I KNOW WHERE I AM GOING BY GOING

(Bed-making deterrent.1)

I know, you thought this blog was ooooover and that I had lost interest (and maybe so had you). The last time I sat down to write was apparently November 19 of last year. I think about writing all the time and somehow, most likely lack of discipline because always give yourself the worst motives, it rarely happens. I have taken some notes here and there for a personal project I hope to write in the next year or so. And I have even tried writing some actual letters to people instead of dashing off an email which seems so transient and has such a good chance of being ignored or overlooked.

I began writing this blog ten years ago, in the misty mists of time. After having lost a job, and, as it turns out, my career and ability to earn a living wage, and having my car stolen, and having lost a beloved younger brother only a year after my mother’s boyfriend died way too soon, I was invited to be a guest at the Ojai Yoga Crib. I had pretty much stopped practicing when I moved out of Manhattan to Brooklyn in 2004 after a good nine years of solid practice in San Francisco and New York (shout out to excellent teachers Dana Trixie Flynn and Susannah Bruder who were the keystones of my practice). 

Kira, who ran the Ojai Yoga Crib with her then husband, E, must have known I was floundering in depression and invited my mother and I to go as her guests. The Ojai Yoga Crib gave specialized programs to each attendee. I hadn’t practiced much for several years so her prescription for me was gentle yoga and talks by Erich Schiffman and Ravi Ravindra. And it helped.

I have always been challenged by discipline, preferring to be productive where whimsy and passion took me. (Read some more blog posts to find how that turned out.) Yet I could see a relationship between the writing (which I have always wanted to do) and yoga practice (not as much). For those of you new to this blog, here’s a link to my first postwhich says largely the same things as this post.

Tomorrow, I begin my 200-hour teacher training. 

How the decision to become a yoga instructor at age 65.9 is a tale which will likely be spun as I do the training and hopefully continue to write and examine this process. 

Commitment and discipline. Two very scary words for me. 

And I am anxious today and more scattered than usual. I can start off in disappointment that my house is still a disaster, my desk not really work-worthy, and in the midst of a dental crisis of sorts. (Emergency root canal this week, but more on that, too. I am basically fine.)

I opened my Kay Ryan volume to see if I could find some inspiration and grounding. 

WHY ISN’T IT ALL MORE MARKED

Why isn’t it all

more marked,

why isn’t every wall,

graffitied, every park tree

stripped like the

stark limbs

in the house of

the chimpanzees? 

Why is there bark

left? Why do people

cling to their

shortening shrifts

like rafts? So

silent.

Not why people are;

why not moreviolent?

We must be 

so absorbent.

We must be

almost crystals,

almost all some

neutralizing chemical

that really does

clarify and bring peace,

take black sorrow

and make surcease.

WITNESS

Never trust a witness.

By the time a thing is

noticed, it has happened.

Some magician’s redirected

our attention to the rabbit.

The best life is suspected,

not examined.

And never trust reverse.

The mourners of the dead

count backward from the the

of the event, rehearsing

it’s approach, investing

final words with greatest weight,

as though weight ever

carried what we meant;

as though he could have

told us where he went.

LEARNED

Whatever must be learned

is always on the bottom,

as with the law of drawers

and the necessary item.

It isn't pleasant,

whatever they tell children,

to turn out on the floor

the folder things in them.

Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, Grove Press, New York, 2010

Well, that gets to some of the heart of some of the matters. 

Haven't done much gardening at all and other than weeding and tending, I won't be ambitious this year, although the back is a happy weed jungle. The hummingbirds greatly enjoy the several bougainvilleas and I see other sorts of butterflies and bees. The artichoke plant I thought I had destroyed has three blossoms or whatever you call them that need to be harvested ASAP. I bought some ranunculus bulbs at the 99cent store, managed to plant them in a newly-from-the-thrift-store acquired box, and by jiminey, if they aren't coming up.

It's weird. Very faintly over the the back fence and under some lively chirping and bird flirting, I can hear the Fifth Dimension warbling 'whisper a little prayer for you, my baby" which kind of brings me back to summer at the beach listening to a transistor radio. (Here's the Mamas and Papas version of Dedicated to the One I Love which I like less.) Back to birds and saws.

I woke up with Buffalo Springfield in my head, wondering why Stephen Stills hasn't written an autobiography.  Sit Down I Think I Love You, the guitar part is quite sweet.

I have been fortunate and blessed to have pals who are helping me by contributing to a gofundme. Here's the link should you want to check it out. Or you can just PayPal me at sasyberg@gmail.com.

Why isn't it all marked, indeed.