I haven’t even begun building the Varanasi Sage art installation and I’ve already hit a bump! Watch this video to see what happened — it’s all part of the excitement! I’m sure there will be many more bumps in the journey, so I’ve got to get used to it!
For more about the meaning behind this project, read Introducing: Varanasi Sage.
It’s time for Burning Man! The past two years, I’ve shared my intentions for the experience because writing intentions and having a witness strengthens their power. This post makes the third. Thank you for being my witness.
This year, I’m taking a new project — a meditation and lounge space I’ve been dreaming of for several years and fundraising for with many collaborators. May the Lounge be a sacred space of healing and connection; may it bring all who enter deeper into wholeness and unity.
I’m teaching my workshop, “Meditation and Writing,” three times this year: Monday, Wednesday and Friday 3-4 pm at Stellar Dusty Moon 5:30 & H (in the Lounge!). May the workshop serve us in the unique way that we need for our paths; may it provide us with insight, peace, and grounding.
My favorite part of Burning Man is the art — may I meet the artists and have profound experiences with the art.
May the workshops I attend guide me in my journey and connect me with others. May I see the heart of the earth in everyone I meet!
During this winter season, I’m making the final push to complete my first book! I’m on track to have it finished in Spring.
In order to prepare the release, I’m taking time off from publishing work here. Check out photos from my current travels on Instagram http://www.instagram.com/glamsient
We drove in after dark. Large shadows, looming in the night like masked phantoms, lay in wait.
Half an hour before first light, wind shook the camper van. Rain urged us to stay under covers with tinny percussions. But we had come with one purpose: to witness dawn unmask the monuments.
I put on my warmest clothes with a sense of defeat and doubt. We wouldn’t have much of a sunrise in a storm.
When I stepped outside, as if on cue, the rain eased to a drizzle, merging the space between earth and sky, wrapping us in mist. Lightning flashed in the distance — dancing in bold streaks — thunder clapped to proclaim the illumination.
I sat patiently for the show. At first she was only a fleck below the clouds, but soon, a sliver of pinkish orange light at the horizon split the sky.
Black against the night sky, the monuments began to emerge, to take clearer shape, to reveal their red rock, to show they surround us near and far, to claim their land. Castles, cathedrals, ancient architecture shaped by the Artist’s hand, etched and chiseled into towers, walls, cliffs, and colorful layers.
When dawn captured the sky, we stepped through red sand in the direction of the three closest monuments, the only ones on the early morning trail. The smell of rain rose from the earth, but it was dry and quiet. Passing clouds, their softness, an ever-changing background, emphasized the stoic rocks.
Walking below, standing at their feet, staring up at their grandeur, I felt the knowing of the One far greater than I. Ancient energy, with the power to lift its own monuments and hold them in its hand as if to say, “This — is my Creation.”
Rain continued its pilgrimage to earth as we finished the trail. I looked to the monuments, a rainbow appeared momentarily, as if to say, “So are You.”
We chose not to look at the map and found what we believed was a path. As we walked, the forest seemed to hold us while birds sang its melody. We passed elk tracks preserved in dry mud and saw a tree that had been used as an antler scratching post. I wished I could walk without knowing our destination.
Upon hearing human voices speaking languages from all over the world, we knew we were close — and suddenly — the forest opened.
A magnetic pull from my heart led me to the canyon rim as though I were under enchantment. My body shook with adrenaline. Before me, a chasm ripped the earth and rocky, layered peaks formed colorful monuments, temples, pyramids, and fortresses. Spires and pillars rose from the ground like giants. Greater and larger than Stonehenge, than Chichen Itza, than man could ever be.
Nature’s chisel wielded by the Great Artist etched walls with shadowy crags and adornement. Creation coalescing into wonder from nearly two billion years of both violent and gradual evolution written in the rock. Lava and mud spreading and widening the canyon carved by wind and water, plateaus rising, glaciers melting, the continent crashing into volcanoes and making mountains. Erosion — pushing, pulling, forming megaliths and smiles that become wings of expanded freedom. A testament to my limited, human experience.
The river deepens the canyon as she moves to the sea — her former grandeur evidenced in decorated cliffs — she is now a mere trickle of what she must have been before dams and reservoirs closed her veins like tourniquets.
