Browsing Category

poetry

Birthday, loss, poetry

Reconciliation.

December 6, 2012

By Jen Pastiloff.

beauty-hunting-jen-logo-black

How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses? ~ Stanley Kunitz The Layers

I read this poem often to my yoga classes and every time I get to that line I choke up. I remember going to Stanley Kunitz’ birthday party when I was a student at NYU. I think it was his 90th and it was in some kind of New Yorky basement, or maybe it was the NYU Law School. My memory of those years went up in smoke at some point. I had just decided I was a poet (it sounds so pretentious now but I really did wake up one day and decide that.) I went and had my black coffee (all I would eat for the day) and decided that I would focus on poetry, that in fact, I may be a bad poet but that I was a poet nonetheless and I had found my focus, finally. I knew why I was here in New York City. If I didn’t want to be a poet or an actor or some other ridiculous thing that was guaranteed to bring me heartache and no money than why wouldn’t I have gone to Rutgers or somewhere cheaper in New Jersey?

So yes, I would be a poet. 

I went to Stanley’s birthday party and was so touched by all the poets reading his works, except they weren’t reading them, they didn’t have to. They’d had them memorized. They were just reciting them as an act of love, an offering, an honor.

How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses?

That was probably the first time I heard that line. Or maybe not. Maybe I had read it and underlined it and memorized it but it was the first time I really heard it, there in that basement or church or NYU Law Library. I was hit by the reality that I’d had a feast of losses already and I was only 19 years old.

What if kept going, I remember thinking. What if every year I lose more people and things and memories? How will I ever reconcile this? How will I survive?

I’ve reconciled some of it, as to be expected at my age.

Why do some people experience such loss, so much mass at once, while others buoy through deaths and years like they are untouchable? When really no one is. They simply haven’t been hit yet by the storm and maybe they never will until they are. And by then they will have prepared greatly. Whereas some people never get to prepare or else they spend their whole lives (or what seems to be that) preparing and yet it doesn’t make a difference. Like my dear friend Emily Rapp, whose son Ronan is dying at any moment of the fatal Tay Sachs. She was hit with no warning and no matter how much preparing and how many lifeboats she throws in his little boat, he will sink. He is un-saveable.

I’ve reconciled some but what of those I haven’t? How does the heart reconcile? Does it?

 

We move on. We get up and go and come home and pour a glass of wine, or not, but we never fully get over things. What does getting over even mean? It sounds like some kind of vengeful expression that they would make a movie out of like Die Hard. Getting Over It Part 7.

I am going to get one over on you. I am getting over. It suggests that there is something underfoot, something to be trampled on and overcome.

My heart does not want to overcome or trample on my losses but rather assimilate them into my life so I can function like a normal adult with responsibilities and schedules.

Right now I stay in pajamas unless I have to work and I worry about having a girl because how do you even braid hair? I worry about having children period.

How do you make a diorama? How do you do algebra? What if I don’t want to watch their soccer practice? 

What is a normal adult?

I know these questions are popping up because I am having a birthday in a few days and my mortality is at stake, and, as you know, my father died at the age I am turning when I was a child but still, I feel like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight. What if I don’t want the Prince?

I don’t know what I want. But this can’t be. I am a woman of a certain age. I am not young. (Yes, yes, in comparison, I am sure some of you reading are rolling your eyes and saying “Girl, you are so so young.”) But I am not. Not in baby-making years, I am not at all. Trust me on this and don’t condescend. I am young at heart and maybe young looking, but when it comes to ovaries and eggs I am meh at best.

Do I need to reconcile all my losses before I bring life into the world? Do I need to do the proverbial getting of my shit together before I make a move? What do I do? Who do I ask?

I have always fantasized about having someone to ask that would give me answers which is why it was especially devastating that my father died so young because although I am sure his answers would be fifty per cent bullshit I would take them as The Word happily and without question. (I would!)

Here I am a teacher to so many and a leader and I am searching for someone to tell me what to do. As I have written about before, the worst is deciding what to eat. Recently, in Bali, I went out to eat with a student, and, as is my way, couldn’t decide what I wanted and hemmed and hawed and changed my order and fretted. She said something to the effect of I have never seen that side of you.

This is one reason I don’t hang out with many people. What side? The pressure I feel to be somebody that always inspires, that always knows what to do and what to order and what to eat.

I don’t even know if I want a fucking baby and I am in my late late thirties.

This side of me.

So yes, there is this side of me. The side of me that doesn’t know. Who has lost a lot. Who has anxiety, still, yes. Who sometimes doesn’t leave her house and who would prefer to write than teach a yoga private and who tends to take things too personally and drinks too much coffee and gets stuck in the past and novels too.

I have reconciled those things for the most part (some I’d like to keep). But the questions are looming. (I am not looking for you to give me answers.)

