2013 – Year of Creation

Every moment is an opportunity to live deeper

Archive for the month “January, 2013”

Toypurina – Info on Contemporary Casino/Land Rights

N

o Indian Casinos in Los Angeles County? Why Not?

By Ralph B. Saltsman and Stephen Warren Solomon | November 22, 2011

With Indian Casinos virtually surrounding Los Angeles County, one might ask: why are there no Indian Casinos in Los Angeles County? The short answer is, there are no Indian Reservations in Los Angeles County upon which a casino could be built. How close did the L.A. basin get to having an Indian Reservation? The Gabrielino-Tongva, along with other tribes living west of the Sierras negotiated treaties with the United States between 1851 and 1853, but the treaties were never ratified by the U.S. Senate. Rather, the treaties were stuck in a drawer for 50 years in Washington, D.C. until found there in 1905. Today, over a hundred years after the treaties were discovered, there is no reservation. There is no federal recognition of the Gabrielino-Tongva as an Indian Nation. There will be no Indian Casino in Los Angeles County.One can dream that had the United States government by Congressional Resolution adopted the 1851 Treaty recognizing the Gabrielino-Tongva as an Indian Nation, with a reservation set on properties somewhere in Los Angeles County as a settlement of the Tribe’s claim for lands in the Los Angeles basin. Wrongs committed by Mexico and Missionaries against generations of Gabrielino-Tongva would have been rectified. As an officially recognized Indian Tribe the Gabrielino-Tongva certainly could have been in the club of Indian Nations in California operating Indian gaming casinos after 1999. It didn’t happen in 1851, and it realistically cannot happen now.

Settling the Los Angeles area around 7,000 years ago, the Gabrielino-Tongva have been effectively shut out of the Tribe’s consistent and ancient claims to its homelands. Before European occupation of the Los Angeles area, the Gabrielino-Tongva established villages from west of the San Bernardino Mountains to Catalina and the Channel Islands, as far up the coast as Topanga, as far north as Tejon and as far south as at least Newport Beach and perhaps Laguna Beach. The 1851 treaty likely would have provided the Tribe with significant land interests in the Los Angeles basin. With the agreements lost and forgotten for over fifty years, no resolution of land claims was completed. Land claims settlements were undertaken after the conclusion of World War II, but the payments on millions of acres for Tribes west of the Sierras was an embarrassing pittance.

Instead of a casino, what the Gabrielino-Tongva Tribe has today is no reservation land, no federal recognition, no home and no realistic prospect for achieving those objectives. The Tribe continues in its quest for Federal recognition. In fact it was not until 1994 that the State of California formally recognized the Gabrielino-Tongva Nation.

Had that treaty been ratified, by the end of the 20th Century the Tribe would want a multi-million dollar casino and could possibly have the financial backing to build one. In order for the casino to include Class III gaming, the land upon which the casino would stand must be Indian land. The federal government divides Indian gaming into three classes with Class I gaming being social games for nominal prizes and traditional forms of Indian gaming as part of tribal ceremonies or celebrations. Class II gaming consists of bingo and also card games explicitly authorized by the State or those card games not explicitly prohibited by the State and may be played anywhere within the State. Class III gaming includes slot machines, poker, and blackjack. Fantasy headlines aside, the reality foretells no Indian Class III Casino will be built in Los Angeles County.

While the Federal government has the power, authority and jurisdiction to create an Indian Reservation and convert land held in fee to trust land, clearly, politics dictate whether one of the enumerated routes will yield Indian land where a Class III casino could stand. Considering all the economic power held by likely opponents to creation of Indian land in LA County, and considering the political strength of those likely opponents, it’s unrealistic to entertain thoughts of such events in the future.

It’s procedurally possible but not to be achieved. If the Tribe had land where a casino could be built, the assumption is the Gabrielino-Tongva would certainly be an attractive investment for lending institutions and would be a logical contact for architects, construction firms management companies all competent and vitally familiar with Indian gaming establishments. Within a few years, the Gabrielino-Tongva Indian Nation would own and operate the only Indian Casino in Los Angeles County. The Maricopa Tribe has a saying: “Everyone who is successful must have dreamed of something.”

This dream is clearly to stay just a dream.

