Exploring the Inner Sanctum...Through Matinee Cinema

There but for the grace of Danielle LaPorte go I... to see Karate Kid.

Recently I read a comment added to Bindu’s post about the cobra snake person living in her head - Danielle mentioned a part in the film where the boy witnesses a lady balancing on one foot, hanging off a cliff, and  her every movement is in sync with the cobra coiled in front of her.  The master goes on to explain that it is the snake who is following the lady.  I've carried this image with me since.

So it happened that when my partner hesitantly suggested we go see the flick while everyone else was out blistering and imbibing in the 4th of July swelter, I surprised her with my enthusiasm, even popping the corn (yes I am one of those people, and I will stand up to anyone who challenges me by telling them I have violent adverse reactions to artificial flavorings and genetically modified anything).

And so we went.  We decided to take the afternoon off for "a little bit of light, uplifting, overcoming the odds and obstacles and whatnot" cinema.

I wasn't prepared to see the stunning side of China; I was really grateful for that. It was a kind of "lift you out of your seat and transport you" type of cinematography.

There were a few times when there was a certain poignancy that stung the ol’ tear ducts, but none like the moment (I am TRYING not to give the story away) when the little guy is being given the choice of whether to continue in a certain, very trying challenge.  He wants to go on despite an injury and the master is trying to dissuade him, thinking it is his pride or sense of revenge at work. He asks the boy why he is so insistent, and he says, “Because I’m still afraid.  When I leave here tonight I don’t want to be afraid any more”.

I clutched my lover’s knee and handed her a napkin.  We jiggled in our seats, stifling sobs of recognition.  Oh geez.

Of course it plays out like you expect it to, as it certainly should.  What I loved was that this kid was not afraid of being beaten, nor of being beaten up.  His ass has already been duly kicked around the screen a number of times before he gets to this point.    What it turns out he is afraid of is, in my interpretation, that if he gives up he will not have the opportunity to apply the level of inward-directed focus required of him in the moment.  If he gave up he would never accomplish the equivalent of the girl with the snake in the earlier scene – an inner focus so complete that she was entirely merged in the moment.
Of course these moments are available to us in everyday, if we should choose to meditate/contemplate and otherwise apply our immeasurable capacities to the inner realm.

But to apply them in a moment of real danger, or adversity, is to trigger the principle the Spanda Karikas refer to when they say that it is in moments of heightened emotional intensity that the experient (the person going through the thing, and through whose senses the experience is being processed) can seize hold of the spanda principle (ie: the creative force of the universe, which is continually and spontaneously creating the world around us in response to our our words and thoughts).

This little dude was absolutely linked in to the idea that facing fear theoretically is not the same as doing so in actual practice.  He needed to prove to himself on an experiential level that accessing that place of inner focus literally brings you to your fearless place regardless of extenuating circumstances.
Nah, I did not expect this at a Karate Kid matinee.  I was in awe.

As the day progressed I reflected on this more and more.  One of the prevailing themes of #215800 is, how do we deal with fear?  Do we run at it head-on, try to pretend it isn’t there, or give it a tap on the shoulder and a howd’ya do?

And more fascinating to me on this day, more than the outward manifestation of our actions around fear, what is our inner posture with it – how do we conduct ourselves on the inside when we are faced with a “big scary”?

The other day I found myself in a very uncomfortable conversation that had begun to bring up a lot of fear and insecurity about abandonment.  At a certain point I actually felt myself disconnecting, like a big steel curtain was set to automatic and it was descending on the conversation with such precision it could have cut a syllable in two.

This was one of the first times in known history that I actually witnessed this taking place- the ptsd moment where there's a scenery switch and the present moment is catapulted off the field of my awareness.  After a few moments I was able to describe the phenomenon out loud and begin the slow ascent back to where I could engage in the conversation.  It was like there was a witness within that could say, “oh no you don’t, missy.  You don’t get to close the curtain on this hurt.  You stay with it”.
My inner witness knows kung-fu, it seems.

I think this is what touched me so much when I saw this little guy declare that it didn’t matter that he’d proved his point, and that his urgent desire to continue wasn’t about honor or revenge or victory – it was as if he "got it" that he would only experience freedom from fear by going to that inner sanctum and aligning  with his witness –.  I’ve come to believe that no outward manifestation of fearlessness matters nearly as much as this one inner gesture- to hasten ourselves to the place inside where we can align with the deepest core of ourselves- the place inside that only we can ever go, and which is the same in each of us.  In that place is exquisite safety.

To Do The Work, or Not To Do The Work...

I’ve come to believe there are two kinds of people (is this idea a trite cliche yet, or can I make just one last comparison before we retire the tired old term?).
No, but really....