I am looking to never stop asking the questions. To always look and uncover and dig and smell and retrieve and throw back.

If I stop asking the questions I die.

It may take a while for my body to die but my mind and soul and all other parts of me will wither away if the questions stop. The heart can never reconcile all of it until it stops beating.

I think that is why that line chokes me up. I know the truth behind it.

How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses? It doesn’t.

Some turns to legend, some to fact, some to dust and the rest, well, the rest you bury inside of you and reach for it when you are drowning knowing it will be there. And it will.

 

All Jen Pastiloff’s events and workshops listed here.

 

Jen Pastiloff is part of the faculty this year at Other Voices Querétaro. It is a vibrant, multi-faceted writing program in Querétaro, Mexico. Focusing on both fiction and nonfiction, as well as on the ins and outs of contemporary publishing. Application: We're keeping it simple! Admission forms and letters of recommendation are not required. Please email Gina at ovbooks@gmail.com or click photo above. Also on faculty are authors Emily Rapp, Gina Frangello, Stacy Bierlein and Rob Roberge.

Jen Pastiloff is part of the faculty this year at Other Voices Querétaro. It is a vibrant, multi-faceted writing program in Querétaro, Mexico. Focusing on both fiction and nonfiction, as well as on the ins and outs of contemporary publishing. Application: We’re keeping it simple! Admission forms and letters of recommendation are not required. Please email Gina at ovbooks@gmail.com or click photo above. Also on faculty are authors Emily Rapp, Gina Frangello, Stacy Bierlein and Rob Roberge.

 

Click to order Simplereminders new book.

Click to order Simplereminders new book.

loss, poetry, Things I Have Lost Along The Way

What Can I Tell You?

November 13, 2012

What can I tell you that you don’t already know?

I don’t know. I don’t know what you know.

I know what I know.

(I also don’t know what I know and know what I don’t know that I know.)

We cannot experience anything other than our own experience, I’ve been told. So, what can I tell you?

I can tell you how when I was 17 I stole a lot of underwear, and a few bras, from Victora’s Secret at the Moorestown Mall in New Jersy where my friend Ameila was working. My friend D and I. We then added up the cost of all the lingerie and realized that we had commited grand theft. I might still have one of the bras. But maybe you know this. I don’t know where you go when you die besides gas stations.

Maybe you can see it all and you shook your head when we did this and lit up a cigarette, alreaydy knowing the outcome. Which was: nothing happened. We didn’t get caught and I don’t know if we even felt bad. D and I worked at a sporting goods store called Modell’s and we would have our friends come up to the register and not ring them up for Umbros and Champion sweatshirts.

I can tell how you when I was 19 I applied to for a fellowship for poets at Bucknell University. For “Younger Poets”. Only ten people in the nation could win and I didn’t see the point in applying, in sending in my poems at all, because I never won anything, only bad things happened to me. Urged on by my mentor at the time, Donna Masini, I sent my poems in and won the fellowship. I won it! I got the sacred fellowship and a retired NFL football player turned poet who was actual quite lovely was our writer-in-residence. I spent a summer starving myself and writing and running through cemeteries in the rain and reading poems in an old church in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. Only ten in the nation and I did it. I defied the odds and overturned the ruling that God hated me. But maybe you knew? Maybe you in fact, did that? Maybe you had a hand in that?

I can tell you how I got pulled over once when I had been drinking. The cops called for backup and I went and sat on the side of the freeway and prayed to you: Daddy, if I have ever had to call in a favor now would be the time. Please. Help me. And you did. So, I guess I don’t need to tell you that? But maybe you don’t know this one: after that night you saved me, I swore I would never ever have a sip and drive again. And I did.

I can tell you that. I have had some sips since.

I am not perfect.

I can tell you that but you know that. I am quite sure of this. I wasn’t perfect even when you were here. Remember when you used to quiz me on the names of the hockey teams for each state? I could never get them right.

What can I tell you that you might not know?

Maybe you aren’t really dead.

I always knew that if I kept looking, kept driving, I’d find you. I didn’t think it would be here though, that you’d be pumping gas in Kansas. You still smoke, I can tell. The way your shoulders hunch over gives you away. When you push nozzles into canals, into the backs of cars, you heave, your shoulders roll. Your stomach reaches closer to your back,toward smooth pink scars.

Daddy, you look smaller, shirking into yourself like that.

Silently pumping gas, coughing occasionally, scratching your sunburned bald spot. I watch you from the shoulder of I-7o through dead bugs on my windshield. There is a small convenience store attached to the gas station.

You enter it and when you emerge I see the bulge in your pants. You’ve bought Kools: your brand of cigarettes and stashed them in your front hip pocket, next to an Almond Joy.

