Lovers and the Night Sky

Stephanie F. Earls

The winter to spring night sky has been spectacular. For the last month or so, planets have been bright. Venus and Jupiter dance with each other and the moon. And at certain times of night Mars hangs across the way with its orange glow. This week in particular mild New England weather, bare trees and the new moon darkness have created the perfect backdrop for spotting bright planets and constellations. The now slivered crescent moon rests low on the horizon just after dark. Look up!

Photos by Stephanie Earls

It's magical.

LOVERS
Stephanie F. Earls

this eternal dance 

is now exposed

sensuality and knowingness
align then twist 

push then pull

spectacular union

(illuminated illusion?)

this night sky is for lovers and thinkers

healers and dreamers

and not alone,

ambition chases the heady hearts

a tricky follow,

this warrior

leaves lovers 

retreating, igniting

igniting, retreating

again

while underneath

through seemingly silent, barren veins

new life emerges

a sliver

then a rounding,

receptivity mothers this flow

there is no hiding now

no holding back

even darkness cannot mute this dance:

life and light

love and might

hold tight 

or let go

either way

it endures

and you are 

irrelevant

and relevant

powerful

and powerless

hesitant

and unhesitating

you decide
or not

dance or watch

disappear into darkness or light up

this is the place where wishes are made

this quiet dark stillness

this is the place where wishes are fulfilled

this sparkling canopy

this is the place where lovers dance and rest
and find each other

illuminated

spectacular

seen by the ones who look up
felt by the ones who see through the dark

Embracing What IS: The Void

by Stephanie F. Earls


I've been facing a void with this blog: six months uninspired. Not unwilling. Not un-wanting. Just uninspired.  I've asked myself whether I've been too busy with other projects, or if I have nothing to say.  I've wondered whether it's a case of writer's block or worse, if I've fallen into a chronic case of who cares (a.k.a. nothing really matters).

It might be none of these or all of these on any given day but I've realized what it all comes down to is that I love to write and I miss it.  And when you miss something enough, you look for it, even if you fear that all you'll find is a void.

So with longing overriding fear, I face the void and see how much I miss the feeling of words coming together and making sense, unifying my thoughts.  I miss nice, neat, manageable pieces which I can write and edit and tuck away as "finished", or maybe read again someday when life feels messy.

Composer Stephen Sondheim once said something I heard and loved:  "Art is about making order out of chaos." That is exactly what I love about writing, and yoga, and sitting down to dinner with my kids and folding clean clothes. With a little practice, almost anything we call "life" (which can sometimes feel like chaos!) can become art: our minds, bodies, relationships. Depending on our perspective this can feel creative, inspiring, exciting.  Or, it can feel stifling, weighted, confusing.  Either way we all long to express ourselves, to organize, to energize around a focal point, to make art.  If we find things that allow us to make order out of chaos, there is nothing more frustrating than having that outlet turned off.

Studying my void, it's clear, this practice is as good as any. In yoga, in life, we can't get there without being here.  If we want to reach our goal, we have to start where we are. If we long to be somewhere else and forget about right now, we miss the cues our life is giving us about being ourselves....whether it's exploring a yoga pose, starting a career, healing our body, repairing a relationship or, posting a blog entry. We gingerly find a balance between aspiring toward a goal and setting that aspiration free so that we can be here now, open to the information available in the moment which shows us ourselves clearly.

No one wins yoga or life or art. There's no "end," no "getting there." It's just about being where we are, who we are, listening, gathering information about our experience, even if it's a void. At a desk or folding clothes or hugging a loved one or missing a loved one...painting a picture or washing floors or driving a truck...if we are here now, we can go anywhere. Here we get the roadmap from ourselves and learn to trust ourselves. Here, we find our "way" by simply being where we are.

So for today, and I say this to encourage myself as much as you: even if it's not all nice and neat, even if our art seems a little more like chaos, even if we miss a note, even if we fall trying to balance, even if we get a cramp when we run, even if our maple syrup boils down to maple sugar, even if we say thank you when we should say sorry, even if we write and it's messy and awkward...let it be.  At least it is true and real. At most, it IS. And when we face what IS and say "I'm here," magic happens. Because once something IS, we can work with it. IS we can tweak. IS we can learn from.  IS is real and true whether it's messy or mad or uncertain or unbelievable.  And because it IS, from here, with a little practice, our void or our chaos can become our art.

Barefoot in Boston: Real Life Beyond Mobile Upload (or in other words: Why I'm a Yogi)

by Stephanie F. Earls

New England has had an interesting summer: its own version of tornado alley in June, sympathy shakes from an earthquake centered in Virginia last week and as I write, remnants of Hurricane Irene soaking us.