Ralph B. Saltsman represents Alcoholic Beverage Control Licensees including Indian Casinos throughout California and has prevailed in major appellate decisions governing the conduct of California and local goverenment agencies. He has been in practice since 1974 and is considered a leader in the field of administrative law. Stephen Warren Solomon has been in practice since 1964 and has represented major businesses and Indian Casinos in California in cases ranging from Indian Gaming to catastrophic personal injury trials. Saltsman and Solomon have been in practice together since 1977.

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Toypurina – Who Am I?

Who am I in relationship to Toypurina?

I feel a very eerie, deeply soulful connection to this woman.  She is of epic proportions.  When I think about her, I feel her.  I feel myself AS HER her looking at the moon, gathering and identifying herbs and reading the signs in the trees.  I feel sunlight on her skin, I feel beads against her skin, I feel shadows dancing on her skin as I feel them on my own.

I have no genetic relation to her whatsoever

And yet I am bound to her

Across time and space

We share a common vision.  A vision of natural liberation and joyous freedom in the living breathing world.

She and I have no common language, no  shared community – I don’t even know if she’d like me if she met me.

And yet she chose me.

She chose me to channel her.  She sought me out because I have the ability to share her message with the earth.  She is my ancestry.  I am her contemporary.  We are revolutionary.

When I tell her (Christine’s) dream, I feel it and see it as intimately as though it were happening to us – her, me – right now.  I understand her emotional journey.  Her anger, her resentment, her confusion.  She knows that anger and revenge are not the right paths, nto the way to take care of the situation.  And yet she doesn’t know another way to translate her message to the men who took over her lands.  It is their language, hatred.

But hatred is not the language of Peace.  It is not the language of Progress.  It is the enemy of Love, it is a foreign tongue in our mouths.  Love is the true language, the method of communication that is understood by all.  When a person tried to communicate from any way other than Love, their efforts are muddied and entangled, confused.

I want to tell Toypurina’s story from a NOW, forward-looking perspective.  I want to tell her past in the NOW.  She wants to be heard NOW.

And the message needs to be heard NOW

I have words
We have words

Wa’at guwat’tat tayiy hunuka’

In memory of my ancestors

A seance, a resurrection, the birth-life-death-rebirth cycle all in one

Time to meditate and see it for yourself enacted before you

Time to breathe life in, restore history, identify your talisman, discover your quest and your community of the Earth

Words in Trees, english spanish tongva man woman child me i her him we love earth move hands basket food fight(why did that come up?) MOTHER

The Mother – The people of the earth

Eagle.  Datura the Great Woman.  Breath of Life.  Sun Captain.  Deer Mother of Earth.

WHO IS THE SIXTH?  The Mother.

And two water snakes at the bottom of the coil of Life.  (Tortoises all the way down)

White-Red-Black

MY TASK:
FINDING WORDS
FINDING THE BASKET DANCE STEPS
TELLING MY DREAM

I move and I say “That must be part of my peoples’ dance”

?? – What’s happening with finding the words?
?? – What’s your process that mirrors what you spoke of?

It’s so important that we observe the same gestural patterns in different bodies when we speak of community.  Every word has an effect on the body, an emotional core lives somewhere in the body that inspires movement based on the infiltration of that word.  COMMUNITY lives in the hands – we observed this in Activism class today, in 4 groups of 6 people, all groups formed a unified circle and expressed gestures relating to community mostly through their hands.
HANDS
I spoke of Hands in my monologue
Hands share, give, hold, build, gesture, shape, write, form, indicate, illustrate, fill, pour, gather.  Hands are the tools of communication – community.
The universal language lives IN THE BODY

The City in White

   The
  CONVERSION
     ►Bureau
http://jenniverse.com/stories/The-Conversion-Bureau_-Tales-Of-Los-Pegasus/6.html

Tales Of Los Pegasus
──────
6. The City In White
By Chatoyance

They came in great rafts made of wood and fibers and rope and woven fabrics. They came from what would one day be called Egypt and France and Africa too, and they crossed the great sea despite terrible odds and arrived on the southern continent. They came across the ice bridge to the north from what would one day be Asia, and from Europe in barks and they met and fought and conquered and lived.

In waves they came, each new people staking their claim, the breeds intermingling until new breeds of Man arose. Reddish of skin, or brown, or pale, the took to the plains and the forests and the ice and the jungles and they filled what would one day be called the North and South Amerizones.