I see you still squint, smoke, have bad posture, eat Almond Joys. Quiet as ash, you in the Kansas of Colorado, one foot almost in each state. The moment you noticed me must have been when you straightened your back up, crushed your half smoked cigarette and smiled. You know I can’t come any closer.

I can’t pull into the station, roll down my window and touch your face.

But what can I tell you? I will tell you anything you want to know.

How long it took me to find you? How many years I was lost? How I am about to be the age you were when you left? How I know this isn’t you but how I need it so badly to be and how much it means that you let me believe it is. How your gifts never stop coming through? I can tell you that.

How although you ripped my heart out at 8 years old I have never forgotten and I have used every bit of you up and turned you into art whenever I have had the oppotunity. Though the facts that remain are greying with age, they are no less relevant than they were all those years ago. Nor are you.

I can tell you that I am a better person than I have ever been and that it feels foreign and exhilarating in the way being recognized feels after a lifetime of being invisible.

Some days I love you and some days I hate you and how does that make you any more special than a father that is here on this earth in his chair watching his show with his glasses on his chest? It doesn’t. You are not invisible is what I am saying.

That I can tell you.

poetry

Man Eater.

September 1, 2012

He barely looked up over his newspaper but I felt his willingness

to know the improbable

things in life, the sliding of a phone number under three dollar bills change,

and the walking away with certainty that the improbable just turned probable.

I felt his willingness to know the improbability of a garden

later that afternoon, a bottle of wine on the table, blocking the two people.

The improbability of Can you move that bottle? I can’t see your face.

There, that’s better. There you are.

The improbability of that butterfly landing on the bougainvillea bush and the sun

dropping down for the day so the two faces are lying faces at the moment

when that butterfly lands on the red flower bract

and coddles its wings against the petal, the brilliance of its red blinding

as making love for the first time, that first skin against skin battle,

the loss of sight that accompanies it.

They aren’t telling the same stories they were telling that morning in a restaurant.

The faces are softer now, sunlight has wore them down, and they are smiling.

The two faces are telling beautiful untrue things.

That’s what a lie is: the telling of beautiful untrue things.

The butterfly is improbable,

but as I drop his change I know that we’ve already seen that butterfly.

That nothing can ever be proved,

the mathematics of two bodies coming together, inexplicable and unsolved.

That the only beautiful things are the things that do not concern us.

This is out of our hands, this no longer concerns us.

 

He is bound come sit next to me, to kiss me in a backyard garden

with the words What are the improbable things? heavy objects

knocking about in my chest.

This is no longer improbable but inevitable.

 

Things either last too long or not long enough.

 

This will not last long enough.

 

It is a sad madrigal, this tale.

I said I wanted to go out and screw the world

but that was another lie, another beautiful untrue thing.

I found him where I knew he would be,

poking at his eggs, sipping his coffee

at the exact moment I knew he would be there,

10:18 am, Friday April 23.

and I gave him all I got.

I didn’t want to screw the world.

I wanted the world to love me one man at a time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

poetry, Self Image, Things I Have Lost Along The Way

An Identity Crisis.

July 23, 2012

An Identity Crisis

We may ask ourselves: Who is this person? while watching the lover pull a hair off their tongue or wiping their upper lip with the back of their hand or eating a bowl of oatmeal on the edge of the bed to catch the news or drinking a dark beer at M’Lady’s in SoHo.

Because sometimes we get lost in the bustle of it all. And these questions might come fast as a sigh of relief and they may vanish as fast as the beer glides down the throat, the hair comes off the tongue, the sweaty upper lip smooth as butter puckers into an

Oh.

We might get in our cars, make faces at ourselves in the rearview mirror, eat our breakfasts in the bathroom to save time and sweat with our lovers and then one Tuesday we realize that the person we once were has changed so many times over, has fallen into the groove, into the pattern of days, is as predictable as the setting sun

so we may ask ourselves: Who is this while watching our lover pull a hair off their tongue or wiping their upper lip with the back of a hand

and it might feel answered, we might think we recognize them.

That we know who we are.

So we go on and make more faces in the mirror, changing the natural shape of our mouths or seeing what our eyes would look by pulling our hair too tight, and we might keep driving,

keep walking

keep drinking,

keep eating,

nothing truly stops, ever,

bury the father,

clock into work,

tell them that you love them if that’s what they want to hear,

clock out,

keep going,

we might feel almost sure we’ve got it,

that we are in control.

Keep going to bed, keep waking up.

Don’t stop, don’t ask,

buy the birthday cards,

celebrate the years,

don’t move from where you are,

trade one relationship for the next

go to bed,

wake up

You’re still there.

Look: you’re still here.

***This piece was written when I was 20 years old 
Eating/Food, poetry

Things That Break Easily. More on Anorexia.

July 22, 2012

I wrote this when I was 19. Clearly I was in the throes of anorexia.