In each case, from our separate spaces, we have reached out to hear from each other. Are you safe? Is it crazy there? What did you feel?  Seeing through the hype of news reports and having the internet at our fingertips (assuming electricity), we've turned to our most trusted sources: facebook, twitter, email, text message, to find out how things are going around the country and the world.  We have shared mobile uploads showing each other what we see or what we are doing.  And yet with this ability to share there is an element of our experience that can't be expressed with a mobile upload. It is the most human part of us, the physical, the emotional, the sensual. And though some will advocate otherwise, I believe this human, actual experience and everything it encompasses, is the gateway to the spirit.

Yesterday after taxi-ing my parents to Logan I made an impromptu stop at Fenway and caught most of the first game of a double header. It was great fun; lights and food and smiles and cracks of the bat. There were group cheers and group moans, sweat and sun then raindrops and wetness. The day was a feast for the senses culminating in a torrential downpour which I thought ended the game after the seventh (though the stellar grounds crew kept it going).

At that point floods of people left the park and I joined them, braving the walk back to my car, a mile away.  It was an event that no mobile upload could capture.  The sheer weight and pace of the rain was too much for my cell phone to "weather" but what's more, the experience was so rich in physical experience that no one, two or even three dimensional account would suffice. Whether delightful or devastating being human includes feelings and ripple effects which do not live online.

For me yesterday it was a fun side of real life, caught in heavy, drenching, warm rain. With each step the flooded streets and sidewalks threatened to sweep me and my flip flops off my feet so I took them off and made my way barefoot through the city.  As the rain became harder and faster I realized any amount of closing my body to preserve some dryness was futile. So I relaxed and opened. There was no separating myself from everything around me. I was immersed. I was connected from the soles of my feet to the top of my head and everything in between.  My mind was completely engaged in the moment. Then all I could do was laugh: hundreds of Fenway fans all in the same boat (or wishing we had one) scurrying for cover or cars as the rain became more penetrating. It was life happening. It was running and walking and finally giving up all hope of having anything dry, it became surrender.  And with surrender: delight, excitement, exhileration.

This is yoga.  It's not about putting your leg behind your head, breathing in instead of out or wearing the right clothes. It does not require a mat or a class or trendy food. It is just that you be where you are, feel what you feel and notice. It is bringing together your mind and your body so that your spirit is free through the mind and body.  Yesterday it was, for me, this rain-soaked walk with Red Sox Nation and 20 minutes of truth. When you're running in the rain there's no hiding.  You wear your feelings on your sleeve, and since your clothes become a second layer of skin you can imagine how raw it all is.  Your mind becomes focussed on one step at a time toward reaching your destination. And even though we were each heading on our own paths, we were all together too.  Just like life.  So here, one beautiful blossom of the yoga bud of awareness: sharing experience and getting to relate to the person next to you.

These are the things we love most about a day at the game or a day in a storm: a chance to share with strangers and loved ones and find common ground, a chance to connect on our paths. Happy or sad, scary or exciting these are our chances to look and laugh, to smile or cry, to high five or throw our hands up. These are our chances to feel. These are our chances to engage our senses with experience to awaken our spirits instead of dull them down. These are our chances to be human, to be who we are and to lean on each other, together.  Beyond the mobile upload.

A Man is Only as Good as His Wood

by Stephanie F. Earls


Every year about this time we get cord wood delivered. We stack it and let it dry over the summer so that by the coming fall and winter the wood will be ready to burn and keep us warm.  For years, as a kid longing to be free, I groaned when the "wood guy" would show up knowing my dad would be telling me to stack. But as I got older things changed and I realized a freedom in the stacking.

In a time of constant change and a world heavy on talk and theory there is something supremely satisfying about having a job to do that gets done.  And what's more, a job so connected to the earth, carrying her gifts for our eventual nourishment.  There is no question whether you are stacking or not. There is no question whether you are holding a log and placing it on the stack. There is no question whether the job is done or not.  It is very, excuse the pun, cut and dry. 

This morning as I stacked in the rain, bird song and water on leaves began to echo in a noise of nature that was so loud it was quiet. I could hear everything and nothing all at the same time, capped with melodic thuds as each log was put in its place. I felt a kinship with nature and our roots as people, imagining and enjoying how primal it feels to carry wood, stack it, set each piece in its place to find stability and organization.  It felt complete, putting effort toward something that will so concretely nurture us in the coming year. I felt connected, it all felt connected.  For all the years I cursed my dad for his "old" ways of heating the house, I have grown to feel gratitude and reverence knowing just like our ancient ancestors, we will have fire: heat and light when we need it, independent of certain modern conveniences. 

It got me thinking about people who dedicate their lives to their work, connected to the earth, and especially the "wood guy," Mike, whose motto I used for the name of this post. I appreciate his combined grounded sense of humor and light heartedness about a job that takes serious work (there's the lesson for us all!). The more ambiguous some relationships, the world or spiritual quests sometimes feel, the more deeply I appreciate that this guy (and anyone who does their work) just does his job. He is grounded, his work stands for itself.  Likewise, the more deeply I appreciate the chance to do jobs like this which are either done or they are not done.