The Artist exhibits the freedom to transform, to shift — to evolve into beauty, into living inspiration.
Even with their loud voices, the other tourists don’t bother me. The vastness is large enough for us all. So large that I sense I can give all the heaviness of my heart to the canyon. All the pain of memories and attachments can release. And my heart will become expansive; my heart and the canyon will merge into one, magnetized like the continent and crashing into volcanoes. If I let it fall, it will tumble into the river and be swept away to the ocean. I can let it go — I can give it all to the One who is capable of transfiguration.
I hear the wind before I feel her. She comes up from the canyon depths and brushes my face. I feel the coolness of her touch. She is a whispering echo saying, “hush.”
Crows fly with feathers straight and light in the space between earth and sky. Above the canyon, below stars. Small, yet fearless. As we must be.
The edge of a summer storm passed overhead breaking the monotony of blue sky. Patches of clouds cast temporary shade as they moved, releasing a misting drizzle, which fell upon us like a celestial blessing. Birds sang the glory of the day.
Stephanie and I relaxed in the large pool. She rested her head against the cement lip and closed her eyes; I faced away to look beyond the deck and view the Sierraville Valley.
People populated reclining chairs, others floated and bobbed in the pool. Stephanie and I were the only ones wearing bathing suits.
Stephanie hadn’t spoken much since we left the silent dome and the hot pool it contained, but it didn’t bother me. I remembered my first time in the dome and the reverent silence that settled into my heart and mind as I slipped into a profoundly easy meditation facilitated by the heat of the tub, the arhythmic sound of water dripping into the two cold plunges, and the stained glass window — a woman resembling at once the Virgin Mary and Venus de Milo, pouring light into the waters through her outstretched hands.
I looked to Stephanie; her face, perfectly serene, took on an ancient quality as if her soul had known this place years ago.
Her visage made me want to rest my head against the cement lip, too, so I turned around. Just as I did, I saw a woman, floating on foam noodles — one under her shoulders, the other under her knees — as if she were in a chair. The woman’s eyes were closed, and like Stephanie, she hadn’t a care in the world. She could not see that her legs, spread in blissful comfort, moved towards the edge of the pool putting her naked groin on a direct trajectory for Stephanie’s face.
I poked Stephanie. She opened her eyes slowly until she realized a woman’s crotch was heading for her.
With only a few giggles, Stephanie moved out of the way, and broke her silence: “want to check out the meadow pool you were telling me about?”
“Sure!”
We got our towels and walked onto the path. Pine trees filtered the sunlight into complex patterns on the ground.
“I love it here,” Stephanie said.
“Natural beauty and healing waters. What’s not to love?”
“Well,” she emphasized, “there is only so much hoochie coochie in my face that I can take.”
I laughed and then saw two porcelain tubs, just off the trail, nestled in the grass. They each had their own stream of hot water flowing into them from the ground. “Look at these, Steff! Here’s your solution!”
“We have to get in them,” she exclaimed. “How is this real?”
“Real magic,” I said.
We sat for a while, breathing in the novelty of relaxing in a bathtub on a mountainside, but we wanted to sit together and talk, so we continued our quest for the meadow pool.
“I’m glad we sat in the secret tubs. The secret-not-secret tubs. They’re just right off the path, but they’re easy to miss,” I said.
“Everyone walks by, but not everyone sees,” Stephanie said. “I prefer that kind privacy, like the dome because nobody talks.”
“I was here one night and people were talking in there. I didn’t like that because it affected the depth of my meditation.”
Our feet crunched the path, adding a layer to the birds’ song.
“The big pool was a little extreme for me. I’ve never really been around that much nudity.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“It was too much at once — naked people almost running into me with their parts. It happened twice. Once was a hoochie coochie and the other was titties.”
“Every time you close your eyes they come for ya, huh?” I joked.
“Seemed like it.”
We passed the white, Victorian Lodge built in 1870. Red poppies brightened the hillside.
“That hot pool, though,” Stephanie said. “It’s hard to explain what I felt. It was like pure energy. I felt a pulse — like a vibration.”
“Because it’s so hot and the bottom is sand, I close my eyes and lose the feeling of having a body. It’s like my body becomes the water. Must be the closest thing to being in the womb.”
