Entering the Movement, take II

I move.
You do, too.
Oh wait, every single thing on this planet moves - including a piece of trash blowing in the wind.  What's that you say?  All matter and energy is moving throughout the universe?  And that our very human bodies, these lungs and this heart, emulate a universally rhythmic pattern ~ that of expansion outwards & contraction back in towards the center?  (Centripetal and centrifugal motion?)

As for a particular style, well, let's see: I walk upright, on two legs, with my two eyes roving the environment found around me.  You do, too?  Okay, well then, that makes us human together, or homo sapiens sapiens, if you'd prefer.  I sleep in a plush bed, in a room by myself, in a big house with three others, on a wide, residential street where there is little noise and where relatively few neighbors are seen out and about.

I drive in a petroleum powered vehicle to purchase the processed food that I nourish my body with, from grocery stores and other convenience-type facilities.   I visit numerous communities throughout the region - from schools to banks, from cafes to studios, and from stores to friends' homes.  I spend money and resources that aren't mine.  I make up part of a 5% of people who consume over 25% of the Earth's precious resources.  I take what I need and I throw back my waste ~ from paper products to food scraps, from cheap plastic to aluminum and from feces to saliva.  I am a middle class, American.

Growing up free from the sounds of bombs falling, from the thick plumes of toxic ash assaulting my senses, and from the noxious taste of violence and drama, I spent a leisurely childhood exploring rolling coastal desert hills and nonchalantly diving below tumbling, Pacific waves. Intuitively, the spirit of the land called to me.  Twinkling northern hemisphere stars would dance their nightly shimmer while whispering mysteries to great too fathom into my girl ears.  Nature always beckoned...

Soon, however, my heart grew heavy with the sights of large swaths of native habitat disappearing underneath the weight of industrial machines and the barrage of cookie-cutter suburban divisions that grew up where marsh and lagoon once sat stewing.  Activism, passionate principles and believing in something bigger than myself, were seeded early on.

But, so was pop culture and the din of its sound was too potent to ignore - from the longing refrains of a damsel in distress awaiting her knight in shining armor as she coos from a castle window and into a radio mic every single minute to a greedy, fat king asserting his birth right to the blood, sweat, tears and toil of peasants; from the dripping flags of red, white and blue to the hypnosis of the greenback; from the privatization of basic human rights, such as equal access to land, air, water and food to the inequal ability to buy class, privilege, power and corporatization.  "Once you learn to discern the voice of Parent Culture humming in the background, telling the same story over and over again to the people of your culture, you'll never stop being conscious of it.  Where ever you go, for the rest of your life, you'll be tempted to say to the people, "How can you listen to this stuff and not recognize it for what it is?"  And, if you do this, people will look at you oddly and will wonder what the devil you are talking about.  In other words, if you take this educational journey with me, you're going to find yourself alienated from the people around you - parents, friends, family, past associates and so on." (Ishmael)







  

Entering the Movement

"In your cultural prison, which inmates wield the power?"

"Ah," I said.  "The male inmates.  Especially the white male inmates."

"Yes, that's right.  But, you understand, that these white male inmates are indeed inmates and not warders.  For all their power and privilege - for all they lord it over everyone else in the prison - not one of them has a key that will unlock the gate."

"Of course it's true that males - and, as you say, especially white males - have called the shots inside the prison for thousands of years, perhaps even from the beginning.  Of course, it's true that this is unjust.  And, of course it's true that power and wealth within the prison should be equitably redistributed.  But, it should be noted that what is crucial to your survival as a human race is not the redistribution of power and wealth within the prison but rather the destruction of the prison itself."

--from Daniel Quinn's Ishamel

In order to better elucidate when I entered this movement, I must first begin with what the movement is.  With movement as metaphor as one of the guiding principles of my artistic practice, dictionary.com does a fine job of clarifying:

move·ment

[moov-muhnt]  –noun

1. the act, process, or result of moving.

2. a particular manner or style of moving.

3. Usually, movements. actions or activities, as of a person or a body of persons.

4. Military, Naval. a change of position or location of troops or ships.

5. abundance of events or incidents.

6. rapid progress of events.

7. the progress of events, as in a narrative or drama.

8. Fine Arts. the suggestion of motion in a work of art, either by represented gesture in figurative painting or sculpture or by the relationship of structural elements in a design or composition.

9. a progressive development of ideas toward a particular conclusion: the movement of his thought.

10. a series of actions or activities intended or tending toward a particular end: the movement toward universal suffrage.

11. the course, tendency, or trend of affairs in a particular field.

12. a diffusely organized or heterogeneous group of people or organizations tending toward or favoring a generalized common goal: the antislavery movement; the realistic movement in art.

13. the price change in the market of some commodity or security: an upward movement in the price of butter.

14. bowel movement. (One of my personal faves.)

15. the working parts or a distinct portion of the working parts of a mechanism, as of a watch.

16. Music.

a. a principal division or section of a sonata, symphony, or the like.

b. motion; rhythm; time; tempo.