Like tides of flesh they swelled and retreated, taking land and lives and all the goods that could be made from each other. At times one people would rise to dominance, only to perish, conquered under another. They carved their gang symbols into the rocks as petroglyphs to mark where other gangs must not go, and they raided and slaughtered and murdered and stole, and in these acts assured their own survival at the expense of those considered other.

They killed and ate the shaggy mammoths and stacked their bones to make cities. They bred by the millions across the two great landmasses, the north and the south, and built their trade and their empires and their vast metropolises and their mysterious mounds.

And to the west of the Northern continent, in what would one day be called the Western Production Zone, in the subsection once called California, in the desert land surrounded by mountains and sea, they thrived and set down their villages and eventually, their cities of wood and reed and thatch and grass.

Their bodies grew and lived and died and went into the earth, endless generations thus, and their blood spilled in war until the next wave came from over the sea in great ships from Spain and Portugal, to conquer the land conquered endlessly before.

In this world so harsh and dire, there was no magic, but only matter. But there are cracks in everything, and nothing is without flaws and holes and breaches, so that tiny rays of color occasionally, rarely, fell through, into this gray and silent realm.

From the warming trickle that came thus, through the cracks in reality, the land took on dim awareness, so dim, so faint. It felt the blood and the pain and the sorrow and the ending, oh, the terrible ending, that washed across it like an ocean of tiny creatures, Men, struggling so against the world, but most of all, against themselves.

Toypurina had seen the Great White Dog Mother in her dream again. Because she was Yo-vaa-re-kam, because she knew the ways and could see the things that others could not, she knew that the dream was important. For eight nights now, she had seen the Dog Mother, thin of leg and tall, with a long muzzle like the fox or the elk, but loyal and true like the dog. The Great Dog Mother was strange, too, for she had a a curious line of what should be hair rising out along her head and neck to her shoulders, but it was not hair, it was light, the colors of morning and dawn. So too was the Great Dog’s tail strange, for it was long and flowing, and also made of the same light.

Stranger still was the Great White Dog Mother’s paws, for they had but one toe, and were clad in beaten gold. Gold also were the adornments – the Great Dog Mother wore a chest piece and a ring of gold upon her head, where also the creature had a horn. But strangest of all were the wings, white of feather and large, that grew from the sides of Great White Dog Mother, and which could carry her high into the sky of her world.

In the dreams, Toypurina had heard Dog Mother try to speak to her, but the words were strange, they were not the words of the Hahamog’na Tongva, they were not the words of those who lived in Yaa – they were strange words, of strange sounds, but the feelings had much to say.

In the feeling of the Dog Mother’s words there was kindness, and love, Toypurina had no doubt of this. And also sorrow too, and concern, though she knew not of what the problem was.

On the ninth night, the dreams stopped, and Toypurina saw the Great White Dog Mother no more. But the dreams inspired her, and she felt blessed as she called to her those who would strike against the Mission San Gabriel Arcángel, and the brown-skinned invaders that had destroyed their crops with their great beasts, and raped the women of the Tongva. The Dog Mother was watching. The Dog Mother one day would come.

General Kearny had decided to act on the report of his scouts, the Mexicans had set up lines at the ford across the San Gabriel. He had made sure that his troops were arranged in a hollow square, a fortress of men surrounding the artillery and supplies in the center. It would be smart, to wait a day, and so he made his orders known.

But Commodore Stockton saw an advantage, the Mexicans could be taken, and the action must be swift. But the crossing was treacherous, because of the quicksand, and because the Californio artillery was well placed. But there was one fortune, despite the blood mingling in the Rio San Gabriel and mixing in the sand – the Californio had not sufficient ammunition, and of what they had, the gunpowder was inferior. Stockton dug in with artillery, while the General began the assault.

It took mud and blood and intestines crawling from open bellies, but in the end, on Wine Street, the Army of the West had secured Los Angeles from the brown people who had taken it from the red people who had taken it from the earlier red people, who had taken it from the brown and black and pale people who had sailed across the vast ocean.

And the tiny cracks that fed the liminal life of the land gave it also liminal consciousness, and so it was that Los Angeles, ever changing sides, was drenched still more in blood and sorrow and pain and loss, the endless lives disappearing beneath the desert land. Los Angeles wept, in its own shadow way, but none could truly hear save the last of the shamans and curendero and brujería who called the land haunted or cursed.