“It did feel like that! And that’s exactly how I felt when we were looking at the grass earlier. I had an out-of-body experience — a supreme oneness, like I was the wind.”
“Wow. Transcendental,” I looked to my left over the wide valley and the surrounding Sierra Nevada mountain range. “You’re so zen you don’t even need the dome.”
“A lady was crying in there.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“She was standing in one of the cold tubs with her face to the wall when we went in.”
“Oh, did she have her hand on the wall?”
“Yes. The dome felt like a place to…”
“Open and release?”
“That’s how I felt. Completely safe. It was powerful. Every detail. The tiles, the wood, the stained glass. So natural and peaceful and somehow familiar.”
“I felt a release, too,” I said. “Before we walked in there I was angry about what was going on with work. I was thinking about it a lot.”
“I could tell you were trying not to, but you really were lost in thought.”
“But after going in the hot water and spending time in the dome, I feel like I released everything. Now I’m just kinda…dancing on the inside. Like I’m free.”
“Freedom is dancing on the inside. That could be your new motto,” she said as she looked at the trees who grew above us like guardians. “I like all the moss that’s growing.”
“I love mossy trees. And all the tall, lush grass,” I paused my step. “You know, earlier, when we were looking at the grass?”
“Yeah.”
“I was definitely lost in thought, thinking about that email. And you pointed to look out at the valley and the grass in the wind and there was a blue jay on a branch. That brought me back to the present moment and helped me let go.”
“That was it. ‘Come back. Come back,’ I was saying. I had that moment of oneness, but I knew how you were feeling, so I was like ‘hey, don’t forget to look around you and be here.’”
I breathed deeply, “next time I’m having a bad day I’m just going to come here.”
“Seriously. It’s so important to walk out. I feel the same in a lot of ways. You’re not alone.”
We approached the meadow pool and to our surprise, found we had the space to ourselves. A small tree grew behind boulders at the edge of the meadow. Purple irises bloomed in stately elegance. Flowers and leaves floated on the surface of the clear, blue water; we stepped in like queens. Our toes pressed into the soft, sandy floor.
“I think I’m in the most beautiful place in the world,” Stephanie whispered.
“We’re in Faerlyland,” I said. “You know you’ve fully arrived in Faeryland when you come to the meadow pool and there’s mint and flowers floating in its waters.”
“You described it like heaven when we were driving up here. And it really is.”
A wooden totem pole watched over the glistening water, speaking without words of the wildlife and civilization that lived in the valley before it was named Sierraville.
“I love this aspen tree right here and the way the leaves flutter in the wind,” I said. “It reminds me of a wind chime my grandma had in her backyard. It was made out of thin, round, pearlescent shells. She had a lot of wind chimes, but I loved that one the most when I was a kid.”
“I know what you’re saying. Your grandma-angel is here. The Great Spirit is here.”
I caressed the top of the water with my fingertips, creating swirling ripples. Birds sang from the trees in high tweets and whistles, forming the cadences and melodies of an unplanned symphony while clouds continued their slow and easy migration across the sky.
The night before I left town, I needed to clean my house. I hate returning to a mess because it doesn’t feel restful, and the last thing I want when I get home is to feel like I have chores to do.
Luckily, my house is fairly-tiny, and doesn’t take long to clean. I started with bathroom and then the kitchen, finishing with the floors. Everything was complete when I vacuumed my tiny living room. Except I quickly dusted my piano, realizing it was overdue, and repositioned the plants upon it.
Satisfied with my clean home, I took a break to eat snacks before my next chore: packing. Both of my cats were downstairs with me. Sterling, a big, fat, fluffy cat laid next to the front door, which I had opened to bring in fresh air. A thin, transparent, gold curtain in the doorway kept the bugs out. My older, dominant cat, Shadow, sauntered past me towards the door. Like an arrogant king, he paused to look down at Sterling, who did not make eye contact.
Shadow sat just beyond the gold, transparent curtain and faced himself directly at Sterling. Only the thin veil separated the two, extra-large males. I barely noticed Shadow’s confrontational posture until Sterling was growling. He carried on for a few moments before I looked up from my phone and asked “what’s going on here?”
As soon as I spoke, Sterling moved quickly and low to the ground. He stopped at the door behind me, which led to his cozy, safe space. He pawed at the door, trying to pry it open.
