Sometimes, when I am alone
I feel my wings.
The rushing day among the crowd,
they rest unseen, forgotten.
But sometimes, when i am alone
I feel them and am contented
by their existence alone.
But sometimes, when i am alone
I stir with their stirring
if you’ve walked on the coastal path out of Shanklin on the Isle of Wight towards Ventnor, you’ve probably come across a table of jams and an honesty box. This is the work of the Luccombe jam man. He’s been at it for years.
This morning my partner asked me, ‘is it the same honesty box as when he started?’ ‘Does he take it in at night?’ ‘Is he watching from behind the curtains with binoculars?’ ‘How long would this work in a city?’
I’ve been thinking about open heartedness in my practice. How scary this is – so many opportunities to be hurt or drained. How often does the jam go unpaid for?
But it lifts my heart to think that either he continues regardless, or that people are good and honest – either works. I wonder if a postcard to the Luccombe jam man, Luccombe, IoW would find him? I wonder, in this city, what is my jam equivalent?
I come across a pair of my father’s socks. How long have I had these? He’s been gone a decade and I think I’ve had them nearer 20 years. They’re darned (does anyone even do that any more?), presumably by my mother. Maybe I’ve worn them, but not in a long long time.
Still it’s hard to add them to my charity shop rag bag. I didn’t have the best relationship with my father. They are socks of no particular significance. I hadn’t even realised I had them. But still hard to let go.
Here I am again dwelling slightly in the past again. Leaning back in all my yoga postures; failing to seize the day.
They’re definitely leaving, once I’ve taken this photo, once I’ve written this post, maybe after some tea….
I thought it was an easy decision. Actually I thought it was no decision at all.
Some years ago I decided I wanted to do yoga teacher training with my teacher. He didn’t do that then but is about to this summer. Suddently universe chucks a spanner in the works and offers a seeminly incompatible out of the blue work opportunity. An instead of this being a work vs yoga decision I’m unexpectedly reviewing my whole life priorities.
I realise I am not giving my friends enough time – but then another teacher talks of non-attachment meaning people too. This quote speaks to me.
“Are you sad?”
“But your – your songs are sad.”
– My songs are of time and distance. The sadness is in you. Watch my arms. There is only the dance. These things you treasure are shells.”
― William Gibson, Count Zero
Maybe you are just shells. But you’re the kind of shells I’ll treasure forever.
I can still feel the flat of his hand between my shoulders blades. He gives me a little shove and I stumble forward over the threshold. He shuts the door and there I am, homeless. Continue reading
Warning – Eight limbs of yoga being practised ahead! That’s how I interpreted this sign. “It’s about anchoring,” says the person who sent it. “That’s what I’m saying,” I replied. I can never remember what the eight limbs are though. I enlist the mneumonic maker spacefem.com which, spookily, concludes with an eight-limbed being. Synchronicity abounds – delight!
Yellow moment 20/363.
“The pains which are yet to come can be and are to be avoided.” So says one translation of sutra 2:16. It’s a sutra I’ve considered a lot. But maybe I’m thinking about it all wrong.
For a long time I didn’t blog any yellow moments. I realised I was affected by having read about yellow appearing in all seasons except winter. What if I wrote too much now and used up all my yellow? Every day I walked through this tree’s scattering of yellow leaves without seeing them (it’s the gingko in Logic Lane, Oxford). But what if I run out of growing things and have to use warning signs? Would that have happened? Would it have been so bad? – I was sent some great yellow signs that languish in my in box.
Today I see the relation between this and my fear of hand balances. In always stopping myself falling forwards I stop too soon and never get up enough to balance – or find the courage to write yellow in fear that my supply will be exhausted.
Yellow moment 19/363