                                    Things That Break Easily

What is Inevitable: The window men having to come and install a new window to replace the shattered one.

They smell of bacon but are kind and helpful. They ask no questions.

They Have Seen It All.

In and out, noiseless as shock.

They cart away broken shards, slinging glass like water ,

Commenting: close those tree branches come close to your window,

good glass like this could scratch easily, even break with wind.

Maybe someone should think about cutting that tree down.

~~~

What can a body achieve?

What limits can we really take it to?

I was a tree!

I stood all night looking in my own room

dipping on, the wind pulling me this way and that.

I watched neighbors drink and knit in my new tree body

as a pile of sticks curled and slept in my bed.

But even this, this is not much.

I couldn’t unearth myself,

I couldn’t slither out of bark

and into the apartment across the way.

I could not become timeless.

Or as heartbreaking as the man hunched over his piano with the random tufts of hair.

Not into my past or anyone else’s present,

I could only slip into the earth.

I could not fit my body in the head of the sewing needle.

Looking out at the world through nothing but a perfect steel slit. 

Perfection is Perspective.

Guest Posts, poetry

The Art of Disappearing.

June 9, 2012

This poem is exactly how I have been feeling lately. My friend sent it to me and said it made her think of me.

Synchronicity.

It’s everywhere.

Read it and feel it. It’s that good.

The Art of Disappearing

When they say Don’t I know you?

say no.

When they invite you to the party

remember what parties are like

before answering.

Someone telling you in a loud voice

they once wrote a poem.

Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.

Then reply.

 

If they say We should get together

say why?

 

It’s not that you don’t love them anymore.

You’re trying to remember something

too important to forget.

Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.

Tell them you have a new project.

It will never be finished.

 

When someone recognizes you in a grocery store

nod briefly and become a cabbage.

When someone you haven’t seen in ten years

appears at the door,

don’t start singing him all your new songs.

You will never catch up.

 

Walk around feeling like a leaf.

Know you could tumble any second.

Then decide what to do with your time.

 

– Naomi Shihab Nye

Inspiration, poetry

Returning.

May 20, 2012

Like reading a book and looking up from the page to face the landscape, that gorgeous canopy: the red maple, the black locust and white ash, the black birch and sugar maple, the white oak- all those trees!

The ribs of gray rock under the dark mantle of matted leafage. And then back to my book again.

Which is real?

What I am looking at now?

What I think I saw?

What I think I know?

The words on the page?

The thing that the words are trying to describe?

I am returning to me, finally, after having been interrupted for so long.

Looking up at that landscape was a moment as fast as a slow wing beat.

I never bothered to lift my eyes from the page, from this same sentence for so many years. I lived inside the same tunnel of words, this tightly wound black and white sentence, these very familiar letters, for so many years.

Until I was willing to look. 

I finally saw that beautiful alternate-leaved dogwood in full bloom, the young forrest with so much to offer, so much new life and old life intertwined-the shagbark hickory chestnut sighing, it’s arms muscling at the sky, it’s scent distinct, somehow masculine.

I lived in this cave of noise for too long.

All around me, so much to see, but with my head down neck bent, eyes half-mast, I missed so much.

I was so unquiet.

We are as capable as raw bone, of becoming anything. The evolution of bone to bead, that astounding transformation of something so seemingly unmalleable into a morsel of beauty.

A chiseled thing, heavy with it’s own personality and structure. It’s intricacies detailed, experiences carved into the body of the bead make it stand out from every other.

Much like us.

I have become as migratory as a blue and white Flycatcher breeding in the summer before heading south for autumn.

Can we ever get our minds around how things go from one thing into something else entirely?

Can we wrap our minds around ideas as big as change? Can we keep expanding into things we never thought we would be? 

Can our own humanness astound us?

With all this unseen beauty in the world.

I see through matter: through skin, through flesh, through tissues and blood cells into the wild.

We still have so much to touch, so many rocks still have to leave their weight in our palms as we rub out the seasons on the stone’s belly and feel what the wind did to it’s skin, what the rain and mud had to say.

The verity of gravel, the sounds of the warblers as they sing their praises and show off for the other birds, the detail of the damp and the way it enters your body and settles like a fog inside of you, a slight coat, just enough to feel alive.

All this unseen beauty. We are as safe as houses.

As long as we keep our eyes open we are as safe as houses still settling into themselves, even after years.

The creaking and adjusting. The resettling.

Tell me: How you ever felt so alive?

 

 

And So It Is, poetry, Self Image

The Intimacy of Bats or When Did You Know Who You Really Were?

May 20, 2012
The Intimacy of Bats
 