I’m lying in my bed thinking about the kinds of comments people are writing on my posts (thank you) and the kinds of things I’ve been reading from other #215800-ers (are we going to get t-shirts made?), the kind of changes we’ve made possible for ourselves and one-another.

From here I can’t tell whether it’s true of all the participants or just the ones who have popped into my little world, the ever-expanding circles I run in in this extravagant experiment - but from all my experience can tell me, this is a group of people dedicated to self-growth. To getting down and dirty and vulnerable and doing the needful.  To doing the work. 

The other kind of people, are not.  They either are not interested in doing their inner work, would rather be entertained/fed/numbed/stimulated/what-else-have-you-got than to buck up and do a little psychic housecleaning, or don't believe they have any work to do.
And to a certain degree, they are the reason the rest of us have so much work to do.

Is this laying the responsibility for our difficulties at another’s feet?  Saying, “I would not have this struggle if not for you”?.  To some extent I suppose it is. On the other hand, if we could say such a thing and get a cooperative response, we would know that the person is in the “do the work” camp and could be trusted to take their share of responsibility in the healing endeavor that is “the work”.

Way back when I was in massage school I received instruction in the art of Lomilomi massage.  This is a sacred Hawaiian form of bodywork traditionally taught by kahunas.  We delved deeply into the spiritual traditions that inform Hawaiian healing arts, which revolve around the assumption that everyone is doing their own work diligently, and that problems come when we cease to do so. In a world where hurricanes and tsunamis are considered Nature's response to neglect of inner work on someone’s part, there is a lot of personal responsibility going down.

We were taught that forgiveness in the ancient Hawaiian tradition is not unconditional. That's right,
Not. Unconditional.

This notion went against everything I believed at the time: we forgive despite all the ranting and thrashing from our injured selves that we should not let the bastard off the hook, in order to transcend the injustice and take “the higher road”, I thought.  Or, I thought that the act of forgiveness releases the healing energy pent up behind the plug that would go “pop” when forgiveness took place (and was not really for the other person anyway, but merely an exercise to relieve my own blockages). 

But here was this idea (a very old idea, from a culture that grew out of peaceful intentions) that forgiveness could be offered with a contingency clause. 

Once I grasped the concept, it made sense on a level that vibrates in all the knowing centers of the body:  When a person is wronged, they are expected to express it to the wrongdoer, who is then expected to seek forgiveness.  The person wronged must decide what penance will be sufficient to restore balance. The penance must be appropriate in content and magnitude to the injustice. Only when the penance is completed does the forgiveness actually take place.  It’s like a system of absolution mediated by the inner knowing of the people involved. 

Now my old notion of forgiveness as an exercise in transcendence was revealed to be nothing more than an elaborate ruse to keep from having to do the confrontational part of the work: the “you did this to me” part.  And why the avoidance?

Because this is not ancient Hawaii, where holding people accountable was de riguere; here and now it is very nearly the highest form of social inpropriety to call someone on their shit. There is no social expectation that people will take responsibility for their actions or the impact those actions have on others. In fact, such a confrontation would serve only to cause the other party to trot out their display of denial, violence, and mindtwisting head games... whatever’s in the bag of tricks that keeps them from digging down into their own neglected work. 

The “don’t do the work” camp are often in denial that anything needs doing- none of it is their responsibility, nobody has the right to judge their choices (regardless of the impact on others), those who are upset with them are just hysterical or uptight or not to be taken seriously.  My therapist quotes M. Scott Peck in A Road Less Traveled and says these people have “disorders of character”. 

At times it seems these Disordered Characters who make up the "avoid the work" camp are in the majority, leaving the rest of us baffled, embittered and bemused...
...and yet strangely empowered.

When we commit to our own inner work, we are taking some of our power back from those to whom we’ve given it in the past.  Has it ever occurred to us that most of the power they hold over us was taken, borrowed, or stolen from us in a moment when we were blinded by fear - that it is in fact our OWN POWER in whose shadow we’ve cowered all this time?

What I’ve learned is that we can unplug our circuitry from theirs, directing our own power back in the direction that serves us.  In effect, we stop feeding the dragon.

This is not to say we play the denial game or the turn-away-from-it-and-it’s-no-longer-true game (no, no... no one ever wins that one).  It’s to say that while it  may not be necessary (or even possible) to confront the people responsible for the work we’ve got in our respective baskets of woe, we can start by recognizing that we are already ahead of the game because our willingness and determination to do the work surpasses their refusal to participate. 

