suicide in the village

a woman's body was found in the river today. she committed suicide after her husband beat her. she ran from her home and jumped into the river. it made my heart heavy to hear the news. and yet it is what i am here for. or, to be clear, what the yoga is here for. to give these women a sense of goodness and connection to strength in themselves that can with stand the difficult storms.

life can be cruel. spread a little kindness. forgive someone who hurt you in the past. the wheel of dharma and human drama moves on.

i am in a village near benaras shooting the documentary about teaching yoga to lower caste women and children. it is all exactly as i could hope, and so it is terrifying. why is it terrifying when your dreams are coming true? i guess thats why its easier to play small and keep nursing the old wounds. this is like stepping off the edge of a cliff, what is possible, nobody knows. the faces of the children are so strong, the black eyes rimmed in khajol (black eyeliner). i sustain the gaze. even when i am afraid. even when it is all so much bigger than me.

i sat at the communal water pump today in this rural ghetto. the women and childeren are still so beautiful. even with dirty clothes and snotty noses.what constitutes poverty? lack of money and food? how many of us live in poverty of the heart and soul, isolated from what we love most. connection to beauty, to goodness. to a basic feeling that life is good.

i am frightened by the immensity of it. everywhere, the big eyes watching. doesn't it feel as if someone is always watching us? some call this god.

the little girls follow me through the streets calling me "didi", a hindi term of respect and endearment that means big sister. i have family everywhere in the world.

i pray for strength, peace of mind and courage, to look into the soul of the human condition which stirs things up in myself.

and so it is.

everywhere i go

he says, "your home is the world or the world is your home. choose one."

is this your dream i am dreaming?
i am drunk on nothing
i follow a path leading to nowhere
i fall asleep on the temple steps
i dream of burning
prophets wandering from the wilderness speaking in tongues
we live on locusts, milk and honey
it has been many days since we brushed our hair

still, everywhere i go i think of you
the skin of my lips so tender
to the smallest breeze
even the wind has fingers,
i keep my secret smile for myself
who gave me this lovers mouth?
she is hungry

he sleeps next to me, my friend
he is dark as cedar
skin shining and smooth
long and thin of body
and still, i think of you
i blink, another friend,
i blink, another friend
lovers come and go like waves
sometimes smooth and sometimes tsunami
will i be forgotten?
i do not like to be forgotten.

maybe my teacher is mad. crazy.
of course, he says.
we are crazy weirdos, embrace the crazy ecstasy
in any case, it is too late to turn back now
if this road leads to heaven or hell

he says, "there are three fires in this life,
the fire of lust,
the fire of hunger,
the fire of death"

the Mother is laughing at me

hope

varanasi, benaras, kashi, india
feb 9

it is raining in the oldest living city tonight. a city so old, it has three names. falling rain always makes me feel like curling up in bed. and so i am. my 2 roomates are out at dinner, they will have to walk back through the narrow, twisting alleys in the rain. but maybe it will have washed all the cow poop away...

walking through these alleys, you see so many seemingly broken people. literally. their limbs broken, handicapped and begging. so many that you have to stop seeing them. no matter how much yoga you do, how much meditation, it causes pain to see suffering.

today anka, the director of the documentary we are making about this trip, and i went to a village nearby varanasi to see about teaching yoga to some dalits. dalit is the untouchables of the class system. we were introduced to the director of the program by our friend appu, who is a brahmin, the highest of the caste system. he said that people are superstitious and say that if you touch an untouchable, your skin will burn.

these kids had very little, dirty clothes and snotty noses. but i did not feel sorry for them or depressed by spending time with them. it was as if we opened a can of joy. pure, unadulterated enthusiasm.

it was easy to look into their faces, to look at their eyes because we are sharing with each other. i am coming to teach yoga and they are open and excited to learn.

i think it comes down to that...it is difficult to look at the people begging in the city because i feel overwhelmed, underequipped and guilty, and because i am ignoring them. and because we are separate from each other. it is easy to look at the dalit children in the village because i am parrticipating with them. so when we sustain the gaze, it is hope and friendliness passing between us.

God standing right in front of you

Guruji asked me what i thought of one of the students in the yoga and tantra immersion. i shrugged, "what do you think?"

"At first i liked him. but he is not giving to the others. he thinks he is so close to being enlightened that he stands apart and cannot see that god is standing right in front of him."

i asked if it might help if i taught him tantra.

"Maybe he just needs to feel affection"

yes...so true of us all..

the serpent

he said when we were naked it was as if a serpent lived in my spine. just under my skin it moved. he said when we were making love it was as if he was having a private conversation with it.

"it enjoys being enjoyed.
it makes no apology.
i am afraid the serpent may grow bored of me one day."

she does enjoy being enjoyed.
she does make no apologies.
she loves to love, for the sake of it.
she is awakened by touch.
she is merciful and merciless.

just under my skin is an ocean of electrical charge and surges. it dances the whole length of my body, but especially it is like a live wire in my spine, at the nape of my neck. when i am touched there, the serpent moves and my body shudders spontaneously, of it's own will.

i think this is how the nuns made love to their bridegroom, jesus. in ecstatic whole body orgasms.

Genesis 3:
"¹Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?

²And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden:

³But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.

⁴And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die:

⁵For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil."

imagine there is no original sin. let go of heaven and hell, reward and punishment. what if the world was created to be enjoyed? what if the meaning of life is creative expression?

intimacy with the naked reality of life.

tag. you're it.