It comes down to this:
 
Even at 15 years old I knew who I was.
 
Who I was on my mother’s bed, who I was as I lay startled to see a bat hovering near the ceiling fan as I made out in the way a 15 year old will make out with her 17 year old boyfriend.
 
That proving that a 15 year old can and will move her body like a 17 year old.
 
With my keen understanding that everything is a sign for something else,
I should have understood then that under the graph of thin meshwork, under muscle strips covered by bat skin was a map of my life.
 
A prophet, my future in the fabric of its wings, and  I was blind-sided.
 
I completely missed it.
 
In the Orient, bats are a symbol for good luck.
Here in the West, they’ve suffered a serious image problem.

I appeal to the lost.
 
I appeal to creatures who have to overcome darkness to get what they deserve.
 
What I love about bats: their invisible sound, bouncing off objects, returning as echo. Leaving as one thing, coming back as another.  They’ve mastered the art of taking.
 
Do you think they just give away their noiseless sounds?

They always get them back, and like some exclusive insider’s club: these sounds are too high-pitched for humans to hear.
 
For example, one sound could be I love you and we wouldn’t hear a thing.

What I have in common with bats:
I too have suffered a serious image problem.
I am haunted by myths.
I know the art of taking.
I return as  an echo.

I rely on echolocation, a seeing based on hearing.
 
I am part bat.
 
I listen for signs, I hunt in the dark.
I have been sulfur at the tip of torches, I have leapt to fire
when another flame came close, but finally I have found my way. Finally.
 
So I listen close,  for signs.
I listen as hopefully as blood draws to the surface I listen.
I am looking for that kind of reaction

And as silently as we watched those hairless pale yellow wings become as still as our answer to the moon.

What will we answer the moon?

The artist is what he is because of the time and place where he lives.
Be the artist now, be the artist here, in this time and place.
 
The intimacy of bats has escaped evolutionists but I am sure we could learn from these winged things.

How to listen closely, how to love what at first looks frightening. 

It comes down to this:

People fear most what they understand least.
 
Take love for example, God, death. Take honesty, cruelty, kindness even.
Take bats, those shy creatures, so misunderstood. They love quietly, haunted by myth.

At a very young age we decide who and what we love.
 
Then later, much later, tell it to the moon!
Tell it to the bats, tell it to anyone who will listen,

just who it is that you are, 
 
and why if you hunt here in the dark, if you listen close enough, you can hear your life, the wings a suggestion that you will make it,
 
that you are already there.

poetry

Answer Honestly & You Will Find Your Bliss.

May 2, 2012
What humbles you, bringing you to your knees?

What do stand gaping, open-mouthed and in awe of?
Who do you love impossibly and with every inch of possibility?
What rock have lifted to find Grace buried under it, waiting for you to pick it up?

When you bring your hands together,
there, like that~
Whose name is on your lips, as you bow your head closer to your heart?

Who have you lost along the way~
Only to discover Losing is only a temporary room
where voices, smells and gestures nestle before they return
to the bed you’ve carefully made in your heart?

Which words crack your heart open?
Which silences?

What makes you get very quiet and listen as if your life depended on it?


What if it did?

What if it all boiled down to that moment,

there on your knees,
listening with grace?


~jp

~~written in a moment of reverence (the theme of classes this week.)
Once again I am falling in love with: my yoga practice, the written word, the spoken word, silence, my body, and my faith in miracles.

jen pastiloff 5-2-12
Guest Posts, Inspiration, poetry

Yoga & Poetry, Opening to Flow. The Incredible Poet & Yogini Leza Lowitz Guest Posts.

April 27, 2012

Welcome to The Manifestation-Station. Today’s guest post by the incomparable Leza Lowitz is such an treat that it has left me speechless. (For me, that is saying a lot.)

Leza writes below: Can we see our world and everything in it as nothing less than miraculous and divine? This, in itself, is enough to stop me in my tracks. Just stop and take that line in. It is so in alignment with how I am living my life and what I am teaching that surely it is no coincidence that the lovely Leza is here with us today.

After my friend Steve Bridges passed away 2 months ago, my dear friend Lhotse Hawk sent me a book in the mail. I was very touched by this gesture and sat the book by my bed for a few weeks, as I tend to do. 

Then it started calling to me. That little red book there on my bedside table. 

Today’s guest poster is the author of that book, Leza Lowitz. The book is titled Yoga Heart: Lines On The Six Perfections.

I started carrying it with me everywhere and reading from it in each class I taught. It became my bible. 

I decided I must find the author and connect with her. 

So that is exactly what I did.

I like to think I am a poet, but with all due respect, I humbly bow to your form, Leza Lowitz. On and off the mat.

MC Yogi says: “Leza’s poems are pure gems of wisdom that will wake you up, inspire you, challenge you, move you, and call you to action to live your yoga more fully. Yoga Heart rocks the heart of yoga, which is the desire to live not just to better ourselves, but to help better the world.”

