The Flying Trapeze

Sometimes, I feel my life is a series of trapeze swings. I'm either hanging on to a trapeze bar swinging along or, for a few moments, I'm hurtling across space between the trapeze bars.

Mostly, I spend my time hanging on for dear life, to the trapeze bar of the moment. It carries me along a certain steady rate of swing and I have the feeling that I am in control. I know most of the right questions, and even some of the right answers. But once in a while, as I'm merrily, or not so merrily, swinging along, I look ahead of me into the distance, and what do I see?

I see another trapeze bar looking at me. It's empty; and I know, in that place in me that knows, that this new bar has my name on it. It is my next step, my growth, my aliveness coming to get me. In my heart-of-hearts I know that for me to grow, I must release my grip on the present well known bar, to move on to the new one.

Each time it happens, I hope-no, I pray-that I won't have to grab the new one. But in my knowing place, I understand that I must totally release my grasp on my old bar, and for some moments in time I must hurtle across space before I can grab the new bar. Each time I am filled with terror. It doesn't matter that in all my previous jumps I've always made it.

Each time, I am afraid I will miss, that I will be crushed on unseen rocks in the bottomless basin between the bars.

But I do it anyway, I must.

Perhaps this is the essence of what the mystics call faith. No guarantees, no net, no insurance, but we do it anyway because somehow, to keep hanging on to that old bar is no longer an option. And so for an eternity, that can last a microsecond or a thousand lifetimes, I soar across the dark void of "the past is over, the future is not yet here." It's called transition. I've come to believe that it is the only place where real change occurs.

I've noticed that, in our culture, this transition zone is looked upon as a "no-thing," a no-place between places. Sure the old trapeze bar was real, and the new one coming towards me, I hope that's real, too. But the void in between? That's just a scary, confusing, disorienting "no-where" that must be gotten through as quickly and as unconsciously as possible. What a shame!

I have a sneaking suspicion that the transition zone in the only real thing, and the bars are illusions we create to not notice the void. Yes, with all the fear of being out of control that can accompany transitions, they are still the most alive, growth filled, passionate times in our lives.

And so, transformation of fear may have nothing to do with making fear go away, but rather with giving ourselves permission to be aware and awake in the transition zone between trapeze bars.

Allowing ourselves to dwell in the only place where change really happens can be terrifying. It can also be enlightening. Hurtling through the void, we just might learn to fly.

*From The Essene Book of Days

On Contraction and Expansion, Part II

Before the Industrial Revolution, western civilization connected much more deeply with the natural world and its cycles, and the end of summer/beginning of fall marked the new year. We see this in various cultures, as this time is marked by harvest festivals, festivals of the dead, and for us, Halloween. It is considered a magical time when the veil between the two worlds is thinnest, a time during which conscious intention setting is most potent.

It makes sense, right? At least more sense than waiting for January 1st when everything is already dead and barren to "start over," to shift from one day to the next by planning everything you're going to suddenly do differently. Not typically considered the most inspirational part of the year, wouldn't you say?

I'm not advocating that we switch our calendar to reflect this, just that you reconsider fall. Doesn't it feel more intuitive to take a self-inventory now, as the harvest is ripe, before the night comes early and the trees are bare, when the only thing we want to do is hibernate like little honey bees and cozy up by the fireplace (or in some cases, miniature space heaters)?

How does contraction and expansion play into this? For you yoga nerds out there, contraction and expansion plays out on our mats in a multitude of ways, but suffice it to say for the moment that the way we are on our mats is an exact mirror for how we are in life. In yoga class we are often guided to walk our edge, that juicy space between going too far and into potential injury, and it's opposite: constantly backing off and even tuning out the practice. Imagine yourself in a challenging pose; what is your tendency: to immediately retreat (contract), or to muscle through (expand)? Now apply that same exact tendency to how you are in relationships...see any correlation? As practitioners we engage constantly in this sweet dance, riding the edge in seek of balance between two sides, diligently flexing an entirely new set of muscles (both literally and metaphorically). It can be exhilarating and terrifying all within the span of a few breaths.

With this in mind, I ask you to take your own inventory. What seeds planted last spring have now come to fruition (what personal harvest(s) are you reaping?)? What thoughts/ideas/goals/intentions would you like to incubate during the cold months so that you may better tend to them, better nurture their growth come winter's end? How can you skillfully assimilate the expansiveness of summertime in ways that will support you now that the days are moving into contraction (see what I did there?)? Go a step further than just thinking about these things--be in conversation about your intentions, write them down. Do your work and allow the universe to also play its part.