The liminal awareness of the land, fed by the tiny drops of light and life from beyond, had finished weeping, filled now with the bustle and business of millions of consciousnesses, the humans that lived in the tall buildings that set heavily on the ground, and who rode in the poison-fumed carriages that rumbled ceaselessly, through day or night, upon the black ribbons of oil and ground stone that sealed the soil from rain or life.

Millions of dreams and hopes and wishes now fed Los Angeles, a cacophony of wants and needs and power and greed. Gangs roamed and little wars were fought in the streets, even beside moments of precious and innocent joy. The liminal spirit in the land became confused, spun in a thousand directions at once, by millions of minds, a maelstrom of terror and wonder and yearning. Water was brought and grew rice in the deserts, and oranges in the deserts and drink to the millions. The city expanded to the mountains and over the mountains to the sea, and the bowl of the mountains held the fumes of the carriages and the sun vanished behind a poison cloud that never left, a red polka-dot against the gray.

When the economy of the world collapsed, the great technology that sustained the millions began to fail and to wither away, and once again the liminal soul of Los Angeles felt the sorrow and the pain and the misery of the dying and the weeping and the lost.

The starving millions could not flee, for there was nowhere better to go. They fought among themselves as Men do, and once again Los Angeles was returned to tribes raiding and scavenging and struggling and conquering. The Great Collapse had brought the world to its knees, the nations frail and hollow shells, the people lost and desperate.

Then came the Austerity War, where the power of the sun itself melted holes in the ground, and made craters where none could ever walk again. Poisons and diseases ravaged the world, and Los Angeles was drenched, again, in blood, as it always had been, through ancient ages past.

Then came a change.

The world had pulled together, the nations formed as one. The Worldgoverment had risen, and gone were all the feuding nations and all the divisions. The Earth became one great plantation, though little could be made to grow. The Last Harvest and the death of agriculture had not been the end. Tiny machines, the size of specks, could weave molecules to make food and shelter and cloth and machine, and this revolution had changed the world.

The faint soul of Los Angeles felt the return of hope, however small, as the ruins were torn down and the favelas grew. Shacks piled on shacks, home for endless teeming millions, so many voices, all fed, all watered. This was the Golden Age of Man, a time without war, a time without hunger, where the population soared, billions after billions, all crowding together, thanks to the miracle of the little machines.

The bodies were not as often sent into the soil, now, instead they were recycled in vats to become more clothes and food and water and machines, but Los Angeles still felt their passing, the falling into the eternal dark of all the tiny sparks of mind. The foundation of Los Angeles was sadness and conquest and blood, and the developing awareness of the land, fed by those tiny breaks in the fabric of the universe, had grown such that it sorrowed for the creatures that had companioned it.

It had heard their prayers to the empty dark, it had heard their screams as they fell into the blackness. It had listened to the whispers in their minds, of how things should be, could be, would be, if only, if only.

But then, suddenly, offshore, to the north, there was a light. The faint ghost of the land found its almost-awareness focused intently upon it. That shine, that color, it was the very stuff of life, it was bright as the sun above, a concentration of the same energies that seeped through the cracks in reality, the same energies that had brought the soul of Los Angeles into being. It was coming. It was coming. And it was life and light in a dead and dark place.

It grew, the light, the source of life, it expanded and expanded, larger and larger, coming ever nearer. It was a sphere, a great shining globe, half in the ocean and half above, and it was to the west and to the north and it was coming nearer as it grew.

The soul of the land, the spirit of Los Angeles grew greater and more aware with every passing month. The humans, the millions upon millions above had begun to change. Where before they were grey and dark and hollow shades walking in short lived misery and sorrow, now they were increasingly becoming shining stars of the same color and light that Los Angeles had arisen from. They trotted now, on hooves, the very touch of which tingled and tickled the growing soul of the land.

For the first time, Los Angeles felt true joy above it, completely innocent and sweet and growing, and the joy made the spirit of the land yearn to be more. To be more than desert. To be more than concrete and steel and plascreet and blacktop. To be washed clean of the endless ages of conquest and blood and sorrow and loss. To touch the growing fount of magic and become eternal, for now Los Angeles knew that nothing in the dark and gray world lasted forever. Not the planet, not the sun, not the stars above.

But the bright bubble that grew was eternal. In it all things lasted forever. The sphere in the sea was life, and time, and brightness and color.

