Wholistic Fitness

ilg in his typically feeble expression of Baddha Ardha Chandrasana taken by Ananda this morning at YogaDurango studio.

tis true…i’ve returned to New Mexico, the breath-ern sister smack of southwest Colorado, hOMe to Anasazi spirits, world-class sunsets that can open the most clogged chakras, and land of the Divine Light which whistles the Dharma through such Beings as spiny leaf cacti, cholla, and arcing sandstone spires screaming into an endless cobalt sky….

after teaching my ‘nooner’ HP Yoga Class i kissed my Precious Girls God-bye and took delightful refuge in Kimmie, our ‘fancy car’ pretty much Gifted to us by stalwart and most benevolent Temple/Path Protectors Yogini Anne and Jim who are currently in Australia for sOMe reason.

as a former Zen Guy turned  Old New Daddy,  ilg leaps at any chance toward any endeavor, errand, or expedition that might provide a wee bit of solo tranquility.  ilg was made for solo stuff.  as an athlete;  i love solo pursuits;  Time Trial’ing,  mountain running, free solo climbing, nordic ski racing…i nearly once turned pro as a racquetballer having fallen deeply in love with the solo-ness of whacking at rocketspeed a seemingly berserk rubber ball within the confines of what amounted to a large jail cell.  loved it!    i recall as a youth my forays – alone – into the wilds of the Junction Creek drainage.  my only cOMpanion was my wolf-hybrid, Apache…phew MAN was ilg all a tremble…alone, no tent, no nothing save for the forested sounds of a San Juan mountain night alit with nocturnal action…as the embers died, my inner fear rose as the creeping cold engulfed my cells and shivered me beneath the shimmering stars peeking, winking, taunting through the long, seductive needles of the great Ponderosa…nearby only the rapid breathing of Junction Creek, running clear and cold if forlorn, acted as a spiritual analgesic to my inner fright through the night.

it’s that aloneness – what yogis know as Kavilaya – that pulls me toward writing.  writing to you.  writing to the screen.  wishfully still pretending to tap out my lines to you upon a memory of my mechanically soothing if slow Royal typewriter…those were the days before the first IBM PC Jr.

in the 3-hour-ish delicious drive from Durango to Here Now in New Mexico,  my mental notebook becOMes quickly cluttered by astral Post-Its as the incredible scenery dashes by at 70mph if i’m behaving behind the wheel.  the spirit of Enlightenment seems to be seeping, if not purging from the dancing Junipers and long-limbed Willows whose roots grip like vices into the shifting sandspray of infinity passing as ‘soil’ in this harsh, high, dry land.  no wonder my Tibetan tendencies get all swoony when i cOMe here….to ilg?  even the Gramma Grasses sing the Dharma as they wave like manifestations of a unified consciousness (which they, to ilg, are!).

enough.

i’ve cOMe here to train, to Practice, to help my mOM, to feel the sweet caress of the wafting coyote throttled starlit sky…i’ve cOMe here to work on my next book proposal;  desperate to get back into the Swing of Bigger Things in order to provide for my Beloved Partner and Rinpoche Chi-ld.   ilg knows again by Direct Experience why so many new Daddies call it quits on their marriage, on their Conscious Fathering…it’s insanely difficult terrain; far harder and more technical and more demanding of Acceptance of the Now than in any Zen Temple i’ve studied within….

yet,
ilg is still Here Now,
like you,
doing my Noble Best to Rise Higher…
Dive Deeper,
Wake Up Earlier,
Drop In Quicker…

it remains a DEEP honor to write like a spiritual sonofabitch (the ‘bitch’ of course, being Vagrayogini/Green Tara,et.al)

especially here in New Mexico where the sweeping scape of birdsong sky swirls like Animas River eddies within an astral vortex of oceanic dimension…

no wonder so many writers, artists, and creators have cOMe here for eons…

the Rio Grande still rushes by, enthusiastic through the bosque…

ring around the mountains/
chakra’s full of potions/
dashes, dashes/we ALL fall…
UP!

Blessed be thy Practice,

your feeble teacher of no-thing