And as I work, the more I realize how deeply our spirit and our growth is connected to what we do, our hands-on experience.  I revel in things that are done when they are done: stacking wood, laundry, cooking a meal, teaching a class. These are the things that seem mundane but are the gateway to the spirit. They are what nourish us. When everything feels like it sucks there is nothing like stacking cord wood in the rain to kick yourself in the ass.  And whether it is stacking wood or doing whatever job it is you do, it's really simple...when you get stuck, do your work...fold the clothes, teach your class, wash the floors, drive your truck, hug your kids (or your wife or friend), write your book, take your run. 

You're only as good as your wood....in other words, do your job.  (I hear you all having fun with this one...) 


There is something to be said for real work: hands-on, concrete, do it or don't do it, work; tied to the earth, connected, grounded, undeniable. This is what keeps us going. It is not theory, it's real. It's prayer in practice, it's meditation in motion. These are the places in our lives, these are the actions that keep us honest, clear our mind and remind us we are alive.  


So, how good is your wood? 

Life: Nature's Way

by Stephanie F. Earls


I have a small wildflower/perennial garden in my backyard which year after year comes back heartier and more lush than I remember, despite my inconsistencies in caring for it. Yesterday I realized I'd never cleaned out the fall debris that settled under snow in the garden: old leaves, dead stems, grass. And it had started to become crowded with weeds and overzealous flowers that were hogging the space. It seemed out of control. So I took to the garden and gave it some attention.

The new foliage disguised the depth of dead crap at the base of each plant. The mess was compounded by weeds and clover that were overtaking much of the garden. As I started to weed and lift the "crap" out with my hands I was overwhelmed by how much of this damp, dead stuff was sitting there, and in awe that the flowers did not suffocate.  With each space cleared I appreciated that regardless of the mess, this garden burst through into life. Nothing short of a miracle.  And just nature's way: life.


Nature is resilient. Nothing will stop life from pushing through and making its way to do what it is supposed to do this time of year: bloom.  Growth did not stop because I forgot to make room in the fall. The plants did not cling to their old stems even though I left them there.  There was no debate on growing or becoming stagnant. The garden just kept living and even started to turn the "dead" stuff into new nutrients. 

With it cleaned out it stands a little brighter, seems lighter. It's easier to see and appreciate each flower for itself instead of the wild mess it was becoming.  I am not sure it matters to nature. Perhaps I helped it along, but nature found its own way long before I came on the scene. It's a good reminder.  Some say let nature take its course. Like everything else, maybe just find a balance, a little cooperation, a little co-creation between ourselves and nature.

We grow with the same miracle in us, with a drive toward life, toward rebirth, toward finding our way through crap even when it's literally blocking our way, toward turning death, staleness and overgrowth into a chance to nourish ourselves.

When things feel like they are out of control or covered in crap, think of a garden, of nature. Remember life will find its way.  And if we want to help it along, we can bring it our attention. We can clean out the old so we have room to breathe. We can weed out the things that are overwhelming us so we have some space to see clearly.  We can nourish ourselves. We can choose life. 

Keeping Going: Solo Ventures and Shared Endeavors

by Stephanie F. Earls


What inspires us? What motivates us to do what we do, learn what we learn? What keeps us going? Is it our own internal drive? Divine intervention? Greed? Love? Fear? 

Call it what you will, at the root of any of these ideas there is a balance we seek between individual exploration and group creation.

I talked with a friend recently about these questions: Why teach?  Why continue to study? What motivates us to keep learning when we have the qualifications and established classes already? Why not just hunker down and practice in our own little world? 

It reminded me of a recent experience at Boston Common.  A few weeks ago I walked in the park. Despite the cold and drizzly day, spring had arrived and the park was magical: amazing trees with textured trunks and leaves, sparkling water, flowers in bloom, music in the air, ducks and swans milling about, and people. It was alive. I was alone. I paused on the bridge for a while to listen to a guitarist and soak in the sights and nourish myself. It was a sweet moment, appropriate for me alone that day and still, I left with the wish that I could have shared it.

When I returned home I shared what I could through words with my kids. Hearing about it lit them up. A couple of nights ago I returned with them, to the park, and we enjoyed the place and each other’s company. After a walk we played in the grass, each of us doing our own thing: cartwheels, sprints, jumping, relaxing.  I had the urge to do some yoga, but my body was tired and sore. I watched my kids flip and run, and the urge overwhelmed me and I decided to try a handstand or two.  As soon as I started to practice, our little group of four came together. My kids started to ask me questions about postures and wanted help getting into some.  They offered information they learned from friends on the playground about back bends. They were curious, excited and alive and it drew me out of my tired/sore self and livened me up.  It was a moment when though I thought I’d had enough yoga this week, the exchange gave it a whole new dimension. The park, yoga, became about more than just me, or any one of us and about all of us. What was inspired by my solo trip to the park became our trip to the park. My practice turned into our practice. The experience was elevated.