The will of Los Angeles now moved, unseen, through the streets. It saw the concrete removed, and the soil brought to life. It watched as the heavy buildings became covered in green, and the sky above be swept clean by the colorful new creatures that had once been humans. The humans had changed. They had transformed, and in that transformation had become beings of light and color and life.

Los Angeles now had a want, a desire all of its own. It wanted to transform too. It wanted to be like the humans and be changed into something of that light, that color, that joy that it felt. The shining sphere in the ocean was growing, it would come, it would come, it would come.

Los Angeles was alive now, she knew it. She thought and felt, though none could hear her, or see her. But it was alright. It was enough. Her life was their life, and in each of the ponies that walked upon her, touched her body with their hooves, they caressed her, loved her, knew her. For the first time she felt truly loved, and yet there was more.

The Barrier, the great bubble, the sphere of light and color was at her border, pushing beyond the sea and into the continent itself. Los Angeles felt it, she felt her edges her beaches her substance being transformed. As the golden and shimmering boundary swept over her, including her within itself, she felt her land come alive. Her very soil gained a soul, Her dead rocks were infused with life and began to grow, Her air tingled with the stuff of mind and spirit. The darkness was pushed back as the light came, and Los Angeles gave herself willingly, joyfully, to the advancing wall that filled her with such abundant life, such powerful awareness.

Ventura and Oxnard had already been caressed and taken by the Barrier, now Thousand Oaks was slipping into the honeyed light. Los Angeles felt the despoiled land expand as it entered the sphere of light, she felt her substance exploding into endless tracts of new land, fresh and green and alive – oh the life!

Los Angeles had lived in darkness, suckled only on the most microscopic of teats, tiny drops of life force leaking from outside the universe of night, but the Mother had come, the Great Mother had come, so bright, shining, and past her gates, born anew, the city found every single thing had life within it.

The stones lived, the bricks of her buildings, inside them coursed rivulets of magic, the stuff of life itself. Her soil stretched into rolling hills as it entered the sphere, all alive, all growing, one day the hills might become mountains, the stone become boulders. Thousand Oaks now truly was a forest again, as large as several earthly continents, and yet still she grew, as the loving touch of the great sphere passed over and through her, changing her, transforming her.

The humans, she now understood, had been ponified. It was a pony universe, with pony lands, and a pony soul. Los Angeles herself was joining the humans, she, the land, was becoming ponified too. She was becoming a pony land, made of magic itself, granted a soul, like everything, be it sky, or ground or water or tree within the expanding Mother.

Anaheim, Corona, Riverside, San Bernardino, she was enveloped now, swallowed up, she was no longer part of Earth, she floated no longer on magma, hot beneath her crust. She was Equestria now, and Los Angeles Dreamed.

The Mother, the white and shining and perfect land was there, and with her the enfolding sky and moon too, and they spoke in lithic tones to her stone ears. They sang songs of welcome to Los Angeles, and embraced her new rivers and forests and paths and hills and lakes. There was no sorrow here, no endless layers of bones and blood and grief and horror. No waves of conquest washed over the land in this place, and here even the passing of flesh meant not an end, but a beginning.

Los Angeles wanted to speak her gratitude, but she was only newly alive, and had no words of her own. But she needed none, for in her Dream, her two Mothers, the land and the sky, had only love and welcome to offer, and needed nothing from her but that she relax and welcome her own endless blessing.

The source of life and the sweetness of night enfolded her, and became one with her, and Los Angeles happily gave herself to become Equestria, no longer alone, no longer starving in the dark, but feasting instead upon a banquet that would never end, and never be lost, and always be bright.

Equestria hung within an arch of magic-pigmented sky, growing, for it was alive.

It was shaped like the conical upper half of an egg shell, the apex the location of an ancient ruin in the Everfree, the very place where the Equestria first began to crystallize and form.

Down the curve lay Canterlot, and Ponyville and Manehattan and all the pony lands, and beyond them further still the lands provided to the Griffons, when they arrived, and to the Dragons who none, not even they, seemed to know the origin of.

Farther still, down the curve to the ragged edge of the egg shell that was Equestria, shrouded in cloud and mist were the exponential lands, the growing border, ever expanding the parabolic cosmos. There, laying content at last, vast beyond all comprehension, was that which had once been Los Angeles, soon to be joined by her sisters and brothers, the rest of the sad world lost in the universe of dark. They would all be together soon enough, alive with love and light and magic, land enough for everypony, and every other living creature too, sharing in the joy of beingness together.