I crouched next to him, inadvertently blocking him into a corner. “It’s ok,” I said. “You don’t have to leave. I’m not angry.” I pet him, but did not open the door.
He breathed quickly, his agitation intensifying. He cowered beneath my touch. “Hey, it’s ok,” I placed my hand on his belly and gave him a rub. His eyes widened, his pupils dilated. “What’s up with you?”
I heard the floor creak. I turned, surprised to see Shadow right behind me. I reacted with a slight jolt. Sterling clamored to his feet, scratching at the floor with his claws. He bolted to the piano as fast as his fat body could take him. He leapt with fear, not looking where he was going, and found himself face-to-face with one of the potted plants.
I watched as his claw caught the lip of the saucer beneath the pot. “Oh Shit!” I exclaimed as Sterling fell backwards and the pot banged deep bass notes, echoing my expletive, before crashing to the ground, breaking and flinging dirt across the floor.
For a split second, looking at the broken pot and the brand-new mess, I had to make a choice.
I chose to be OK with what just happened. I chose to accept it, even though I had just finished cleaning the house and still had to pack and get organized; even though it didn’t feel OK, I chose to accept it with an understanding that it was OK.
I looked at the broken pot and the dirt on the floor. I looked at the little pile of dirt on the piano keys, the shards of pottery on top of the mound. I looked at the rug I inherited from my Grandmother, scrunched up where Sterling launched off it. In a way, the scene was aesthetically pleasing. Everything was beautifully chaotic, organically placed; it was an artistic expression of gravity and physics that no human could possibly recreate.
I kneeled beside the plant and stroked its narrow leaves — for at least a year it needed repotting, it had grown large and looked cramped. There also hadn’t been enough soil in the pot, but the plant was healthy and so the task never made it onto my to-do list. “Now’s your time,” I said.
I picked up the plant and the shards of pottery; I shook out the rug and cleaned off the piano. I moved with acceptance — maybe even contentment — and did not feel one twinge of irritation, resentment or anger.
With the plant repotted and the room clean again, I sat back and considered my reaction. Not too long ago, I may have cursed the sky for giving me wacko cats and grumbled as I fixed everything. Where did this deep sense of equanimity come from?
It could only be my yoga practice. I began yoga teacher training at the beginning of the year and have been learning the principles, philosophy and energetics of yoga. According to yoga, personality is a process, and we can evolve to a higher ideal. Left to itself, the mind repeats in cycles, yet with the power of our will we can retrain the mind and reshape ourselves. In this instance, I was not the woman who would curse the sky and get red in the face; I was the woman who picked up the pieces with a calm, knowing smile.
I recalled my teacher, Kelly Golden’s words at the end of every class, “the real practice of yoga begins when you step off the mat and into the world.”
Yoga teaches that discernment is the pinnacle of our spiritual practice. Everyday we make choices and the true practice of yoga helps us choose what is highest and best. In this instance, my practice allowed me to choose acceptance and peace.
I started practicing yoga in my teens, and over the years, I have done my fair share of sun salutations. In my personal practice, I sometimes use a few to warm my body, but I don’t really enjoy them.
So when I heard we were doing 108 sun salutations at the end of my first full day of Yoga Teacher Training, I rolled my eyes. Not only did we have to do 108, but we had to count them ourselves. ‘Great,’ I thought, ‘108 repetitions of repetitive movement.’ This was literally the opposite of the meditative, dynamic practice that I love.
Of course, I lost track within the first 15. And that irritated me to no end. What did it even matter to keep count at that point? I would never know how many I had done!
Then, somewhere around 30 (or maybe it was 35, who knows?), I couldn’t believe how many I still had to do. It seemed like this would take forever. And, oh man, it was so tedious!
By the time I got to 42, I wanted to go home. I wanted to stop the incessant ups and downs, roll up my mat, and leave. I felt far from my comfortable home where I could do whatever practice felt right.
Around 50, only half-way, I decided the whole training was a waste of time and I should just quit! Teacher training was a stupid mistake.
Then — somewhere close to 70 — I realized I was nearly finished. It was hard and annoying, but it was almost over. A rush of gratitude and appreciation washed through me.
