Dear Reader, Hello!
What is coming up for you in your practice?
We’re in the middle of eclipse season; there was a partial solar eclipse in Scorpio on October 24, and there is a lunar eclipse on November 7.
I like to think about astrology in very basic ways: light and position. An eclipse is an unexpected interruption of light. This disruption of our exposure to light affects us.
I was blessed with a cold last Tuesday. On Monday, I’m sure I knew it was coming. My children have circulated no fewer than three colds through our house already this season (to be sure, this sort of thing is normal at the beginning of most school years, and I’m sure their having been isolated and/or masked for the better of the last two school years means they are rebuilding some stamina to colds— though don’t quote me on that, I’m not a doctor, but I am very practiced at noticing), and I suppose it was only a matter of time before I succumbed as well. It began with a lack of energy. I just could not summon the usual quantity of vigor I bring to the class I take on Monday nights. We were discussing Shakespeare’s The Tempest, which I am very captivated by and was indeed very keen to contribute to the conversation about, and I just could. not. My bike ride home was long, and I woke up on Tuesday morning sniffling and snuffling.
(Note: I promise the entirety of this letter-essay is not confined to a description of this cold.)
I write all of this to say that because of this cold—which was not at all pleasant, and which I am still suffering some of the lingering effects of—I was home the day of the solar eclipse. Not only was I home, but I was mostly in bed, unable to even look at a screen and unable to read. My thoughts drifted, resistant to the magnetizing force of the Zeitgeist or even my own interest.
On one hand, this was not unpleasant: to simply rest and receive what I could through my other senses without needing to do anything with that data is quite natural-feeling…to a point. At times, however, my tissues would retract from their expansive, spacious position, and I would experience a rush of panic that I might never really think, respond, create, make…do again. I’ve experienced illness enough to know that these feelings come and go, and that my personal capacity to engage with the world in the ways I have become accustomed generally comes back. My intellect knows that this state is temporary, but the feeling of permanence is real.
I’m in a longer term relationship with a permutation of this fear around creating, but related to my sixteen years of yoga-teaching archives. To be more precise, I wonder what to do with all of the course materials I have written; the classes, sound baths and meditations I have recorded; the illustrations and other artwork I have made. There is a tension between the contentment I feel when I realize that I am sharing these practices still through my very engagement with the world and the awareness of the hundreds of hours that I put into making each of these objects (not to mention the thousands of hours of practice that made their creation possible). I think the core of the feeling relates to how I account for the time spent if I have no physical objects proving that I have been doing something meaningful.
(This feels related to the tension I experience between continual cultivation of a beginner’s mind and avoidance of sitting in the seat of the expert due to imposter syndrome, but let’s save that conversation for another day.)
The question, of course, is why do I need to prove the work is meaningful? A related question is to whom?
These are old questions, and within the frameworks of Yoga and Buddhism, they relate to the very root of all suffering: avidya. Avidya is a klesha (obstacle) that describes a blindness to our true nature. Avidya is the misapprehension that we have to be some way other than how we are in order to be okay. And for me, avidya shows up in the belief that there is some panel of judges out there for whom I must compile my best work in order to get the stamp of approval that I used my human life well. That this is an old theme, maybe the oldest, is oddly comforting. Not only is this my work, but it’s really the work.
On a somatic level, slowness is the remedy (although remedy isn’t quite the right word… maybe mediator or facilitator would be more accurate). Whenever urgency creeps into my body, when I divide life into “mine” or segment it even more artificially into weeks or decades, I contract and assume a defensive stance.
The truth is, everything I’ve ever learned, sung, made or spoken is a part of me. My cells have digested the teachings. My bones hold the vibrations created with every mantra I’ve uttered. The electrical current of my mind has been primed by those mantras unuttered. And none of this can be destroyed. Even when I’m no longer in this form, they transform into something else. And they came from somewhere, perhaps they only landed in this body at this time because it was a willing recipient, happy to carry the life-lineage forward, relay-style, until another open hand appears.
Practically speaking, there is effort required to receive and carry the teachings. Without ongoing attention, effort and dedication, even love extinguishes. My practice has expanded. As I progress in my graduate work, the more I recognize how related my practice as a yogini and work as a teacher relate and inform my research in literature, composition and rhetoric. In many ways, I’m continuing the conversation, with slightly different vocabulary and in somewhat different forms.
Knowing all of this, feeling all of this, the desire to archive and catalog remains. This, too, feels like an impulse that connects me to my human, animal, physical, liminal, eternal lineage, so while I will continue to interrogate the values and patterns that accompany the desire to show my work, so too will I attempt to fulfill that ancient, global need. I began writing this essay shortly after the solar eclipse, and as I’ve been shaping it, it has also been shaping me. The light from the sun, moon, stars and computer screen comes and goes, my eyes perceiving it only after the fact. All I can do is record what I notice and hope one person who encounters what I manage to leave behind can interpret it.
LOVE TO ALL+++
kel
Archiving Myself: I have always loved making “seasonal shifts” podcasts. Fall is only really *just* beginning here now, so I’m finally digging into my vata season protocols. (Side note: you can help maintain the archives by upgrading to a paid subscription to this newsletter.)
Reading + Recommending:
I read the speculative novel I Who Have Never Known Men last week, and it is so good. It is not about pandemic, but it describes grief in a way that feels so relevant right now.
This is more of an activity, but I’m hand-sewing a piece right now, and I just want to give a shout-out to crafts and hobbies that proceed on an ultra-slow timeline. Very correct for vata season in this body.
I love Alice Sparkly Kat’s approach to astrology. This post, “How to Write A Lot” is helping me to just stay with my projects even though I’m now prone to over-editing myself.
Lizzo!!