Questioning the Support of the Universe Part 1

There is a saying that if you put what you want out to the Universe, it will conspire to make it happen. That's very true. Even knowing that, how does one welcome the help? Do you research and study all you can and then give what you have? Or do you say "Hey, F.Y.I, this is what I want," then begin from there? From what I've heard, it's all of the above. Not always together either. Some people quit their job and then almost immediately find the perfect one. A game plan won't even be in place. How does this happen and why?

Maybe the act of quitting, that declaration of having enough is so strong the Universe has no choice but to quickly respond. Like a ping pong match. When someone serves, the Universe better be quick if it wants to rally (which it does). Is the plan "In two weeks, I'm out of here," a solid enough affirmation to bring about such change? 

When I began practicing yoga in April 2012, everything about the rest of the year began to fall into a better place. I decided I wanted to be a full time writer, I cut hours at my job, cut my hair and went all natural and realized I could have a passion about something in life. Yoga was the key to that. One decision, "I'm going to take my first yoga class this week," resulted in me finding one of my passions in life. Helped me to find a way to understand myself, my spirit and the world around me. What are the odds when I take my first four yoga classes I have the opportunity to go to the yoga studio four times a week the whole next month and a win a challenge? Universe, was that you? *said coyly* 

Is that it then? Just claim something and trying it out no matter how small or great? This is on my mind since the worsening condition at my job. I want to quit. Yes I know, want all I like, the universe will allow me to keep wanting. Actually quitting...Oh I CAN quit. I should. At least there is another income and a couple months rent saved if I did. Is that still fair to my partner? Will the Universe back me up? It's not so easy when I think about effecting other people and bills. Why is it so easy to jump to the negative thoughts with such decision and not the super awesome ones that are bound to follow? (That's for another post I think) 

I remember when I felt like I had no passion in life. A passionate person with no passion to pursue. I would see others and wonder, "What is that like? Why can't I have that?" I'd ask myself how a person finds something that makes sense to them and intrigues them so much they learn from it everyday. They don't mind working with it every day. They don't get bored, its just more exploration though familiar. Yoga was that for me. The passion I found to pursue and have tons to learn from all the time! I know that feeling now. The practice, practitioners, asana, meditation, spirituality...All of it is a continual process of exploration, interest and learning.  

My point is, I thought to myself about having a passion, "Why can't that be me?" A few months later it was. Now I'm asking again about quitting a corporate job to fully follow my career as a full time writer and yoga instructor, "Why can't that be me?" And then...

To Be Continued.... 

The Darkness Spoke Nightmares, The Light gave me Dreams

I.

The darkness spoke so loudly I could barely think myself.

The familiar sound of its faithless taunt

Reverberated between my eyes.

A serpent’s tongue before the strike

Stalking my mousy shine

The darkness spoke nightmares behind my lids.

No shutting my eyes for daydreams.

My morning sandman had gotten all wet

Muddy and swamp like, my new boogeyman.

The darkness spoke an identical rhythm.

Calling on my frequency.

“Stay down my dear. Why try to get up?”

The darkness spoke with my voice.

II.

The light opened my eyes with truthful words,

“Why close your eyes? You cannot see.

Purpose and possibility should be looked at closely.”

The light gave me my dreams in a crystal wind chime

Forever to jingle beautifully the sounds of my passion

Reflecting the sun with blinding brilliance

Making lovely the teardrops on rainy days.

The light took my hands and danced with me.

We kicked the dust of dried up baggage.

“Breathe your limbs exhausted triumph.

Water your plants. This is life.”

III.

The darkness SPOKE.

The light didn’t listen.

image from www.examimer.com

The darkness Spoke.

The light didn’t hear.

The darkness… spoke.

No one was there.

I saw a tree and decided to climb

The light widely smiled, then joined me.

~Writer Yogi (Chelle) 

Yogic Prayer

I did a google search "yogic prayer" and this is an image I got. 

"Yoga in the sacred place. (Padmasana Prayer Anahatha) A man doing yoga in  Canti Ijo buddhist temple  at the highest point of Yogyakarta, Indonesia. from flikr.com

Sometimes yoga and meditation can be like that. You are so open and honest with your body and the experience you have no choice but to lay in savasana, vulernable to what comes. 

Sometimes it's anger, sometimes it's tears, other times its complete joy, or the feeling of what it's like to be a soul. In the ends it's one thing.

Truth. 

~Writer Yogi
(Chelle) 

Nursery Yoga: Circles and Squares

Today I had the thought, "Who Am I?" Probably one of the oldest questions around and one whose answer can change from year to year or month in the same person. A friend of mine, Sharon Pingitore, read an article I wrote, The Yoga Diaries: Sweat & Spirituality, to her class. I was so honored she would ask to do this and that it turns out my words were well received and others could relate. I am so proud and in awe that  I can make a difference to others which is exactly what I want to do.