Animal Sacrifice

i saw a goat sacrificed at the temple yesterday. a baby goat. it was at the kalighat temple in calcutta india. here the image of the divine is just a big oval black shape with three red eyes and a long tongue sticking out. it is confrontational, sensual and blood thirsty all at once. this god is female and she is heat. it feels like her three eyes are watching me, staring back and giving me energy. i am a long way from bible school. but not really.

this is biblical.

i used to read about sacrifices of animals in my cartoon bible. it was so much more interesting to read the old testament, where people were fighting and fornicating and sacrificing and warring and longing and loving. david desired bathsheeba so much he had her husband killed so he could know her carnally. appetites.

who has the largest appetite for blood sacrifice?

everywhere i look in the natural world, life is feeding on itself. i will be food someday. there is no denying that, uncomfortable thought that it is. i will be food someday, but not today. today i stand on the temple steps and look at the pit where they sacrifice the animals. pigeons and goats mostly. sometimes a bull, but that is unusual. the ground is sticky from dirt and what i can only assume is blood from other sacrifices. the altars stand ominous and empty, my mind wanders to thoughts of what execution must look like. the altars are stone blocks with a tall "V" shape to put the animals necks in. there are hundreds of burnt incense sticks on the altars and bright orange marigold flowers. i think of the guillotine and marie antoinette.

they say the blood represents the moontime blood of the mother. well, most of mankind is quesy about that too.

i feel quesy, apprehensive as the sun beats down on me, i am wearing my indian clothes. modest for a woman here means shoulders and ankles are concealed. i am wearing my favorite bright red scarf to cover my contraband shoulders, blood red, kali red.

kali is called the laughing mother. the mothers love is unconditional. like the sun that shines on saint and sinner alike. this is not the love of the father that you earn by keeping commandments or following your cultural ethics and morals. it is everywhere for everyone. it is grace. it is redemption regardless of whether you deserve it. she is called the laughing mother because sometimes it feels she is having a joke on you, a little play with her veil of maya. it is up to you if you can laugh with the cosmic joke or not. or cry with it.

the priest leads in a baby goat, a black one. it looks startled. the priest looks like he does this everyday, which he does. my throat tightens. i want to look away, but i have committed myself to witnessing. why? that is a good question. to accept the suffering that is an intrinsic part of life without flinching or turning away. and for much less of a noble reason, i want to watch. i am intrigued like a scientist is intrigued.

i chant the same mantra i use when i am meditating, driving, having sex, going to the bathroom, bathing...one mantra because it is all one. i would chant the same mantra watching a birth as i now chant watching a death.

the priest picks up the goat by the nape of it's neck. the baby goat cries. it looks frightened, but maybe it is just annoyed at the restriction of it's freedom. i focus on my chanting more. it becomes very intense, my breath very thick. the priest puts the goats neck inside the "V" on the altar. he lifts a curved sword. i want to look away but i keep my eyes open. they burn a little from the concentration.

i remember how my own mother used to kill animals on our farm when i was growing up. i never had the stomach for that. but my mother also used to stay up all night when the goats went into labor, to help the birthing process. i never liked the blood and guts. there were always things about my mother which disturbed me, which i was not able to accept. we have been estranged for many years. and here i have travelled all the way to india, to be a goddess worshipper, of the fiercest goddess, kali. it is always about our parents isn't it?

the priest lifts the blade and swiftly brings it down. the head is severed and rolls away immediately. the body is still twitching. there is blood on the ground. one of the priests put marks on our foreheads, tilaks, of the blood.

that same day the priests pulled me into the inner sanctum where the kali statue is, they put my hands on her and i felt her buzzing under my palms. there were the red eyes. watching.

Temple of the Mother's genitals

In the chinamasti temple in gowathi there is a depiction of devi, the goddess, with her head chopped off. she is holding the sword in one hand and her severed head in another. we are here on pilgrimage in the north of india, assam. our cell phones don't work because of terrorists attacks in this state and kashmir last year, now only local phones work. gowathi is a small town with 10 temples to the goddess in 10 fierce and benevolent forms. she is called the Mother.

maybe it is hard to imagine Mother and goddesses wielding swords and severed heads. but that is the Mother. the giver and taker of life. There are the parts of all our own mothers that are hard to accept. especially when we expect them to be passive and loving, protecting us from hurt or needing our protection.

The shadow of the mother is the witch. the witch first appears when the baby cries for milk and is denied. the mother to the baby is a god, the baby is completely dependent. we create the light and shadow of the feminine. the "good mother" is nurturing and self sacrificing, living for her mate and children. the "witch" is the woman who enjoys her power and pleasure for herself. society is threatened by her.

the biggest temple in this town is the kamakhya, yoni (genitals) of the Mother. we arrive at the gate and are told to wash our hands and feet. there is a long line that snakes through underground catecombs with sculptures carved into the walls and covered in bright red kumkum powder to give them shakti (life force). the deeper we go underground, the more dank the smell and claustrophobic the feeling. the priests wear all red and the indian women in line around us are singing. sometimes they put their index fingers in their mouth and wiggle them back and forth while they make a high pitched cry. it tingles the spine.

finally we reach a place where the steps in stone are so steep that only one person can descend at a time. there is a pit with the deity. but she has no form. just a dark pit with water. people have brought flowers and oil lamps are burning. the priest tells me to get on my knees. i bow to the shrine. he says a mantra which i repeat. he says, "touch the water". i touch the water, sprinkling it over my head like a baptism. then i climb back up and out into the fresh air. this temple is to the yoni itself, the female genitals, the Mother. and the temple was like a womb...descending deeper into the earth, getting darker, the smell stronger, until reaching the point of power which was formless and touching the water.

the mother creates life through the pleasure of the body. through the desire to create and be immortal by being reborn. she is the pressure of the volcano. to her pleasure is not good or bad, it just is. the driving force of life. like hunger.