To borrow from an encapsulated summary of the Road Less Traveled by Newton Fortuin:

    “For the entirety of our lives we must continually assess and reassess where our  responsibilities lie in the ever-changing course of events. Nor is this assessment and reassessment painless... we must posses a willingness and the capacity to suffer continual self-examination.
    This capacity or willingness is not inherent in any of us...”

In other words, the capacity and willingness to do the work does not come pre-packaged.  Each of us in the “do the work” camp has had to develop these virtues on our own, often in the dark and in spite of abject terror and real harm coming down on us.  These have become our greatest assets, opening us to experiences, lessons, and even people that are simply not available to those who can’t/won’t/don’t-think-they-should-have-to go there.

The experiences, lessons, and people we’ve encountered in the last however many days it’s been since #215800 was launched are the gifts bestowed because we have fostered the willingness and the capacity to grow.  As we continue, may we unplug the energy we’ve been channeling to our demons and use it to nurture the delicious, outrageously fabulous beings we are on our way to becoming.

Gotta sign off now- going to see Karate Kid for Independence Day.  Ciao Lovelies...

Meltdown: The Soundtrack

(The photos, circa 1980-something... me and my shadow.)

Yesterday had many of us #215800-ers taking a look at the creatures in our own heads.  Many of us recognized in Bindu’s “cobra snake person” a variation of our own in-dwelling critters and commenced battle.

I confronted mine while agonizing over the decision to sever connections with her counterpart - the very real and still living person who gave her the script she uses to undermine, diminish, trivialize, and mock me (thank the havens I hired a therapist on day 10, because this is about to get messy).  I nicknamed her “bitchslap” and started practicing the mantra to keep her at bay when she gets out of hand.  “Not now, bitchslap”. 

I went about the day as one under the influence of super powers.  I felt strong, steady, a little bit taller.  I not only did more yoga than usual, I went to the gym and biked like a fiend, then got in the pool and did all the yoga my knees can’t handle on land. I discovered I’ve lost three pounds. Now I was feeling limber, capable, a little bit gorgeous - in other words, fully possessed by Brave Me (see yesterday’s post if you haven’t met her yet) who was driving from the helm from the moment I hit “publish” in the morning.

On the way home we stopped for lunch and I said to my partner, “You know how in movies there are these segments where - sometimes a character has made some kind of commitment or is undergoing a transformation and there’s this segment that shows them doing all the various things that get them there?  Like in Rocky, all the punching bags and running up the steps...?” (don’t know why Rocky came to mind, I’ve always been more of a Personal Best type of girl myself) ...”And there’s always some kind of a soundtrack song that epitomizes the whole thing?”.  She indicated that she understood but was not sure where I was going.
“Well, it seems like my life’s been kind of like one of those segments lately.  I imagine shots of early morning yoga, tapping at the keyboard, bumping it in therapy...”  She nodded.  Then I got to my point: “I wonder what the soundtrack would be”.

On coming home I declared it time to clean house in a big way.  For one thing my room was a pit from being neglected too long while more important things happened.
For another, I’m having surgery in a couple of weeks so I’ll be spending a decent amount of time in there and I won’t be able to clean then.  So off I went.  Sorting, tossing, organizing... doing the grand purge-and-order routine. 

As the project progressed, we put on some great house-cleaning music.  When one album ended I was going for my old standard cleaning album (Laura Love’s Helvetica Bold) but suddenly took pause... wait a minute.  Yeah, some of the older stuff that used to define me in the way that only young people can be defined by their music.  The stuff that transports me to the volatile time and place of my formative years as surely as the smell of fried chicken takes me to my grandmother’s kitchen.

So it came to pass that Siouxsie and the Banshees was blaring from a stereo barely equipped to withstand the rigor of such an exercise, while I huffed and heaved and strutted and threw. out. everything. that. doesn’t. serve me. Me.  ME!

The angst-ridden me of the 1980’s had arrived, and she was demanding her due.  The respect, consideration, and care that were not hers when she was being torn to shreds on the inside for want of someone to confide in about what she’d gone through on her way to young-womanhood was suddenly sitting on the edge of my bed, putting on black lipstick and wiggling her ridiculously high heel back and forth from the tip of her toe.  She was putting on her “don’t fuck with me face”, and practicing emotional distance. 

On her behalf, I sang along at the top of my lungs and let the anger sing through me in order to release its grip on my physical being at least.

The album ended.  My partner said something about tripping down memory lane and mentioned that the cat did not seem to enjoy Siouxsie, hiding as she was in the back of the house.  I promised to switch tone but keep it in the same era... flip, flip, flip.  Oh yeah.  Smiths.

More morose and brooding than the Banshee’s dark ravings, and so melodic.  I let my voice trail along with the dips and curves as I began to tidy up from the whirlwind cleaning.  Singing along, singing along...

