Finding Home in the Body #Yoga #PastLives #Healing

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I am finding my way home through the body. Again, perhaps, but the path always changes as we circle into untouched avenues of the labyrinth of self. There has been the lingering question of home as a physical landscape calling me back. I have labeled it Albion, or what once was Albion, but I have been lying to myself. It is not a mere physical place that draws the deep longing out of me, it is the pure, boundless joy of being.

It is true I find home in the stones that hold the memories of long ago. They speak to me of a time when the stars touched Earth without dimension. I have called it magic, because that is what it feels like inside of cells that have learned to forget. Yet, it is simply the true state of the boundless self that knows that the one self is home only when there is no self defined by matter, space, or time.

We can live attached to concepts of structure as we walk a linear path to a false destination that can never be reached, and I have found this path to be lonely. I have struggled to free the desire to gather the lives around me into my arms and dance us all awake before Earth destroys us in her need to heal the wounds we have inflicted upon her.

The ancient stones remember what we have forgotten and that is why they draw me home to where the hearth fire inside is kindled in a landscape that does not judge or reject. There is only the embrace, welcoming the return.

It is not enough to return, temporarily, to sites that hold the memories of truth. These places are not outside my physical doorstep where I find myself tethered to a life that feels artificial in more ways than I can count. There are thousands of footsteps between me and the stones that call me home. I go to them to return, then turn back again to this physical place I must call home as I search to define it in a language long lost to our tongues. Too often I feel the structure of  nailed together wood painted on the outside to keep the self contained behind walls as though the boundless needs protection.

At night I find the freedom I seek in the daylight, flying through the glass that looks inward and outward. I soar easily to the ceiling and will myself back to the knowing that this too is false until the molecules of division give way and rejoin in the opening. Why, I ask, am I allowed to fly boundless only in the dimension of dreams? Why do a live in a time that has chosen to forget?

Days stretch false minutes and I find myself speaking the rote words of the mundane least others think me insane. Sometimes, I ask out loud, “When will this nightmare end?” Because, I must admit, there are days that feel like nightmares. The computer screen pulls me into the vacuum of humanity’s created chaos and I become entrenched in the darkness until I pull myself back to present surrounding me. The living, breathing pulse of the now where chaos becomes a complicated dance of cause and effect; of shadow and light; of the endless cycle of life. Each moment passing into the next, asking only to be let go.

Yet, sometimes we must circle backwards to go forwards. I have found myself once again traveling through lives passed to feel the chain around the black man’s neck before it can release the body’s constricted voice. My womb aches with the rape of the priestess, and so many more that I am surprised that it bore life. I breathe in love to release constriction as I look at the fence of bodies stretching back further than the eyes can see. How long will it take, I wonder, to free them all? Until I remember this pain that becomes a memory for cells constantly renewing themselves need not find a home in my body that wants to remember only joy.

Outside the structured walls of my physical home, I am drawn each day to the weeds beneath the blooms. Digging these hands of mine into the body of Earth to release the tangles of life that suffocate growth. I am not immune to the knowing that life must be taken to feed new life. It is equally cruel and beautiful. This surrender of death to birth.

I find a harmony in the cycle I help to create. Sometimes active participation is required to free the ties that bind, and so I move this body I also call home. I listen to its urgings, feel the lick of its flames as they rise through the belly. Summer allows the shedding of shoes, and I walk barefoot on the body of Earth to feel her heartbeat and the knowing that I am her child too. My cells are made from her elements. Pieces broken to be reformed. I cannot neglect this vital part of me.

Chaos lures the mind to disorder and the body to dance free. Yoga has become a necessity for balance. If a day passes without the body stretching the mind free as it heeds the call of release, I feel the fires inside smolder for lack of air. It is not easy for light to creep through dense layers. Cracks must open. Air must be let in. Prana follows the breath into the labyrinth as the body becomes the dragon raising its wings.  And that is when the soul soars home to itself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Home and the Struggle of the Mind

It’s funny, this struggle of the mind. How it strives, always, to take us over, chattering through the silence and forever searching for the spotlight, when there is a river inside that  waits to flow through the unencumbered space devoid of thoughts. Here the water is warm and healing, it travels upon the air of our breath, reaching the deepest cells inside of our being until it finds home. Peace is a mere pause, yet rarely do we allow its presence.

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Instead we follow the bumpy road of thoughts, tripping along the way. We diverge, often, down paths that are not ours to explore. The prattle of others scatters our focus, and like circus beasts, unable to break free, we cannot realize the inherent freedom to go our own way. That we must, in fact, break free to find home, which is self.

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We are not here to follow orders. Think of the child before she succumbs to reigns. Think of the two year old dancing in all her glory, waving her limbs with abandon. Her emotions spark action. She is anything and everything at once. She is free in the finding of self. You were her, you still are.

Now think of the child, perhaps she is now 9, sitting in a queue of chairs. She is silent, waiting for her chance to speak. If she speaks out of line, she will be punished. This child knows rules that are not her own. When her eyes stray from the lesson she must learn – a template she has not written – they search through the window where life grows free. Her ears perk to the song of the bird. They can’t help it. It sings the lyrics of truth. Her soul knows the verses.

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You are that girl. Or boy. That child waits inside, patiently, for you to come home to self. “Who are you?” she asks. For she knows the answers. She has never forgotten.

“Return to me,” she calls. Her voice is quiet, but strong. There is conviction in her words. There is power. Her call is steady, an echo, repeating until you pause to listen.

And, oh, the moment that you do, the doorway to pure joy opens, as wide as you allow it to. It is not a door that locks shut. It is not a door that opens only once. This door has no limitations, beyond what you give it. For it is the entrance to your soul. When you enter, you find reunion.  “Are you ready,” she is asking. “Are you ready to come home to me.”

“Together we will birth glorious things.”

“Together we are magic.”

The true, aligned self, you see, knows no bounds. The river of truth flows in a continuous heartbeat, aligning to and seeking only joy. Only love. It wants only for you to come home to the gifts of your free soul.

“Who are you?”

Pause. And remember. Return.

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