Teppee construction. More to come.

It is day four of the November national blogging challenge and I am already struggling. It isn't that I don't have anything to post about it, it is just that I had a kinda tough day. Perhaps that is when one needs things like these I suppose. Today I thought a lot about class and race and how it is important that even when we think we are culturally competent that we acknowledge that we still have work to do. This can be an uneasy thought, but something I must challenge myself on as well. There is no gold star for being culturally competent- it is an ongoing process. I found this quote and thought I would share:

"I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality....I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word"

-Martin Luther King Junior 

The words of Martin Luther King Junior always bring beauty into my heart even when I contemplating ugliness in the world.

Yesterday I took a walk through Forrest Hills Cemetery. I haven't been since the summer time and I was anxious to see the effects of Autumn. I started out at the pond as I usually do; however I took a slightly different path as I proceeded. This particular path took me to a part of the cemetery that I typically avoid- it is where the most recent entries into the graveyard live. I love old graveyards, but it is with trepidation that I enter newer ones. I have no fear of those that are buried, but of running into those that are living and very much grieving. And as it happens I did have such a run in.

I was walking along when I saw a sign that read 'Garden of Enduring Love'. I looked at my roommate, who was along for the journey, and exclaimed, "Oh everyone that is here must have had a wonderful love story! You would have to be a part of a true love to be buried here!" My romantic soul was buzzing and then I looked to my left and there he was. Sitting in between the gravestones was a man likely in his late 50s to early 60s. He was sprawled out in what appeared to be a rather comfortable fashion with his back against one of the stones. He had his newspaper held in front of him and the rest of it was casually laid across his lap. He had other supplies such as a thermos and other creature comforts. The way he sat with his paper it was not to hard to envision him sitting as such on a sofa or love seat. He took no notice of us and continued to read. He looked so comfy and it was an odd sight to see. I very much wanted to take a photo; however I resisted the urge and tried to hurry past without seeming as if I was hurrying past.

As we continued along I thought a lot about him and wondered about whom he was visiting. I would think it was his partner. Perhaps they had read the paper together on the weekends and he was continuing the tradition. Whomever he was and whomever he was visiting, he seemed peaceful. There was no grief on his face. I have no way of knowing what was in his heart however and though I will never know his story I was moved by him. I have to believe that who he was visiting was an enduring love. And I think there is beauty in knowing that though death may separate us we are never truly a part when we continue to make space for one another in our hearts and sometimes even in our Saturday afternoons.  

Below find some more of the many photos I took during my trip- 

A jaunt through Forrest Hills Cemetery.

Inky skies, sparkly streets.

My phone died a sad death early into my hike so I'll only have a small offering of photos for y'all;  however that shant happen again for the Story Girl has finally gotten herself a point and shoot! I'm so excited and happy! In the meantime-

Don't let a little old tree that has has fallen along your path keep you from your journeys.

I spoke with a man the other day regarding yoga. He was enthused about the topic as yoga had helped transform him. He told me that as a child his father had been very punishing and severe. The man paused for a moment as he struggled with his words. "What I mean to say," he began "Is that my father was abusive. I was often frightened of him and what might trigger his abuse." he continued to tell me that through yoga he was able to find a space in his mind where he could make connections with this fear of his father to his shyness and anxiety as an adult. He had always struggled to understand his reticence in speaking with others and why it was difficult for him to make connections. Through yoga he was able to establish a quiet meditation that allowed him to understand that his fear of his father had translated into a fear of others. And this fear had stayed with him well into adulthood.

Making this connection between his anxiety and his childhood in many ways freed him. He spoke of the power of yoga and how it not only unlocked your muscles, but somehow also unlocked the secrets of your mind. Unlocking hidden thoughts within the depths of your heart and mind...it seems so dangerous, but for this man it created harmony. I have known this man for some time now and he has never been especially chatty. He has a slow and eager smile and in a lilting voice can sing Beatles songs. I know that he loves the ocean and he can be a bit of a flirt though in a quiet way. I had not known much else about him and yet here we were. He had shared something so powerful and in such a simple way free of fancy words, sweeping adjectives, or grand allusions.

I, myself, also love yoga. I take pleasure in the pain I feel as I maneuver my body into poses both natural and unnatural. I enjoy sharing yoga with others and have on many occasions used it as a calming interventions with the children I work with. There have been times when doing my own practice and moving through a series of poses that I have felt waves of emotion cascade over me. Yet as I complete the series the emotions ebb away leaving me feeling relaxed and content. During yoga practice it is one of the rare times I feel in harmony with my own body.

There is something about our culture, our inner voices that tell us our bodies are wrong. Our waist is too big, our knees too knobby, or we're too short or too tall. It always seems to be something. Our bodies are beautiful though for we are our own greatest instruments. We hold so many secrets, secrets that seem ugly or scary but are beautiful for they are the story of ourselves. And exercise- yoga, running, dancing, swimming, hiking- can often be the key to unlocking these secrets as it was for this man. In fact, I was so moved by this man that it has infused my own yoga practice.

I hope that his story can encourage you to not fear your own truths as recognizing them can sometimes set you free. I also hope his story encourages you to appreciate your own body and how your can use it as a transformative tool.