17. Prosody. rhythmical structure or character. 

 

On Synchronicity

Recently, a dear friend offered me a nick name.  "Pee seu-a is what I will call you," he said.  Immediately, the name took me back to my undergraduate days spent at Sonoma State where I conferred one of my dear mentors, a woman whom I continue to love and cherish to this day, with the nick name of pea soup.

Then, after this past weekend's "Ritual and the Pursuit of Meaning" workshop, Robert typed me to explain more about why he had bestowed me with this new title.

"Pee seu-a, in the Thai language, means Butterfly ~ for one who flits from person to person, function to function or project to project.  Usually, it is used for a person with many loves. 
Pee means brother/sister or kindred spirit."

Explorations from a Rooftop

Ritual and the Pursuit of Meaning,

a weekend workshop exploring animal totems, body painting,

movement ritual & mixed media, 

April 17-18 at the fabulous San Diego Yoga Loft

swirling and twirling

madame butterfly takes to a san diego sky

light as air, soft as a feather,

she floats upon pacific breezes of exhaust & city noise

fluttering, from rooftop to rooftop her garden

an urban oasis

of reflections and smog, willingly

she is carried along, swiftly gently

her willowy wings caress

the quick agility of a slithering lizard

and the spidey prowess of a praying mantis

green face with forked tongue of niceties

they dance

to the great, rhythmic clock in the sky.

Join us for our second weekend workshop on

"Ritual and the Pursuit of Meaning: Moving with the Mask"

May 15-16, at Elder Palms Sanctuary in Vista

May 15 1-7pm $55

May 16 2-6pm $35

or $75 for both days

for more info:

livelovebreathe.chc@gmail.com

or call Cara 760 458 6887

The Meaning of Metaphor

On April 6th, the Los Angeles Times reported that there has been more than five hundred aftershocks since last Sunday's 7.2 earthquake rocked Mexicali, San Diego and LA.  Ironically, I have felt not even one of these physical tremors.  Fortunately, this is not due to a lack of awareness.  Rather, it has everything to do with the fact that my small world is being continuously rocked by meta-physical, earth-shaking on-goings in the many microcosms that ripple out around me.  The tumult of the transformation that our civilization and human race is now deeply mired within is palpable.  Change is here.  It is rocking us, shaking our foundations, rattling us to the core and merely demonstrating what the near future has in store.  The Chinese New Year of the Tiger was predicted to bring with it this global and personal turbulence.  Yes, "the shift" is here and it is happening now, as we speak and as I type.

Along with Easter Sunday's earthquake, came the return of two very important relationships in my personal life.  I was invited to spend time with Power and Sweet Pea, two black Labradors that my ex-boyfriend and I shared together, after I randomly ran into my ex while heading over to the Hillcrest Farmer's Market.  Over the course of this past week, I have taken advantage of the opportunity to stop by his home and take our two dogs on a leashed walk around their Clairemont neighborhood.  Initially, the dogs and I were ecstatic to see each other (which is why the three of us completely missed experiencing the 7.2 earthquake, for we were just stepping outside for a walk together) after a three-month absence.

It was a brief honeymoon phase in which negotiating and navigating around the suburban streets was relatively pain-free and easy.  By this I simply mean that Power and Sweet Pea have enjoyed a very charmed life that has included almost daily, leash-free strolls at either OB's Dog Beach or at Fiesta Island.  Power and Sweet Pea are two phenomenal creatures fiercely devoted to our pack.  However, when it comes to the task of walking together, with the two of them (which, together, equals roughly 150 pounds!) on one end of a rope and I on the other, it can quickly become a frustrating stroll.  Three thinking beings, all with minds of their own, attached by a string.  (How would you manage?)

Granted, I will take responsibility for the fact that I have not had the discipline to train them, or myself, on how to walk and think as one organism together.  Rather, I have always opted for the easy way out which was, and is, allowing everyone to do their own thing at accommodating locations.  The drive to these locations, however, is not the most Earth-friendly and sustainable option.  Hence, my move out of their abode was the motivating impetus I needed to learn how to walk with them, on the leash and around the neighborhood.

By Friday, though, the high of our reunion had worn off and the work of relating was rearing its head.  I felt my frustration brewing along with the desire to yank on their chain when I was either being pulled in a direction that I did not want to go or when they were not understanding my English.  I breathed in, felt the pangs of anger arising and, yet, I chose not to respond from it.  Instead, I tried to both feel what I was feeling and not respond from this place but, rather, from a place of compassion.  After all, I do not understand or speak 'Doglish.'  I sincerely tried, and in my trying I realized a wonderful insight.

In pondering the significance of randomly running into my ex on Easter Sunday, I immediately recognized the significance ~ the renewal, rebirth & re-arising of relationships, as well as another opportunity to learn and grow.  I chose to integrate the metaphor of Jesus Christ ('tis the season, after all) and some of the stories that are associated with this man into my day-to-day life over this past week.  As the days progressed and as I was being challenged in regards to a number of other relationships in my life, I understood...

this is the cross that we all must bear.