All proceeds from Yoga Heart go to charities to aid those affected by the March 11, 2011 earthquake and tsunami in Japan. (This touched me so deeply when I found this out.)

I am so honored Leza agreed to guest post here on The Manifestation-Station. Another shining example that ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE.

Please put down what you are doing and read my favorite author of the moment. Without further ado…..

Yoga & Poetry, Opening to Flow

by Leza Lowitz

Since I’m a poet, people sometimes ask me how writing and yoga go together.  Writing is a way of imbuing our lives with meaning. The grail of poetry, of writing, is self-knowledge. That’s why when we read a good poem, we feel as if the author has spoken directly to our soul, unlocked something previously unseen or hidden.

This is true of yoga too. So they naturally go together. Yoga is a moving meditation, but it’s also the practice of surrender, which is an incredibly vulnerable, powerful action. If you can trust the unknown enough to fully surrender to what is, rather than looking toward a future of what could be, you begin to fully live in the moment. When you live in the moment, you realize how inter-connected everything in the universe is. Through yoga, the heart opens, and everything in life begins to shift towards balance and acceptance.

Having said that, ultimately, writing is a solitary act, as is yoga. Even though you might practice in a group or sangha, no one can get inside your body and move your prana like you can, except for some very rare wizards and enlightened beings. (But that’s another blogpost).

In both writing and yoga, or any creative act, it’s the quality of attention that is important. This links us to our original condition, which is sacred. Poetry and yoga are both ways to remove illusions. They are both revelatory, uncovering our original, sacred hearts and minds.

As we all know by now, the word yoga comes from the Sanskrit word yuj, which means “yoke” or “union.” Yoga unifies the body and mind through the breath, opening channels of energy that send the life force– prana or ki–through the body. Yoga offers a way of Being rather than Doing, ultimately connecting us to our higher selves, or the Divine, or God.

Yoga is a very powerful gateway into the soul; that’s why it’s sometimes called the science of conscious awareness. Practicing yoga allows us to slow down, quiet the mind, and gives us a tremendous opportunity to explore our potential for growth–both physical and spiritual–and unity within ourselves and with others. The discipline of yoga is like holding up a mirror to yourself. When you do a yoga pose, your mind begins to wander. At first, you judge and compare, and eventually, you just release the judgments and comparisons and go deep into the breath, into the here and now. Peace, joy, acceptance and calm arise.

Yoga helps you to be in the heart, and the body, rather than in the “citta vrittis” of the mind. Nothing frees up the mind better than pure, pranic movement! When I get on my mat, if I’m in my head, I can’t stay there for long. Yoga takes me into the subtle body, moving through from the gross outer layer of the physical body, to the breath, to the prana, to my thoughts, and finally, to action.

Yoga opens up enormous channels of creativity and teaches us how to embrace the ‘process’ rather than focusing on the ‘goal.’ This has helped me greatly with my writing, and allowed me to focus more on the process, on the journey, than on the goal of a “finished product.”

The experience of working in a yoga pose, doing it over and over and over again to find alignment and release, not being attached to some idea or image of a “perfect pose,” helped me see that the same process in writing was not a “failure” but a necessary and important part of creativity. I came to accept the axiom that 99% of good writing is revision. I have become so much more productive in my writing since I started doing yoga. And on good days, I find that I can be more embodied as a writer, and more poetic as a yogi.  I try to write from a more embodied place due to my yoga, and I try to practice (and teach, for that matter) from a more poetic place.

As a moving meditation, yoga lends itself to poetry, to creative exploration, to self-expression.  We drop out of “thinking mind” and drop into a state of pure being, pure awareness, deep INNER LISTENING. Sounds a lot like poetry to me. Poets, after all, translate the the world–the moon, the stars, the trees, into words. In order to translate, you have to really be aware. To look. To listen. To see.

Yoga Poems

The more I practiced yoga, the more the experience of quieting down and listening to the breath, to the body, and to the silences between breaths, began to resonate for me, and the more creativity and poetry emerged.  When I first started yoga, I was struggling with my creative writing and feeling frustrated. So between writing periods, I’d go to yoga class to unwind.

When I released pent-up emotions and memories, yoga helped open up deeper channels of creativity and the freedom to express them. The yoga began to encourage my creative, expressive side to emerge without judgment, and I could explore it with a sense of wonder and awe. And one day, as I was dangling in Downward-Facing Dog, the line of a poem came to me. “Within my body, there’s a city.” During my practice, the muse would speak to me and other lines would come.