So while I ponder what motivates and inspires me, I realize there is a balance to find between solo ventures and shared endeavors. It is the reason the park was delightful alone and together. We get to know ourselves in different ways when we practice alone or get to share. They each inform our self study, our evolution: a self propelled (bigger than our self) desire paired with a quest to share, communicate, relate.  We are creative beings, a blend of autonomous individuals and communal creatures.

When I look at the teachers who inspire me it is clear that part of their self sustained spark brightens when they get to share their experience, knowledge, understanding, questions. And likewise they are only able to share because they take the time to nourish themselves in their own way.  There is learning that comes in solitude, a time to hear our own voice. There is learning that comes from the share, as each student or partner or teacher in our practice (life) holds a mirror up in a way that helps us see ourselves more clearly. 

So we find our balance, our solo venture and our shared endeavor.  We share because it completes our quest to create and inspire ourselves beyond a thought and into action. Once we've nourished ourselves, as teachers, friends, co-workers, parents, lovers, we have the chance to inspire and empower the people in our lives so that we can continue to inspire and empower ourselves. We do this best by sharing what we love, answering questions about it, showing it, learning more, going deeply into the well of the things that bring us to life and letting them saturate us so that we can nourish ourselves and the people around us.

The artist paints, the writer writes, the yogi practices, to answer the call of their soul first, to explore their solo venture. And they know each creation/art/calling, once shared, takes on a new dimension and ascends to a level of co-creation which far exceeds the potential that expression had on its own. It becomes a shared endeavor. This is the nature of expansion, of love, of true creation and I believe, one of the defining factors in what drives us as teachers, friends, parents, lovers, people.  

Listening to Yourself

by Stephanie F. Earls


In teaching yoga I often remind the yogis who practice with me that while I may be guiding them through postures, the goal of yoga is to turn in and tune in, to yourself.  Despite what is going on around them, I remind them to honor the teacher within, to back off if something does not feel right or go with it if it does.  That's yoga, and really, it's life. But for as often as we hear the words, and for those of us who teach, as often as we say them, sometimes it's easier said than done.  It takes practice.

I attend a lot of yoga classes, events, workshops. I am practiced in following my heart and finding things that work for me and yet, this weekend, in a workshop that was a total mismatch for me I came face to face with how some situations can still challenge us to trust ourselves.  In the first five minutes of this class I had a hunch it was not a fit. With some reluctance but keeping an open mind, I participated for an hour and a half, trying to convince myself to stay put and see it through. Why?? My ego piped up with all sorts of stories and questions about what it meant if I cut out, but push came to shove and I decided to do something I never do: pack up my mat and leave at the half way mark. 

For 10 minutes on my way out I argued with myself about whether I was dogging out or avoiding myself. I wondered if it "looked bad". I started to beat myself up for not totally loving this class, with a world traveled, respected yogi. I wondered what was wrong with me.

And then it hit me, for all the guidance I offer about honoring yourself, here I was second guessing my inner teacher.  It was a reality check about how hard it can be, even in seemingly simple situations, for us to honor ourselves when we find ourselves needing to go the other way.  This gets compounded when we come up against an authority in our field, family, faith or community.  There can be many factors that weigh on our decision, many voices, many ideas, some from outside but most in our own head.

Our own minds can do funny things, trying to keep us in our box when what it really comes down to is as simple as: is this working for me or, is this not working for me?  We are our own authority. We make the decision. There is no answering, There is no judgement. There is no right and no wrong. There is only realizing what works for us and what doesn't.  It might be a yoga posture, it might be a job, it might be a relationship, it might be a medicine. But it all comes down to ourselves and how we feel, what we want. 

This experience reminded me of how I felt years ago when I bumped up against similar internal challenges, sick with Crohn's Colitis.  In the care of compassionate, smart doctors, there was a time when I was afraid to say "no" to certain prescriptions or tests, figuring the doctors knew better than me, how I would heal. But when my health was not improving, and things did not feel right, I had to get brave, hear my inner voice and be willing to speak up about what was going on for me and how I wanted to pursue my healing. It was a challenge. "They" were the authority. The funny thing was, once I got strong and spoke to my doctors about how I wanted to heal, they were receptive and encouraging!  And beyond my doctors, my whole life started to change to support my healing. It was just up to me to decide what I wanted and act upon it.

As I was reminded this weekend, sometimes easier said than done, but once done, always better. Once we decide to follow our inner voice and what works for us, we feel free.  We get to practice. We get to know ourselves better. We get the support we need. We heal. We laugh. We love. We realize our dreams.