This job of being human and of trying to move from a continued place of deep empathy and love.
This delicate dance of attempting to authentically and with an open heart respond from a place of compassion and peace.  This trying, on-going negotiation of relating isn't easy.  It is difficult and it is hard.  It is uncomfortable and it requires much compromise.

An open palmed honesty can bring the thorny cuts of truth and a historical desire to crucify quickly rears its head.  It is this place where all of the elements and the cardinal directions meet.  It is where Mother Earth and Father Sky reach across the seemingly great divide of duality and copulate.  It is at this place, at this CROSS, where the merge results in a breathing, heart beating entity known as human, as me, as you and as this great journey we call life.

May we all harness the graceful prowess, the steady fearlessness and the fierce loyalty that the Tiger reminds us of as we face what lies ahead, together.

Yours in this mystical, infinite dance...



     
             

On the Symbolism of Feces

Naturally, there are many ways of interpreting our dreams.
I chose the following from Kelly Sullivan Walden's I Had the Strangest Dream...The Dreamer's Dictionary for the 21st Century for obvious reasons.

"On Feces Dreams of feces signifies that you are releasing and letting of what is in the way of your being fully in your power.  You are purifying, healing, and cleansing your body, mind and spirit and are entering into a powerful time in your life." (page 138)

YES!!!!!!

The Great Purging

It began in February.

I had spent the weekend working the Body, Mind and Spirit Expo (where the Body was conspicuously missing.  Though, I've come to now believe that the body has to be absent in order for capitalism to flourish.  Otherwise, our intuitive senses would guide us away from spending our hard-earned dollars on things we simply don't need.  But, that's a topic for another time).  It was a lot of psychics, angel talkers, aura readers and other meta-physical ballyhoo'ers that, for the life of me, just do not appeal to my grounded, pragmatic self.  However, on Sunday, there were also two dark and handsome men who attended and who, unlike the paid professionals in the main ballroom, have the uncanny ability of raising my feet up off of the ground.

One of these men lured me, with his foreign tongue and thick afro, into stopping by his house the following week for an Alpha Biotics treatment.  Essentially, what he did was help to release the stress that is held in the space between my brain and spine by performing what looks like a chiropractic adjustment to my neck.  Usually, I would not have agreed so readily to such a procedure but, obviously, I was motivated by other factors.  I arrived into his artfully decorated home lethargic and energetically drained from an afternoon spent in the office.  After the ten minute treatment, I was immediately rejuvenated and reinvigorated.  I thought nothing of spending Saturday night out with the girls, consuming a copious amount of wine and drawing attention to our comfortable nook with our obnoxious laughter.

Come Sunday, I was praying to a porcelain Goddess.  My vomiting did not let up, even as I thoroughly emptied the contents of my stomach lining into the brown rimmed bowls of numerous toilets.  I purged.  And purged.  And purged.  I had not realized just how toxic I was.  It was not merely the alcohol coupled with the treatment.  It was the food I had spent months, and years, consuming - the highly processed breads, crackers and cookies, the addiction to sugar and caffeine, the added tannins in the wine, and the list goes on.  It was the old, fake food that has graced my palate, even as I subconsciously stuffed it down my gullet.

Physically spent, I was reeling come Monday's all-day Small Farms Conference held at a Del Mar Hotel (another walking contradiction, just like me.  But, yet again, I digress into a story meant for another time).  However, I was also excited, for it was just as the attractive man had initially stated when he was attempting to sell his services - I was given a reset button on my system.  From here on out, I declared, I would pay more conscious attention to what I was putting into my body.

As the week progressed, and as I diligently refrained from the coffee and a handful of M&M's (among other things, of course), I thought deeper about the metaphor that I was physically experiencing.  Days passed and I noticed thoughts that spoke of a lack of self-worth, deeply held for years, arise and release.  I discovered absolve, and it felt like nothing more than a great cleanse.  I continued to probe deeper by investigating the way I was spending my time, and with whom.  "What is best for my well-being?" and "What serves my highest good?" were questions that I continued to ruminate upon.  Intuitively, I began to slowly withdraw from anyone and anything that seemingly fed and added to the toxicity that I had only recently come to let go of.  It was both satisfying, and painful.  For there I was, back where I had begun, alone and with no girlfriends to spend a night on the piss with, playing wing-woman so that one of us could have our sexual needs met, at least temporarily.

I spent a quiet week in rest and solitude.  Then, life picked up where it had left off and I allowed myself to be open to what miracles the universe offered.  Of course, more women friends were pointed in my direction and I once again enjoyed my time spent in feminine company (among other things, of course).  The ultimate release, however, came in a subconscious state.  While sleeping, only last week, I awoke fresh from a vivid dream: I had been sentenced to die.  God knows for what yet, strangely enough, I actually believed I DESERVED such a sentence.  I faced my fate, brave and without fear.  I was dropped, head first, into a vat of cement SHIT.  Still, I thought that I deserved no less.

The shit was slow to constrict and as I awaited my death, fear began to creep in.  "I don't want to die," my inner dialogue began to scream.  So, instead, I crawled out of the pit and wandered around a village, where life continued just as it always does, covered in thick, brown feces and looking for a shower with which to once again absolve myself.