Instead of plowing through the cold months, as I know I for one am wont to do, utilize the natural stillness of fall to turn inward, engaging in some self-reflection; to allow contraction instead of shying away from it or making it wrong. Cozy up to it, even.

As you take this practice on, my wish for you is that you go easy on yourself; in other words, NO "SHOULDS" allowed--they can be poisonous. Simply take a look and ask yourself, what are the areas of my day to day where I can invite more expansion? Where in my life am I perhaps unnecessarily contracted? Or, the best question for you might be, where in my life am I too overextended; where would it benefit me most to scale things back, maybe engage in some rarely taken self care, create a new boundary?

Let me know how it goes, if you dare...

San Francisco Remembered

I have been wrapping my tongue around this poem for a while now (since Dave was here), and with the arrival (finally) of our San Francisco summer it tastes even more juicy. Here's your daily dose of inspiration; I have one request: read it aloud. Even better, read it aloud to someone you love.

San Francisco Remembered
by Philip Schultz

In summer the polleny light bounces off the white buildings
& you can see their spines and nerves & where the joints knot.
You've never seen such polleny light. The whole city shining
& the women wearing dresses so think you could see their wing-
tipped hips
& their tall silvery legs alone can knock your eye out.
But this isn't about women. It's about the city of blue waters
& fog so thick it wraps around your legs & leaves glistening trails
along the dark winding streets. Once I followed such a trail
& wound up beside this red-headed woman who looked up and smiled
& let me tell you you don't see smiles like that in Jersey City.
She was wearing a black raincoat with two hundred pockets
& I wanted to put my hands in each one. But forget her.
I was talking about the fog which steps up and taps your shoulder
like a panhandler who wants bus fare to a joint called The Paradise
& where else could this happen? On Sundays Golden Gate Park
is filled with young girls strolling the transplanted palms
& imported rhododendron beds. You should see the sunset
in their eyes & the sway, the proud sway of their young shoulders.
Believe me, it takes a day or two to recover. Or the trolleys clanking
down the steep hills--why you see legs floating like mirrors! Please,
Lord, please let me talk about San Francisco. How
that gorilla of a bridge twists in the ocean & the earth turns under
your feet & at any moment the whole works can crack
& slip back into the sea like a giant being kicked off his raft
& now if it's all right, I'd like to talk about women...

On Contraction and Expansion, Part I

Ay, fall, the time of year that is historically the juiciest for me. Summer fades away, and there I am, kicking and screaming, sad to see her go, only to be blessedly most pleasantly surprised time and time again by autumn's warm embrace. In this case, quite literally, it's nearly Halloween and the temperatures in the city have been upwards of 85 degrees for the past 10 days at least...

Summer is officially over and, despite the unseasonable heat, there is no denying the sweet signs of fall. The light is jamming in at crooked angles and everything seems backlit with an almost amber glow; although the trees don't really change color here (they kind of go from vivid green to dry and dead almost overnight), the streets are filling with leaves, the branches growing more and more visible every day. It's hard to explain, but things feel slower; despite living in a go-go-go culture (where I feel guilty on the days I come home and take a nap after work instead of doing something productive), if you take a closer look you'll notice a stillness, albeit a subtle one, as we innately, collectively prepare for the impending cold season.

One of the things yoga helps us align with are our natural rhythms, but also the rhythms of the world in which we inhabit. How can yoga do this you may ask? I think it has to do with the fact that it starts with a deep inner listening, both in general on the mat as we move into physical postures but also off the mat--within relationships, both professional and personal, and even more importantly, with the relationship we have with ourselves. The rich inner landscape we cultivate on our mats translates exactly to the way we walk in the world, the way we treat ourselves and each other.

It is with these ideas in mind that I wish to examine within the coming days/weeks this idea of moving into a more natural rhythm, even within the hustle and bustle of city life, how our yoga practice correlates; I'll also make a case for why we feel the way we do depending on the time of year, and how bringing an awareness to this aspect of our lives can help us make better sense of the world and our place in it, and ideally help us to go a little easier on ourselves.

That's a tall order, so go easy on me. And let me know if I'm going overboard on the semi-colons while you're at it.

photo credit: flora douville