This brought up the classic question. Who am I? The answer I got was "I am what I do". I do  yoga. What I do with yoga is I explore it and spirituality. I write. I write of inspiration, and love and whatever else moves me. So I am a yogi, a seeker and writer of the truths I see. What an amazing feeling to know I am what I have wanted to be. Like in the article "You are already there." Man! I can't even explain how crazy it is. Crazy in a good way to know I am on the path I've been searching for after choosing the wrong way so many times.

It brings up the claustrophobic feeling I have had for the past week and into this one. I do work too much at a job I have absolutely no heart for. I do put effort into something that brings me no joy and I see as a waste of time I could be putting into my practice and writing for others. It took a while, but I have finally got it out! YES! (I have been contemplating this for some days now). Perhaps the claustrophobic feeling is coming from not necessarily  having a lack of space, but trying to fit something into the wrong space. 

Like trying to put a square into a circle. It's not that the space isn't sufficient, the circle fits just fine. The square just doesn't belong so it wont fit! There is no space for it, its all wrong. By George, she's on a roll! I have been feeling crowded because my current occupation is being crammed where it doesn't belong. It's the square to my circular space. Now, this space is a long space. It's big. That's why you can fit more than one circle in it. It just has to be a circle! 

I'm working weekends, and all throughout the week, running around all day, then trying to find time to write, practice and spend time with the ones I love. The later is trying to stay where it belongs and is almost being pushed out because the stupid square is clogging up the space. Forcing itself to be where it shouldn't and therefore twisting and turning around to try to make room.

The sides are all smashed and wedged,chipping, and the area it's in is just about ready to burst! I've got to find a knife and hack away at it. Or gently begin to carve it out so it falls away. Or, better yet, shape it into a circle!

This square, my doing what I am not meant to do, is wedged in this round area. The space cut out for me to live my passions, dreams and my calling. What to do with something crammed in a space that it won't get out of? Change,its size and shape! I'll cut off the corners a bit. Round out the rigid sides. Condense it a bit, and there. you've got  a circle! If I am working harder at anything, it needs to be changing my career to being a writer. Change my lifestyle to include more yoga. Explore more spirituality from my practice and myself. Then share what I have and continue to learn from others. 

Geez, I am so glad I finally got that all sorted out. We learn our shapes when we are young. Triangle with the triangle. Star with a star. But as we get older, we think we're smarter than that and try to fit things where they don't belong. It's like we regress. "Nope, this rectangle is going to fit into this star by God! I can do it!" It's scary to do what comes easy to us at times. To go with the natural flow of things. Letting the circle drop oh so smoothly into the round space.

It comes from society and ourselves. In my case, a little of both. How many times have you hear "Oh, so you want to be a writer? You don't think you're going to be Stephen King do you?" Or "There is no money in that" And there is yourself. "What if people don't read me?" Mixed with society. "I really love what I do, but how will I make  living? I guess I'll have to get a regular job on the side right?" 

Wrong. You can, but that doesn't mean you should. You don't have to. Another old saying, "If there is a will there is a way". People live by being writers and yogis all the time. And that is what they do. Some with other jobs on the side. And some not. More yogi's I am getting to know who have jobs on the side, love that job! We get caught up in doing what we are supposed to do to supplement ourselves and forget, You can do what you love even if you are not rich and famous. Something I feel is a message that lacks advertisement.

I will leave you with this. Are there any squares shoved in your circular space? Is there a way for you to change its shape? If not, don't sculpt it, just cut it out and let it fall away. Whose coming back to nursery school with me? Let's work on our shapes! 

~Writer Yogi
with love, namaste 

My Writing Arm: Poem of a proposed future

This morning before I got out of bed,I got an urge to do something I don't believe I've ever wanted to do on my own. I wanted to visit a grave. Your grave. I've never wanted to visit any cemetery really because the dead rest there. Today was different. 

I wanted to go to your grave. Brush the dirt and grass from your name and read it. Feeling the cool sensation of your earthly title and years. I wanted to sit on the grass where you are and cry because you are so close and yet so far. How far I have no idea and that hurts a little more. 

As I laid in bed weeping, I wondered how it could still hurt after almost 20 years. How I can still miss you with the few precious memories I've got. The thought crossed my mind if I could give my writing arm, not just my hand, my arm, it would probably be worth a prosthetic and learning lefty for a while to see you. 


To have you show up at the door of my grandmother's house. Thanksgiving when all of us usually are there. You'd recognize me I think because my hair is the same as when you first saw me. An afro. Only I'm not so small and chubby with a green felt dress and shiny black baby shoes. And those socks with the lace. I'm big now. 