Hitting 80 brought a feeling of accomplishment, which grew with every round I completed thereafter.
At 90, I chose to savor the remaining salutations. I was so close, and I wanted to enjoy those last rounds.
Number 100 arrived and I knew the struggle was worth it. I had done so much.
I finally reached 108, and thought maybe I should do a couple more just in case I had undercounted. They weren’t so bad; it wasn’t so hard.
Resting in child’s pose after completion, I asked myself why I fought against the practice. My resistance made me suffer far more than the actual sun salutations.
My life flashed before me and I saw all my daily annoyances, the times I was impatient, the times I wanted to quit or fast-forward. I thought of when I wished my life away — stuck in traffic, pining for summer, waiting at the DMV, sick in bed. I saw my struggles and I saw the end of my life. Would I still wish my time away at the end or would I wish I could have savored even the most frustrating moments? What would my life look like if I appreciated all the moments instead of resisting them?
We finished class and I got in my car, feeling a new space in my being, like my mind had opened and my heart softened.
A text from my cousin Derek came through: “Can you drive me home tomorrow? I have to leave my car in town at the shop.”
“Of course,” I wrote back without hesitation. “If you can be in town at 6 when I finish training that would be perfect.”
“For sure,” he replied.
That night I could barely sleep even though I was exhausted. The 108 salutes energized me. I tossed and turned feeling the uncomfortable combination of wired and tired.
My alarm sounded early the next morning. I rolled out of bed and into the shower. My eyes were puffy, and I knew coffee wouldn’t be enough. At least we would start teacher training that morning with an asana class — that would wake me up.
Nine hours of training later, it was dark out, and I was ready to go home and relax with a glass of wine. I drove to my cousin’s mechanic, and got a message from him on the way: “Running late there in 10.”
I parked out front. 10 minutes, not so bad, but 10 minutes passed quickly, and soon came 15. I was bored and annoyed. Where was he? I was helping him. He should be on time.
After 20 minutes, I was pissed! Obviously, he didn’t have any respect for my time or energy! How could he be so rude as to keep me waiting when I was doing him a favor?
I sat there fuming. I mentally prepared to let him have it as soon as he got there. I figured out all the things I would say to make him feel guilty and bad about himself for making me wait. He was selfish and I would make sure he knew it!
That is — until I remembered the 108 sun salutations from the night before. This was my lesson. Getting angry and resisting my present moment was ruining my present moment. Waiting wasn’t the problem, it was my mindset.
I thought about the miracle that Derek and I both have these physical forms on earth, wouldn’t it be better to appreciate the time we get to spend together? A guilt-trip tirade would make us both miserable. He was late — no big deal. Nobody was hurting, except for me with my self-inflicted suffering. Being angry wouldn’t make him arrive sooner.
I decided to relax and clear my mind.
Not long thereafter, headlights shone around the corner and Derek pulled up. We rolled down our windows.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, sheepishly.
“I appreciate your apology and I’m glad you’re here now,” I said, without a note of hostility. “You want to park in this spot?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
We moved like Tetris pieces.
“Thanks, cuz,” he said, getting into my car.
“You’re welcome.”
“Can I take you to dinner?”
“Sure. I’d love that.”
During our meal, we laughed at stupid jokes and spoke of our futures. I even told him about my newfound love for sun salutations.
Decorated and adorned — the mundane made profound — neighborhood houses become gingerbread with thick, clean frosting on the roofs. No longer differentiable between old or new, run-down or well-kept, each dwelling takes on an air of elegance. Icicles hang from awnings like stalactites. An enchanted child appears behind my eyes.
We make tall footprints on what we think is the path. Away from the homes, a reservoir sits still and frosted. Creeks shimmer, cutting through the meadow, frozen in place, lightly dusted; large rocks and boulders, capped white, create bright mounds in the dark river. Cottonwoods, having lost their leaves, look dead beside the Pines, which pop their green heads out of the snow.
In town, we pass the ice rink. Cafe lights and ballroom waltz music from the early 1900s creates a sense of nostalgia for a time we never knew.
We drive off-road. Tree branches droop with heavy snow and drop the weight in puffs that cascade to the blanketed ground. We stop on a ridge and step out of my cousin’s Jeep. The landscape surrounds us in sacred silence created by the deep snow, sparkling as if rhinestones fell in the storm.