I started to write the poems in Yoga Poems: Lines to Unfold By, as a result of my yoga practice, pose by pose, poem by poem. I based the poems on each yoga pose. The poses have provocative names, often based on animal movements,  and lend themselves to metaphor: Eagle, Cobra, Bridge, Tree, Monkey. When I “got out of my own way” and stopped trying so hard, my writing began to flow.  I was fortunate to have given a reading in a small Northern California town, and after the reading, a woman came up and encouraged me to write more yoga poems. It turned out she was Anne Cushman, author of The Idiot’s Guide to Enlightenment, and then an editor at Yoga Journal. More poems emerged, and eventually, Yoga Poems: Lines to Unfold By was born in 2000.

Over a decade later, in the summer of 2011, Stone Bridge Press published Yoga Heart: Lines on the Six Perfections, which is a kind of sequel to Yoga Poems. Yoga Poems was structured around the eight limbs of yoga practice (Raja Yoga), which was a springboard for a personal and artistic inquiry into the physical, philosophical and spiritual dimensions of yoga and life. With time and a deepening of practice, my exploration of yoga postures moved to the meditative aspects of yoga, and like many others, I sought to embrace a quieter, more inward-focused life. Paradoxically, as my attention turned inward, it turned outward to my community and my responsibility to live more peaceably, to serve others and to try not to harm the planet.

If I really wanted to live my yoga in the world and not just in the yoga studio or on my mat, I soon realized, I had to bring it to every word and deed, no matter how small. My teachers inspired me to start the practice of keeping “The Book”—a daily journal recording my thoughts, deeds and words, allowing me to see how I am living in the world. Keeping a daybook of your behavior is a great practice to ensure that you’re acting with awareness. Many writers throughout history, including Benjamin Franklin, have done it. Six times a day, I try to record my actions, words, and thoughts in six categories which parallel the yamas (codes of conduct) of the Eight Limbs of Yoga: protecting life (non-violence), honoring others’ property (non-stealing), sexual purity (refrain from sexual misconduct), truthfulness (refrain from lying), speaking in ways to bring others together (refrain from divisive speech) and speaking gently (refrain from harsh words).

(To download “The Book” for free, go to: sunandmoon.jp/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/thebook.pdf)

Through this activity, I was led to reconnect with the six paramitas of Mahayana Buddhism from the Lotus Sutra. These “Six Perfections” are innate human qualities that form a blueprint for living a virtuous life and transcending one’s karma. They remind us that when we’re born into this world, we join a web of interconnectedness with our fellow creatures, nature, the ecosystem and the atmosphere. These treasures are Dana Paramita (Giving/Generosity), Shila Paramita (Kindness), Kshanti Paramita (Patience), Virya Paramita (Joyful Effort), Dhyana Parmita (Stillness) and Prajna Paramita (Wisdom).  They’re called perfections because we’re constantly led to practice these virtues until we “perfect” our human lives. Traditionally, the six treasures are cultivated by Bodhisattvas, enlightened beings who vow to help others to become free of suffering.

The six paramitas form the underlying structure of the poems in Yoga Heart: Lines on the Six Perfections.  The buddha said if you want something, give it to someone else. If you don’t want something, take it away from someone else. That’s why giving the Six Perfections is such an empowering practice, and why meditations such as Tonglen, the Tibetan meditation in which you take away another’s pain and use your own compassion to transform it, are so powerful, and why the best yoga practice is still the yamas and the niyamas– how we treat others and treat ourselves.

In the writing of these poems, my practice was to inquire: What does it mean to be generous–to give time, energy, money, resources, praise, attention, support, love? What does it mean to receive? Can we accept generosity graciously and humbly? As for kindness, how can we be truly kind to others and to ourselves? In fact, an alternate translation of the second perfection, Shila Paramita, is “ethics” or “morality.” This means watching your thoughts, words and deeds vigorously. How do we cultivate patience? My teacher Geshe Michael Roach beautifully defines patiences as a lack of anger. Can we catch ourselves before we react in anger to a challenging situation? Can we take a deep breath instead and see the person in front of us as no different from ourselves, indeed, as one? That’s patience. Of course, patience is also slowing down, taking time to wait, being okay with not knowing what will happen next, even enjoying a liminal state where anything can arise.

And what of joy?

Can we discover true joy–not by consuming, possessing, or achieving, but simply by honoring the beauty and richness of the moment, feeling contenment and satisfaction with things as they are, no matter how imperfect? Can we approach our daily work with true joy and passion, no matter how humble or tiring? Then what of stillness? Can we embrace the stillness, just being rather than constantly doing? Can we allow time for prayer, meditation, being in nature, being alone with our own thoughts? And what is wisdom? How do we come to understand the concept of emptiness and potentiality, and how can it help us live a better life? Can we see our neighbor as ourselves, the world and everyone in it as truly One? Can we see that the labels we attach to what we experience come from ourselves, and change the labels?

