Where from my Muse?

This essay is inspired by a friend's question on reading one of my poems. Here is the complete poem. 

One of the stanzas has the lines, 

"She sees these portals of Purity 

Her mind's eyes turning Red,
As she contemplates her anger and disgust. "  

And follows up the above lines with, 

"With a sigh of quiet resolve,

She turns to the day ahead,

..."   

The friend's question is, 'How did the anger and disgust transform?'  (I am guessing, such that there could be a "quiet resolve" in the next line). My initial reaction was along the lines, "this is the practitioner's work, our entire practice is that transformation(?); it is each one's journey and the 'how' of this transformation (if at all) is a wheel that has to be turned time and again, it is different for different entities..." 

However, from awareness of some movements that happened in the mind exactly at that inflexion point, and for the joy of this examination, I write further. 

An opening to the examination could be, I dont really think that the anger and disgust transformed into something else. 

The original last line of that stanza that had floated in my mind was "As she contemplates flying away".  I paused at that point, looked up at my beloved, sacred hill, drew him in with my breath, held him, allowed him to pervade my being, and that union flowed out through my pen with my exhalation. I changed the words to the current ones as my contemplation did, and sat watching this and my breath for a short while (or it could have been an eternity) before the next line happened. 

I could dedicate this process to my daily, long-standing practice of asana-pranayama-meditative-enquiry, that seems to have a life of its own, and takes matters into its own hands sometimes. The yoga sutra, "Sa tu dheergakala nairantarya satkara adhara asevito drdha bhoomih" (I.14) comes to mind. [Meaning of sutra: Practice becomes firmly established when it is cultivated uninterruptedly and with devotion over a prolonged period of time]. 

And I could dedicate this timely intervention to the grace of Arunachala whose town I reside in. “Bhagavat Kaingaryam” (roughly, the grace of the Universe / God / Higher forces) according to elders.

Much of the time all that seems to be needed is that pause and space for observation; space for just being with what arises, between one line and the next, one step and the next, one kshanam (approximately, a moment) and the next.

Examining further, that space of contemplation and what was happening for me then; I feel that words may never be able to capture those sensations and nuances of movement precisely. I can at best say that, a larger love, understanding, happened in those moments. Many pictures and scenes from my life, and of others flashed in front of my eyes like a movie, and some questions arose. Amidst pictures of many blurred uncertainties, the next certain lines presented themselves to my mind’s eye in sharp focus, even as I continued to watch my breath.

I did not see anger and disgust transforming into anything else. In retrospect, I think that the pictures I saw were of instances where these emotions were held and expressed in different ways (I want to add the word ‘appropriately’ here, but tentatively and with a question mark for I can only speculate on the appropriateness or lack thereof).

And with quiet resolve, the crow could have flown way to other parts to scavenge. She could have transformed to other colours, birds, doing other things, each of them possibly pausing on other terraces and window-sills and returning to crowhood. To burst again into more colours. I don’t know for sure, the possibilities are endless. It may be another story the next day. A different crow perhaps.  

Herein for me lies the Art of it all. The art of writing. The art of this very life. Many have looked at the meaning of art in their lives and tried to describe it. For me, all Art seems to be a search and / or expression of glimpses of an Infinite source of everything. It seems like we are trying to touch and express something that is eternal, infinite through what we can hold of transient and finite life, and death.

A painter is trying to capture the eternal beauty underneath the grotesque ugliness of urban landscapes that he is seeing. A husband illustrates the small moments of togetherness with his wife and family, attempting to put in his frames, everlasting love. Look at the temple of Arunachaleshwara here in Tiruvannamalai. There is something larger than life, larger than the finite hands and bodies of the sculptors and workers that flow through the stone. What infinity did they see that transformed their finiteness?