“Almost takes my breath,” I’m entranced by the mountains and valleys before us.
“I saw the best snowflake the other day,” Derek tells me in his ski bum drawl. “I was standing on my front porch and it was one of those big fluffy ones. I watched it float down and land on the railing. It was so perfectly geometrical and intricate and it just stayed there. I wanted to pick it up and show my roommates, but obviously that’s not gonna happen.”
“Such an incredible paradox, isn’t it? One snowflake is so fragile, yet put together –” I reach to the landscape.
“There’s been a bunch of avalanches this season. Kinda crazy. Just last year we were complaining about another snowless winter.”
“Did you know that people are using ‘snowflake’ as an insult these days?” I ask.
Derek laughs, “what? No. That’s lame.”
“I agree. I found out about it on Twitter. Apparently it’s to insult someone who is fragile and thinks they are unique — a bleeding-heart or triggered person who gets trophies for participating. That’s the context, I suppose. It started with conservatives using it against liberals, but now liberals have embraced the term against conservatives. Reminds me of the Sneetches from Dr. Seuss. Do you remember those creatures with stars on their bellies?”
“Yeah, totally. You just can’t insult someone by calling them a snowflake, though. It’s magical. Literally everything is more beautiful in the snow. And if it’s too outta hand, houses get crushed. Even if it does melt, it becomes water and enters the water cycle. It doesn’t go away. Being called a snowflake just isn’t and insult.”
“I don’t get it either. Part of nature as humans is to feel — it’s what gives us our humanity. And for people to mock that side of ourselves, it’ll turn people into unfeeling monsters.”
“Damn. That’s true.”
“Seriously. Having an open, compassionate, sensitive heart requires courage and strength in a world with so much pain and suffering.”
“And evil.”
“It’s a strange time, Derek.”
“A strange time, indeed.”
We slip into silence, admiring the changing sky. Delicate pink, purple and indigo hues reflect in the white mountainside like a painting. Stillness and peace reside between our voices.
Alone at 6:00 am, watching the sunrise over rock formations, climbing natural staircases, feeling smooth buttresses with the palm of my hand, I come to sit on the top of a earth-made spier — I feel like the uppermost piece of a cairn. I sit patiently, open to a message from the landscape.
A sparrow flies in circles around me. Scat below my feet tell me deer enjoyed this view not long ago. I recalled the joy I felt seeing the hot and thirsty doe near Angel’s Landing the day before, and my surprise to see her at high altitude. A tree grows from a crack in the rock behind me — most of the trees and plants I see here seem to force their way through hard, impossible places. The sun’s rays pass by clouds, creating beams of majestic light that illuminate the red, yellow and orange striped rocks around me. Only birdsong breaks the silence of the dawning day.
I look upon the earth before me. It is almost impossible to believe, sitting on a rock perch, that 275 million years ago this region was a flat sea basin. But it’s true: The iconic Zion landscape in Utah is the result of millions of years and five geological processes: sedimentation, lithification, uplift, erosion and volcanic activity. I look upon a working transformation — geological processes that continue today.
The resulting transformation is an unparalleled beauty that speaks to the soul of an unseen power. Several times while hiking I had to sit and pause in stillness and quietude to fathom the power of the rivers and the earth’s movements that created the structures and forced the earth towards the sky in vast towers and points.
I wondered, would the flat basin give home to the many plants and animals I had seen? Would the flat basin draw tens of thousands of visitors in a day with its grandeur? Could it provide the same inspiration to artists, have the power to pierce your heart, and take away your breath?
The spirit of Zion revealed itself to me with insight into myself.
I am a creature of change. I actively pursue transformation of my consciousness to become a more radiant reflection of human possibility — an instrument of equanimity, love and peace. I long to be transformed, to allow the processes within and without mold me and sculpt me into the shapes that I am destined to become.
The work of authentic transformation is ongoing and multifaceted: Zion is still changing. The rocks tell me to be humble, relax into the processes, accept and surrender to the unseen power. Growing pains must not be resisted or feared, but rather, seen as an effect of personal evolution. Life provides limitless opportunities for inner refinement; being present to reflect my true nature requires a Zion-like patience.
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