What did you call me? What would you call me? Rachelle or The Baby? Either one would do. You'd be speaking and I'd hear the sound of a voice forgotten. It would sound strange and I'd immediately find all to love in it. 

I'd even sit on your lap like when I was small. Yeah, you'd bring your chair. And when you pulled the level I'd still laugh. Perhaps harder now. 

You'd see a medium small dog run up to you enthusiastically and probably ask why it isn't outside. And what's wrong with him when you put the dog out. He's too old not to know how to lift his leg when he pee's. Sandy,your older granddaughter, my cousin, would probably be the one to say, "Grandfather. That's Gigi. She's a girl and is more of a house dog." Then you would do what I know you did and don't really remember and call my grandmother."BIIIIILL!!" And we'd all laugh as you fussed about this girl dog and it not being outside where it belonged and what is a Gigi?  

There would be children running around. More than you remember 20 years ago. And one of them isn't me. Two boys from Sandy and a girl and another girl on the way from Ramsey. Poor Dear Grandfather. You're probably wondering how they got it all wrong. Two girls can't carry on the Smith name. Then you'd love them anyway wouldn't you? Like you loved me. 

Perhaps wondering who the white kids really were. Yes, those are Sandy's. She's just always been light like this side of the family and the white man cooking delicious healthy food is her husband and we love them all. You may not understand it all. You'd love them anyway. 

Then I'd tell you everything whether you understood it or not.
My blog. A what? Oh you're a writer huh?
I'm married. You'd wonder where your shot gun was. Got rid of it? The b-b gun too? Damnit Bill. Not even a male dog that can lift it's leg. 
He's a vegetarian and I've thought about it too. A what? No meat? This 2012 stuff is pretty liberal.
And I'd even tell you about yoga and how it's changed my life. No I'm not a hippy. Yoga? So you work out? You look good. 

I can hear you wondering aloud about our clothes and the small bright things that make noise and everyone is touching all day. The great grandbaby's are playing and shouting and Grandmother uses a cane now. The house is almost a new thing but much is still the same. You built it with your own hands and of course your family still lives where they belong right? Your work is solid. You always knew it. 

The head of the table would be yours and Ramsey on the other. Grandmother and Mom to your flanks and me by mom. And I'd stare at you. What we expected, you wonder about this health food and why Sandy's husband, a man, did 99% of the cooking. You'd eat and maybe like it or not and you'd complain and fuss at my grandmother "Bill" and we'd laugh to crying and back again.

Later after dinner while there are naps, walks, work and play, I'd touch your face. See how much I'd remember or forgotten and if the photos captured you right. I'd touch your salt and pepper hair because I'm curious about the texture. What did your eyes see in me then and what do they see now? Yes,the little girl is in there,but she's big now. 

Isn't she? Or am I always the baby? I don't care either way. Your flannel shirt is familiar. Your chair feels familiar and your arms have grown bigger and my hands much smaller. I'm resting in your lap in a felt dress with lace socks and shiny black shoes while we both breathe in the memory of then and now. Have they become the same? Are you proud? Do you love me Grandfather? Eyes open again and we smile. 

Now you have to go. Everyone hugs you. There's no time limit. I would go last, since I'm losing an arm but I can't deny the best for my Grandmother. I hug you softly. With strength. Shake with tears falling from confusion, sorrow and happiness. And I stare at your face. Etching you into my memory like the name and years on your grave. I'll remember the flannel. Your face, hair, eyes. Your smell. When you say you love me, The Baby, I'll rewind and replay however you say it until it's a part of my brain chemistry. 

You would hug your wife. Tell her she's doing pretty good, you guess, considering your not there. Do something about that dog or get another one too. You used to have a couple dogs at a time. You'd probably wonder how she's gotten on without a man. Mom too. Must be that 2012 thing. Not even a shot gun. 

Then we'd see your last facial expressions of confusion of what you'd come back to.

Internet, cell phone, Vegetarian, Blog, girl dog, Yoga, mixed kids, no Smith boys. No shot gun. Mom's not married. The baby's not small, Bill lives half alone. 

Then you'd smile, not minding what you didn't understand (as much) and be glad. 

Ramsey has a wife and two great grandbaby girls, Sandy has a husband and two great grandbaby boys. Mom is doing well and your only living child, you'll see your son Jim when you got back. The girl dog's got a good bark. You'll give her that. Bill's always your Bill. She looks good in her old age. Got all her mind which you may not remember losing. You've got a solid wife. And my husband. A real and dedicated man. And me. The Baby. The writer and does/is a Yoga? She's a healthy and smart baby. With all that hair and the big smile. 