I am seeing Art as the channel, the medium of that infinite source within us, within everywhere. And by this very nature, art lends itself to other factors:

-       It is a process that is ongoing and reflective. I believe that it is not possible to touch, glimpse or taste something in the subtler and finer realms, and give over to meta processes, with the cognitive mind.  By the very swadharma of being art, it forgets / bypasses the cognitive mind and reaches beyond this to a space of insights and subtle sensing. And this space is that of Nature, of Life, of Reality – which means it is ever-changing, it is a process. It cannot be bottled or packaged into a static form of time and space. How paradoxical it is that we need to dive into a space of ever-changing change in a search for the constant!  A corollary is that it is possible to express from that reflective state. Art is that expression. It is also true that in expression, the cognitive mind can also jump in out of sheer habit and propensity. It may also happen that a cognitive mind and expression is necessary.  And this brings us to another factor:   

-       That of context. Very often (I actually want to say, ‘at all times’) the manifestations depend on the context. There are many who would refute this factor. In any case, we cannot really have conclusions. I believe that we are not looking only at art and the artist. Both, the artist and the process of art exist in a context, and this context I believe is alive in them, whether the artist is conscious of it or not, whether others in the context are conscious of it or not. This is most visible in performance art, in theatre.  The art is not simply a rehearsed piece that is performed on stage. Art is happening with the active participation of the audience during the performance. It is an alive conversation.  The conversations get more complex when the art involves, say, a poem. Like mine for instance. The artist dwells on her reflections, and in the process of creation / art. There are times when a third (say, you, the reader) is already present even during the creation (like with this essay) and there are other times when there may not be a conscious intention of presentation (like with the poem). Even here there are complexities that can be examined, and conversations with the self, abound. When a reader actively enters the scene, he / she brings in her reflections and is creating art anew then. There are questions of belonging and ownership that come up for me here. The same piece of expression could become an object of analysis and cognition the next day.

Like today, I am looking at ‘my’ crow fairly analytically and dissecting it, while also attempting to reflect and put together a larger picture. And we could still be in the realm of Art. Or not.

For my crow this moment

is empty

and still,

all the anger

and disgust

having become

foam and froth

with the water in spate,

that flooded

every nook and corner,

purifying,

taking with it

fishes and plastic

garbage

and plant matter

all the same,

while gushing downstream,

towards its destiny.

--------------------------------------------

Notes :-

-       At this point, the YS II.48 comes to mind – “Tato dvandvanabhighatah” – From this, one is not afflicted by the dualities of the opposites.

-       I must say thanks to my friend and co-sadhaka who spotted the exact point of inflexion and asked the question which wouldn’t leave until I wrote this.

Vulnerability

High spirits without
Deep emptiness within 
The higher
The deeper.
Loud music and laughter
What is this search
Much activity, increased social posts,
Dark wasteland stretching far.
How much more to go? 
Where to? 
Exploring, experiencing, celebrating
Running from the shadows.
The shadow trying to escape;
An empty self 
asking Who am I.
Not this, no longer
Not that, no longer. 
A crowd of friends milling about.
Alone, untouchable, untouched. 
A lonely search
Discarding all the knowns
Further emptiness,
If that is possible. 
Brave statements with background music
Pitch perfect silence;
Shall the twain never meet? 

A Soliloquy on Identity – Part III: This Moment is its Own Affirmation

Or I could borrow Joseph Campbell’s quote, “You become mature when you become the authority of your own life” for the title of this essay in the Identity series.

I could title it, “Who Am I?” or “The Pathless Path”, if I wanted this chapter to be the beginning of the next section of my autobiography!   

The earlier essay, I left off with saying that needing recognition seems to be one of my fundamental patterns.  In fact, this had been occupying such density in my being that it has taken all this time to stay and work with this part of me and arrive at a location to pen it down. 

We all need affirmation one way or another from our people, our audiences, clients, friends, children, parents… I am seeing around me that most of us need affirmation of various kinds.  This plays out in our lives at different levels and intensities, and we make up some of our narratives depending on our experiences with affirmation (or lack of it), how we understand and learn to handle / mishandle / be with, this need.  And so, what if the normal need for affirmation that begins in a child and can regulate itself into a healthy feedback mechanism for coherent functioning as the child grows older, becomes a hidden (even to herself), compulsive seeking of affirmation through various means and ways even as an adult?

The recognition that I wanted / needed from my world is nothing but simple (or not so simple!) affirmation that I did not get as a child.  I had been an adult by age, living and functioning as an adult outside, driven by the child’s need for affirmation, inside. Carl Jung had said, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate”.   This is true for me, except that I don’t call it ‘fate’.  This unconscious relationship with affirmation that I have had made my choices, determined much of my action and has also limited who I am up until now. 