And no longer would they fear the dark again.

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Toypurina Monologue

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I’ve been having this dream since I was a child.  I tied to ignore it, but I can’t anymore; it’s fiercer than ever.

In my dream, I see this valley.  Not as it is now, not brittle and dry with smog, but lush and vibrant, teeming with life as it once was.  Deer, fox, wolf, bear, squirrel, are all hunting, gathering, thriving.  There are streams, blue with snowmelt, rushing towards the sea sparkling in the sun.

And I stand above it all, on the top of highest point of the San Gabriels.  I can see everything all the way down to the glittering sea, everything is so alive, and all around me the wind swirls.  And as I stare through the brilliant sunlit air, the wind grows cold, and tugs at my garments.

I sense an ancient presence, worldly but not of this earth – I cannot see what it is, I cannot turn my head to look, but I feel someone come and stand next to me.  And then another.  And another.  And more, so many more come up the mountain and stand beside me, until we are a large crowd gazing towards the sea, the wind rising higher, violent and pleading now, as if to pull us down the rocky slopes.

And then the wind pushes one of us roughly forward, the wind sending him downhill, and finally I see what it is – a skeleton.

I can’t move, I am stunned by the sight, and then several other figures move forward, they too are skeletons, and still more, hundreds of skeletons, some carrying baskets or tools.  I am unafraid but I want to scream as I watch them make their way down the mountainside, and then a hard gust of wind tears my clothes away, and my flesh with them.   I too am only bones remaining, and have no choice but to move my stark white feet downhill, following the others toward the sea.

We walk all day, following a stream, following the sun into its resting place beneath the horizon.  As the moon rises, we reach a clearing and stand together on the sandy shore, where the river meets the ocean – a holy place.  The world is so quiet that we can hear the moon sigh, birds murmur their dreams; we can hear all of creation breathing around us, and the dried marrow cracking in our wasted bones.

Then, as one, those skeletons slowly turn their skull faces to me – how can empty eyesockets weep?  Tears of joy and hope trickle down the ridges of their cheekbones.  The white jawbones of my ancestors smile at me, and hold out their empty bone hands to me, guiding me towards the water.

I am so terrified, and overjoyed at the same time, and I pause, and just before the bare bones of my toes reach the water’s edge, I stop.  I look up, and there in the shimmering moon, and I see her face.  The face of a holy woman, weeping tears of silver into my hands, into the waters below me.  Toypurina.  She whispers to me, sweet words in a sweet and ancient language, and I step into the water.

I feel the delicious and searing pain of a body regenerating itself, ligaments and muscles, fascia and flesh wrapping around my dried bones.  I wade into the water, a few inches at a time, and feel my body rebuilding, reconstructing, rediscovering.  I see my hands under the churning surface of the water, I cup them together and bring a cool splash to my face, and a wave of thick black hair washes down my back.

I turn to see my ancestors following me into the water, and they come back to living flesh, sun-ripened skin fastening itself around their shivering bones, revealing potent muscled bodies, broad faces so beautiful their only purpose could be to serve creation. They too splash water on their skull faces, which flush with sun-kissed brown skin, vivid eyes and long black hair spilling around their shoulders.

We raise our hands up to the moon, water dripping down our newly reborn skins, song erupting from our lips.  And we sing the song of the moon, of the birds in the trees, of water laughing.  I speak and sing with them, singing praise to all of creation… And I wake screaming with tears pouring from my eyes and I have forgotten that sweet language… I don’t have any words…. I have lost the words.  Help me.  Help me to find the words.

Wandering Star

I am putting way too much pressure on myself to be a great yoga teacher

Sure, I can teach, and I have taken enough training, but I am not a teacher

YET

 

So the best way I can support myself is to LEARN

and the best way to learn is to watch other teachers.

 

I feel so many weaknesses in my body now

I used to think I had upper body strength – I DO, but now I know how much more I could have!

I used to think I had core strength – a strong core is what I have.

My concentration is all over the place; I have been so distracted and frenetic the past few months.

NOW I KNOW THAT THESE ARE NOT WEAKNESSES, JUST ROOM TO EXPLORE, WONDER AND GROW

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Discomfort is a Teacher

Stomach flu.

My poor tummy has been churning all day.  I vomited nothing all morning.

The swirling, shivering green gickyness.  It sits heavy in my gut like guilt.