You'd leave happy and with your last demands as the man in charge. We'd all laugh and nod and love you more than we can physically express. The same will go for you and the tears we show on the outside will fill up your inside, with your own, even though you don't say. We know. I know. You love us so much more. 

Then I'd say good-bye to my arm. My writing hand. I'd be sad and take it to memory as the one I've gotten in trade for it. I got a great bargain I'd say. And I'd come to your grave again. And lay on the grass. You're so close and so far. I know how far you are away now. Never too far. 

You can hear me can't you? My tears are filling you up so you'll never dry out. Our tears are our thoughts and love to you. You'll never dry out. 

I'll write you again with my left hand or  my new one. And you'll love it. Like you love me right? 

The Baby with the afro, green dress with lace socks and shiny shoes. 

I Love You. And you can hear me. I just don't know which wind or frequency to listen back for you on. I'll keep writing and trying to hear. 

You love me too Grandfather don't you? 

My memories, imagined into reality and lived into imagination say yes. 

Love,

The Baby



~WY

Dear Father's of Mine Who Have Passed

I wrote this as a response to Jennifer Pastiloff's post asking for letters to someone alive or passed. It was part of one of her posts to encourage connection between everyone and have us share our stories. I put it in my blog as a draft, and I kept it for some time and I'm not sure why. 

Perhaps because when I wrote it, I wasn't expecting what came out. Or I didn't realize that I was loved by three father figures in my life growing up in a single parent mother home and being around my friend's mothers. The dad's didn't influence us at all.

After high school, I found out that without even knowing it, my definition of a dad was "That guy married to your friend's mom who doesn't really talk to us (or when he does it's just annoying) and that your mom doesn't really like". Something to that extent. Which when you look at it is pretty bad. 

I am sad about the short time I got to have with my fathers. I do wish I could have spent some of that time better. I can say that I am very fortunate to have had them at all. Three of them. I guess, in a way, her post made me realize, instead of having no father's in my life at all, throughout this first quarter of my life, I have had three. This lifts and saddens my heart at the same time. Regardless, I believe the joy will eventually outweight the sorrow if I look at it the right way. 

I had three Father's in my life who loved me very much. Still something surprising and crazy to wrap my head around. I suppose though, when it comes to love, that's all that really matters. Here's my letter...

Dear Father's of Mine Who Have Passed,

Grandfather, thank you for playing games with me in your big old leather chair. I remember the cool feel of the brown and the smooth cracks with fluff I'd stick my fingers in. I will never forget you reaching over to the side pulling a lever, saying I broke the chair as we reclined and me laughing wildly as I shout "I saw you!"

Step Father Larry, thank you for loving my mother and letting her love you. You were the first man in my adult life to like me as a daughter. Growing up around mothers (and fathers that did nothing) I didn't understand it. I do still love you and I'm happy you loved me and my sister too.

Dad, I know we didn't know what do to with each other the first and only time we met. We didn't understand how one so old and one so young could meet on common ground. Thank you for telling my oldest brother, who you were very close to, how much you loved me. It means a lot.

Namaste my Friends,

~WY

Confessions Of A Writer Yogi

I confess when I couldn't remember my dreams upon waking for some months, I worried they may have forgotten themselves.

I confess I love perfect strangers because I believe everyone should be loved for the simple reason they exist. Nothing more. 

I confess I want you to like me and hope you do in the way I am for I refuse to change for anyone. 

I confess I want you to see me with your eyes wondering into my words asking, "How have they come from her there?" 

I confess I rather touch you with hands dirty from loves work than  cleanly protected from connection.

I confess love should be scattered through the streets like confetti at Mardi Gras. 

I confess I want us to plant trees growing older than we ever can to carry our lives into other futures. 

I confess I don't really know where I am going but I'd rather walk forward trying to find direction then stay where I am. 

I confess the universe has a way of helping connecting the dots once you get a pencil and start drawing the line. 

I confess opening your heart to absolutely everyone will give you the chance to make everyone your family. 

I confess my hands were my favorite part of my body until my current position has them scratched, scared and calloused. It scares me. 

I confess I recognize I have a couple crooked teeth and still grin wider getting compliments on my smile. 

I confess my hair does what it wants, making it an interesting mystery and I wish I was more like it. 

I confess I am not perfect. If someone was to offer me the chance to be perfect, I would laugh with my whole body asking "Don't you see the perfection in my slanted lines?" 

I confess I aspire to be a 
long haired
loving
liberal
green tea drinking
less meat eating
crazed dancing
chocolate eating
poetry breathing
erotic novel reading
young eyed
old soul
exploratory 
Ashtanga Yogi.

And That's When The World Will Begin. 


Namaste my friends,
~Chelle aka Writer Yogi