The relationship – I sought affirmation from the authority figures in my life (either I set them up so and they colluded, or vice versa).  And my story has been that I don’t get the affirmation that I want / need from them (since I didn’t get it as a child).  Hence I also set up the stage for not receiving the affirmation from these authority figures. Then I don’t conform, I rebel ‘against’ these authority figures and take up causes to do so.  I became the rebel against any system (for me, authority), the angry young man syndrome.  I constructed my identity, my idea of self, out of this relationship with authority and affirmation.  One of my primary narratives had been this: whoever I see as authority will ‘fail’ me by not affirming me in the ways that I need, and I will find some way to be the righteous rebel, try to get out of the web of authority and strike my own path.  There will be a flash of brilliance as I try to find myself, but I will set myself up to fail, because the sense of self was so enmeshed with the idea of being affirmed by authority, that if there was no authority, there was no self.  Who will affirm me? I was trapped in my cyclical story for the longest while.

However, there is more than one story in the unconscious that direct one’s life. In fact, there are several, and we collect more on the way.  I call in Thoreau along with Jung into this essay, “We are constantly invited to be who we are”.   And so, even though I chose the affirmation one as my primary story, there were others whispering and flirting and gesturing and waving for my elusive attention.  I noticed one such when it simply wouldn’t be ignored – my story of practice versus / and theory, also a gift from my family.  My well, rendered dry with intellect alone, was searching for the water of practice. This took me to the practice of asana-pranayama, and the path of yoga.  This ongoing story led me then to many others, and some more, and continues.  They started knocking on my door time and again as seemingly far-fetched opportunities, uncomfortable questions, bursts of colour, myriad meanings and metaphors, insights …

  

The righteousness soon dropped away.  The rebel is a warrior and this part of cell memory doesn’t get erased that easily I find.  However, she has learnt to set down her arms and keep her sword sheathed unless she feels it necessary to fight.  She has also learnt to see that there are ways and ways of putting up a fight.  There is another story in this of course, that of finding the woman, the shakti.  There is no cause or context for rebellion in these tales.  There is also a story of what to fight for, which is a wondrous one, that of Mother Earth, as ancient as she.  

When these masks were removed, I had to face my vulnerabilities: there is no authority to get affirmation from.  There need be none.  I am not that child who did not get the affirmations she needed, any longer.  I am an adult with many gifts, many stories, having a child of my own whom I need to affirm in many ways while giving her space to grow independent.  But where and how is my affirmation happening? How can I design a wholesome feedback process for myself? Do I need such a thing or is it my need for affirmation acting up? What would I be without this need and seeking for affirmation from authority? What would I be owning up to authority where it is required? Is authority even required or is my mind playing games? What am I missing?  

I turned to my asana-pranayama-swadhyayam, practice, as usual, and a question that stayed is, ‘what would I be without this need, free from this cycle?’  The practitioner and teacher in me joyfully announced the experience: that the practice itself is the affirmation – this moment is its own affirmation.  I realised the truth of this somewhat. When I am practicing, and when I am teaching someone for therapeutic purposes, I need no validation for what I am doing.  I am deeply into the process, and it runs the show.  Every step and moment speaks for itself and illumines the next.  My authority comes from my personal practice and the needs of the process when necessary. 

But, what does this mean for my question?  Who am I by myself? What is my process then if that is what I am looking for?  The stories that came knocking now were vague sightings into a dark wilderness that I began to see from the edges but didn’t initially venture into, being fearful of what I may find.  Tentative steps and short trips into the forest revealed more stories. Walking alone in the moonlight breathes energy into this quest.  Walking alone, even more.  Stories of art, aesthetics, writing and beauty rose up from the unconscious.  An avalanche of memory, I remember the numerous instances that I had bypassed when life had been inviting me to be who I am.  How did I not attend these stories earlier?!  

But there is no path prescribed by any authority in that wilderness.  I need to plunge headlong into it. I smell a story of fear here.  Fear holds me back from making that dive.  Fear of what? Perhaps of making mistakes.  What is the question I need to ask now? It strikes me that I am not afraid of making mistakes in my personal practice, or even with a student.  I completely trust the process and the relationship and there is an element of something much larger than merely ‘I’ that I give up myself to.  I believe that this something may be the grace of the universe, god… that is always available to each of us. The “Ishvarapranidhana” that Yoga sutras mention. How do I open myself to receive it? How is it that I can feel this in asana-pranayama and not with this fear that holds me a prisoner? Or am I just trying to escape into a variable called Ishvara and say, this is all I can do, that this is my best? What is the fear holding me?  The fear that I may be wrong about all of this: perhaps I am imagining the stories of creating and writing and art, perhaps I am not this at all. But why does fear stop my action? Can I move despite fear? I see a story of the habit of fear. How do I engage with this? 