My partner calls out that dinner is ready, and asks what I’d like to drink.  She repeats my name several times, and finally comes looking because I haven’t answered. 

When I enter the kitchen I am unable to speak; my throat is blocked with choking sobs.  I have been hollowed out on the inside and filled with a sensation that is larger than my body can contain, my face contorted and red, my body shaking.

She asks what’s wrong and I can only say I don’t know.  I’m pointing to the stereo.  Morrissey is going on about “15 minutes with you...”.  Can that be it?  Surely not.
It takes only a few minutes to cry myself out.  In that hot, moist place of sudden anguish I relive the trigger moment and come upon these words:
“It’s time the tale was told, of how you took a child, and you made him old...”
Grief for the child that was me hits me like a wall of hot air.
My eyes turn hot and well up again, my heart rising against my breastbone like it’s coming up for air.  Bingo.

In 1986 I would have thought it cool that my soundtrack would still be The Smiths at 42 (if I could have conceived of living this long). 

Today though, it simply serves to show me where my melting point is.  I can cry it out without attaching more history to it, and use it as a kind of bookmark for where to start the next round of healing process.
The Meltdown is never a bad thing if you use it for transformation.  When you are melty you are vulnerable, yes.  And malleable. Each of these conditions bring our attention to the strength of things that are not rigid.  Who said, “Nature has a funny way of breaking what won’t bend”?
So when you can be present in your vulnerability and malleability, you are in charge of the meltdown. The final form is still up for negotiation, and it’s in your hands.  Be bold!

Essential Oils and Yoga

This post was borrowed from my new blog which is linked with my new twitter: @oilpeeps.  Follow me there too by clicking the white twitter button on the lower right (or go straight to the blog at http://essentialoilmavens.blogspot.com/)!

The last time I had a steady yoga practice (and I’ll admit it was only four days in a row, but at the time it was revolutionary), I was traveling to attend the annual convention of the essential oil company with which I’m aligned for my health and livelihood (ok, cat out of the bag- it's Young Living).

I was heavier than the previous year, attending without my partner and rooming with someone I’d never met before (who was a delight as it turned out). I was a bundle of insecurity on a mission to untangle myself by engaging fully in all the sessions and “putting myself out there” socially (NOT my forte! I’m a recluse in the disguise of a gregarious teacher type).

Since the Convention experience (3,000 people heading to keynote engagements, expo demonstrations, and trying to choose 6 of the 12 available breakout sessions) is pretty much an exercise in distractibility and busy-ness, you’d think I’d have my whole “not-gonna-do-yoga” excuse in top form.

Ah, but not so. All of the equanimity, stamina, and focused attention that expressed itself through me I attributed to the the 6 am yoga classes taught by other Convention attendees who were also yoga instructors, and who were using essential oils in their personal practices as well as in their classes.

The whole thing probably came into being because Rodney Yee was teaching one of the break-out sessions; a 90 minute on-the-mat yoga class which incorporated essential oils throughout.

In the hustle and bustle I never made it to Yee’s class. But I did make it out the door, across the street, down the block and up a formidable set of stairs to class by 6 am each day to stretch, honor, and care for my being. We were a diverse bunch; from the fit and toned to the brave unfit, and never was there a better smelling bunch of sweaty people!

We began by sanctifying our practice with intention and frankincense, which heightens spiritual receptivity. Each participant duly anointed, the entire energy in the space shifted in a matter of 90 seconds. Suddenly we were on holy ground.

There’s a lot I can say about essential oils, and a lot of reasons I only use and teach about Young Living’s oils... matters of purity and integrity and authenticity and validation, and so on. I could (and do sometimes) go on for days. It’s all on the upcoming site.

What it came down to for me in that moment, was that because the integrity of the plant is honored and never distorted with all the chemical alterations that other companies do, the holy component of this oil is still intact. It doesn’t just impart the smell, it actually has the mojo. It’s the closest thing you can get to when the yogis of old would simply rub the resin on themselves in preparation for meditation.

This stunning moment was mine to cherish each of the four days of Convention. It was followed every morning by an experience of Valor when we did a more challenging pose, Peace & Calming with Savasana, and Deep Relief when I paid later for having gone deeper than good sense would have indicated.

Of all the astounding amount of information imparted to me those four days, what struck me most deeply was the impact of using the oils during yoga practice. Every day I looked forward to putting my body through a difficult challenge with the subtle emotional-spiritual support of the oils chosen to compliment the day’s routine. Once home and asked to declare what one thing stood out the most from the entire experience, I could only point to the pouch in which I carry my oils about and declare, "this stuff is holy!"