog)
When I ran over to my partner Larry after class to ask him what to do - at this point I was still thinking that maybe it was a joke - I learned that David makes these bos by hand. They are about 6 feet long, beautifully stained and highly polished. He has been coming to dojo recently with four or five in hand, and giving them out to new shodans.
I was very worried that I hadn't expressed my gratitude in the whirl of my confusion. And I will certainly have an opportunity to do that. But I am thinking today about how unaccustomed we are to random acts of kindness, and how unsettling they can be when they come to us out of left field. It is a reminder to me, to see the divinity in each person we come in contact with, no matter how fleeting the exchange may be. Or how frequent. And to expect surprises.