I remember the first time I went into Sirsasana (headstand). It was a surprise. Had I known earlier that our goal posture for that day’s group practice was headstand, I would have skipped the class. Just 3-4 postures before our goal, it was mentioned casually that we need to prepare in that current posture well, if we wanted to go up on our heads.  My hands went cold and clammy, thinking of my positional vertigo condition etc. But the environment of my yoga sangha, colleagues and friends doing the practice, the instructor (whose sirsasana is to die for!), and my commitment to improvement in asana-PY practice made me stay.  I still can taste the ramyam of going up on my head that day. 

Perhaps I need to surprise myself out of my fear of being wrong.  How? And even if I am wrong, what other choice do I have?  All I have are these stories and my practice. I have nowhere to escape, no masks to hide behind, and I don't want them.  I am in this space from which there is no going back and the way forward and sideways is a jungle with no path.  Just many symbols and metaphors and ideas and a quest for beauty.

I cannot see the path ahead all that clearly, and I do not know for sure that this is a pattern that has stopped “directing my life” as Jung says. But I can say definitively that my mind cannot even turn in the direction of my affirmation-need without me being aware of it, and pausing to look at it with careful caution and interest, and also keep the wilderness in view.  Perhaps my short forays in, will prepare me to walk straight and deep into the jungle one of these days without returning to safety. 

Where is the lamp?

Burning the midnight oil,
No lamp around.
A new fire inside. 

Listening

Sound, its essence. 

It's dance with Space. 

I wanted to see this. 

"Look at the space that sound creates"

-Our teacher's words to us. 

I meet with the mountains,

I hear the monkeys chattering.

The woodpecker is at his job - 

Tock! Tock! Tock! Tock! 

Other chirpy birds

Join the symphony. 

The axiom says - 

Sound is the ancestor.

Hearing is born thence. 

These words that I pen down then,

Are not mine. 

They were around,

For me to hear. 

Where do they come from? 

What's behind this mountain's music? 

Like a coy lover on her honeymoon,

The new moon appeared a sliver. 

Before disappearing into the western sky

He is the same moon

Who's been lighting up the nights

of moony romances 

Through centuries. 

And yet he is not the same. 

Is he not also weary, agonised? 

Listening to the sorrow of loneliness

Crying herself to sleep night after night. 

He is changing all the time. 

The sound of this moment,

Has altered this moment's space-

Irrevocably. 

This moment is never again. 

Neither is the space it occupied. 

What is Space then,

If not the passage of Time? 

As I sit with the mountain,

And hear its music_

Her stillness tugs at me.

His silence invites me. 

This is music, hidden. 

Beyond my reach. 

Yet I can feel it. 

The silence reaching out

As no spoken word can. 

The silence that manifests,

as the crik! crik! of the cricket

holds a thousand other insects,

scurrying about their jobs. 

The silence,

in the howl of a solitary dog

also carries another dog,

that she is calling out to. 

The silence of this dark mountain,

is the sound of fire crackling

And lava gushing out 

from a volcano in the Maldives. 

As I sit here

with my back on the grass,

looking up at the infinite inky blue

I write these words

that are not mine:

When all is quiet,

Where is yesterday?

Where is tomorrow? 

This moment holds all. 

The space of this moment. 

The sound of its silence. 

Full Circle

The sonorous beat of "Vishoka va jyotishmati"
Training breath with systematic sound.
Reciting a sutra with the teacher,
A glimpse of silence within.

Walking alone, I am not alone at all.
These majestic hills stand with me,
Trees and leaves and pebbles and ants -
All their sounds merge into a stillness,
That continues all the way to my heart.

The heart of silence.
Can I go into it? I am afraid.
Walking into the forest with friends
Plunging into the stillness I saw from afar,
Climbing, clinging, slipping, holding, walking
Into the depths of a silence
That burst forth into divine melody -
Our teacher sings for us.

We made sound,
That took me to silence.
From that silence,
Came the gift of sound, music.
Full circle.