Light in the Garden of Movement

This picture shows me in a very uncomfortable position. Forward folds challenge my ego, my interest, my resolve. And a huge gift from that is almost a forced attention to alignment. What else is there, when the end goal seems so far? Feeling distant from the “final destination” sometimes brings us more fully and beautifully into the journey. It asks us to be there anyway, to bring integrity to the effort, and to trust that this is enough. In these moments we are breathing into  santosha ,  ahimsa ,  isvara pranidhana ,  satya ,  tapas ,  aparigraha ...the list goes on. In this way, and in others, we are as fortunate to have our challenges and our hurdles as we are to have our strengths and natural abilities. . .  #yamasniyamas   #doingthework  #alignmentmatters   #beingpresent  #upavistakonasana   #asanaintegrity  #tryingevenwhenitstough

This picture shows me in a very uncomfortable position. Forward folds challenge my ego, my interest, my resolve. And a huge gift from that is almost a forced attention to alignment. What else is there, when the end goal seems so far? Feeling distant from the “final destination” sometimes brings us more fully and beautifully into the journey. It asks us to be there anyway, to bring integrity to the effort, and to trust that this is enough. In these moments we are breathing into santosha, ahimsa, isvara pranidhana, satya, tapas, aparigraha...the list goes on. In this way, and in others, we are as fortunate to have our challenges and our hurdles as we are to have our strengths and natural abilities. .
.
#yamasniyamas #doingthework#alignmentmatters #beingpresent#upavistakonasana #asanaintegrity#tryingevenwhenitstough


A couple of days ago, Angella posted a picture of herself on Instagram in a rather common stretching pose. Her caption was about the gifts of discomfort and distance. It was about the devotion to alignment. These ideas are on the tip of my awareness and her post flung open a window for me. Through the window I found a space to lengthen something that I’ve been staring at for some time.

If you are curious, a traveler, or life-long learner, you may approach the novelties of experience with an eager mind. You may also notice that openness and intention doesn’t ensure a road without curves and obstacles and flat tires - views that inspire disbelief.

For two decades, almost as long as I have been in a relationship with Italy, I have been watering the seeds of that experience. The formal translation of the watering is Traveling Native. The garden of movement has produced flowers and fruits. Even in the fruitful seasons, the weeds would love to convince me of their superiority. At times, they win. The garden seems a graveyard. Then, the resurrection of spirits - a work of passion to reconvert the hardened earth into a working space where my heart aligns with my efforts, where my output is giving back to the life given me. Call those efforts work or call them love or call them truth. It’s rather uncomfortable to endeavor anything at all when your heart is driving, exposed. Because everything matters. Everything is felt directly. 

What is this post about? It’s about a practice. It’s about the long haul of attention and passion. It’s about welcoming the very uncomfortable position of not being aligned but working toward alignment anyway - in spite of the doubt, in spite of the weeds, in spite of the weather.

I love the uncomfortable place I am in. I love the mystery of not knowing how I’ll get to the next pose. I love that I could choose to neglect the garden of movement but that I choose to inhabit the uncomfortable mystery of watering seeds, flexing with the weeds, and waiting to see what wonders flourish. I love the sounds of nearby gardeners working on their own mysteries. Their movement nourishes my own. Their occasional glances over at my garden scatter sunlight on my pursuit. And to You, who sees me - among the weeds and the weather -trying to align with my truth and with that which is given: thank you for seeing me and thank you for the light.

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