Practice and a poem

I don’t know if there is such a thing as physical shaktipat, but I am more in my body in a different way since the workshop. As if, simultaneously, the possibilities are broader than before, and the energy… tighter? No, that sounds like stiffness. Contracted? Not quite — that sounds too tense. It’s more… well, more whatever term you would use for the process of squishing coal into a diamond. Perhaps “compressed.”

Lovely practice this morning. The Cop kindly (and swearfully) put up curtain rods in the yoga room, and now I have nice thick indigo velvet curtains to keep the room warm. Mmmmm, toasty!


Here is a poem I read and loved this morning:

Hour, by Christian Hawkey

My sixth sensurround
is down, my second skin
the skin I’m stepping
into: I lick
a new finger & hold it up
to the wind: O my beloved
what. O
my beloved what. O my
beloved shovel-nosed mole
can I clean the soil
from your black, sightless eyes
can I massage with fine oils
your tiny, webbed feet
are you tired of running
into drainpipes
does your mouth foam
approaching power lines
are your tunnels collapsing
do you have work to do
does the dirt breathe
do you breathe the air
between the dirt
are your lungs
the size of earlobes
do you hear me
in the tunnel next to you
have you cut your nose
on a shard of glass
have you excavated
the severed, blue leg
of Spider-Man
did you pause to admire
his red booties
are your tunnels collapsing
do you have work to do
am I keeping you
am I keeping you


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