Can we see our world and everything in it as nothing less than miraculous and divine?

The poems in Yoga Heart were my attempt to do so, written over years of “Everyday Zen” practice, inspired by nature, yoga, meditation, scriptural study, Zen poetry, Buddhism, Osho, Tibetan Buddhism, Tibetan Heart Yoga, Tantra, ancient Japanese and Chinese poetry, Eastern philosophy, Western philosophy, Rumi, Kabir, sacred world poetry, haiku, love and life. I tried to keep the language simple and from the heart.  In them, it is my hope that yoga and poetry come together and inspire others on their own creative journeys deep into the heart and back out into the world.

*******

About Leza Lowitz: For over two decades, Leza Lowitz has been bringing together the worlds of yoga and creativity, sharing her experience in over seventeen books, including the amazon #1 best-selling Yoga Poems: Lines to Unfold By, Sacred Sanskrit Words (co-authored by Reema Datta), and most recently, Yoga Heart: Lines on the Six Perfections, for which all proceeds go to charities to aid those affected by the March 11, 2011 earthquake and tsunami in Japan.  Her writing has appeared in Yoga Journal, Yoga Journal Japan, Shambhala Sun, The Best Buddhist Writing 2011, The Huffington Post, Namaskar and others. 

Lowitz lives in Tokyo with her husband, the writer Shogo Oketani, and their young son. They own the popular Sun and Moon Yoga studio. Originally from San Francisco, she has been studying meditation, yoga and healing for over 25 years and teaching for over a decade. She is committed to sharing the ancient magic and power of Tibetan Heart Yoga, from the Gelukpa lineage of the Dalai Lamas and has recently shared these teachings at the Bali Spirit Festival.

To learn more about the Yoga Studies Institute, please see: www.yogastudiesinstitute.org

Leza can be reached at www.lezalowitz.com or www.sunandmoon.jp

Yoga Heart’s beautiful calligraphy is by Akiko Tanimoto, who can be reached here:

I am including 2 poems from each of her gorgeous books. You need to own these books, folks. Own it and live it. Whether or not you have an asana practice or not. You will thank me. And more importantly, yourself.

From Yoga Heart: Lines On Six Perfections

In Praise of Wildness

“Wildness is the state of complete awareness. That’s why we need it.”

——Gary Snyder, Turtle Island

The more still we become

the more wildness arises within.

Does a lion feel the pleasure of its power gathering

like river water at a dam,

its strength building as it sleeps,

dreaming of the chase?

Can a snake never be straight,

but merely uncoiled,

waiting to spring to movement?

Is a hurricane a wilderness of air?

A cyclone a suspended door

to a turbulent sky?

Does my creative passion gather

the more I sit in silence?

Can I let the wildness

embolden me,

made form, made flesh?

From the wildness,

can I find peace,

make wholeness,

make praise?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prasad

That sound you hear?

It’s my frozen heart melting.

Bringing each drop to my lips,

I cover my body freely,

wet with your name.

My lips become your lips,

my body your body.

When I take you into me,

the world goes on forever.

I will find peace in these fragments.

This pain will be my cure.

All poems from Yoga Heart: Lines on the Six Perfections by Leza Lowitz. Reprinted by permission of the author and Stone Bridge Press. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From Yoga Poems:

Adho Mukha Svanasana

Downward-Facing Dog

Within my body

there’s a city—

nameless streets

dead-end alleys

of pains and promises,

a mapless Atlantis

cordoned off

by years and bones.

The muscles pull

the tendons throb

my joints crack out

their resistance—

places I’ve ached

undetected

for a quarter of a century

send out their muted frequencies

from an unfamiliar

pose.

Descending too quickly,

I implode.

Down here, or even up there

breath is the most

difficult of absences

and so, two finger-widths

into the hara

I find my bearings

mind-body-belly

oxygen tank both empty and full.

Listen to the place

you feel it the most

says the teacher,

head dangling from

adho mukha

svanasana

a single bulb

on a simple cord.

So once again

I go down deeper

to where

the muscles pull

the tendons throb

the pain travels

its clandestine escape

and then retreats

in the halfway reach

where each breath

razes another

skyscraper I’ve aspired to,

brings the earth up

a little lighter between my toes.

Garudasana

Eagle

Before I had a name

I existed in the world

as breath

as the wind

as a star.

For a moment

if I could be the breath

& the wind

& the nameless star

I’d meet the sky

that holds them

as it holds me,

& I’d say

joyfully,

namaste.

All poems are from Yoga Poems: Lines to Unfold By, by Leza Lowitz. Reprinted by permission of the author and Stone Bridge Press.

            


Jennifer Pastiloff was recently featured on Good Morning America. She leads Manifestation Yoga workshops and retreats around the world. When she is not traveling you can find her teaching yoga in Los Angeles. She is currently writing her first book. You can find more of her blogs on popular sites such Positively Positive and MindBodyGreen. More info at www.jenniferpastiloff.com