Having a ‘guilt complex’ feels like carrying your mother in her house on your back.

Guilt is an emotional experience associated with feeling responsible for some kind of wrong-doing. Most people tend to scrutinize themselves against an internally established code of conduct and can feel guilt for something said, done or even thought. In fact, feelings of guilt can act as our inner morality compass by alerting us to the fact that our thoughts, words or actions are in conflict with what we know to be morally right.

However, some people feel guilty for no reason. They blame themselves for other people’s mistakes and for anything that goes wrong in their own lives or the lives of their loved ones. People who suffer from a guilt complex that is not based on any actual wrong-doing, actually destroy the possibility of joy in their lives.

I don’t really have a ‘guilt complex’, but I certainly carry guilt with my like a stone.  I blame myself unnecessarily, apologize for things out of my control, and assume responsibility for people’s feelings, which I certainly have nothing to do with.

But these days are coming to an end.

 

 

I am applying to Naropa University to study Yoga.

Regardless of what my family thinks of me, what Hareesh or Ajala or anyone needs from me, I am doing this for myself because it is what I am meant to do.

SHE’S BACK

MY CYCLE HAS RETURNED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Finding…

Hari isn’t speaking to me.  That’s only to be expected, but still.  I hope he is alright.  I hope he is keeping himself busy and well.  Not worrying or depressed.  I worry.

As worried and awful as I feel about doing this to him, I can’t help but feel a huge sense of relief.  This was weighing on me intensely.

I still love him so terribly much.  The last thing I want to do is cause him any pain.

But if I am to accomplish my life’s work, I need to turn inward and develop the skills I need.

I emailed my parents immediately after Hari hung up on me.  Telling them that, although I love Hari deeply and still intend to be with him, I am not ready to join him in Uganda.  I want to study yoga first, and if the offer still stands I’d like to go to Kripalu or Naropa.

I also mentioned that I would like to go to India to study, but that it would be easier on my family for me to be closer first.  I know better than to ask if my parents will fund me studying in India.

They got back to me immediately.

 

Hi Sweetie –

Bill and I just got home and read this together.
Wow!  Such a huge decision you have made.  We are here for you for sure and are ready to talk over ANY of your options.  Yes, our offer still stands to study at Kripalu but Naropa (I know a little about it) is an amazing place too.
Sounds like this is just a beginning point so we want to be available for you but not rush or overwhelm you.
We are home tonight and probably most of the weekend so we can talk more when you want.
We love you,
Mom and Dad
They are very enthusiastic by the sound of it.  I’m glad.
Because this feels absolutely right to me.

I need to be by myself, in retreat, for a while.  I need to sit with my thoughts and develop my practice.  Develop how I work.  I need to be able to be myself, act from the still silent place within me among the chaos – Purush and Prakriti – the way I have been teaching in BlueTruth.

New Chapter: I Will Always Love You

I told Hareesh that I wasn’t ready to join him in Uganda.

I have been to see 2 counselors in 2 days, I am wupped.

I have been seeking an answer, and I needed to talk to them in order to have another voice guiding me into myself, into the truth.

I want to study yoga.  And I want to do it soon.  Right now.  After I graduate.

I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to dive into Uganda and start teaching kids when I don’t know anything about their lives.  Especially when I understand only a tiny portion of the knowledge I am seeking.

The practice I am developing takes years of understanding and experimentation.  People need my help, and I need to be as solid, knowledgable and ready as possible if I am to be of any help to anyone.

I am not ready to go to Uganda.  My family is not ready for it either.

Guilt is a great teacher.  First and foremost, it is a feeling.  An emotion, nothing more.  And it indicates a greater wealth of information about how you’re feeling, the truth.  Guilt indicates to me that I have more to accept in myself and others.  It comes from fear of the truth.

I do not want to leave Hareesh stranded in a foreign country, alone and waiting for me.  But I have to take care of my needs.  I got into our relationship so readily, I didn’t trust my instincts and I let it carry on too far.  I didn’t have the courage to break up with him in the UK, or in Spain, and still I don’t now.  I need to see him to decide if I still want to be with him in the future.

But I have told him that I don’t feel I can be with anyone now.

I need to study yoga.  I need to do what I am meant to do, and not use another person to get what I want.

There are still plenty of options.  This is not the be-all, end-all.

However far away / I will always love you
However long I stay / I will always love you
Whatever words I say / I will always love you
I will always love you

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