Less Ordinary

Preparing the Page

Amy Palko — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 21:21:22 +0000

Following my declaration of claiming creative space in my last post on Sankalpa and My 21:5:800 Experience, I promptly signed up for Connie Hozvicka’s Art Journal Love Letters online workshop. I figured that if I’m truly going to allow myself to create, then I need to take the opportunities to embrace new skills and open up to inspirational experience. Creating love letters to my art journal is just such an opportunity – an invitation to come out and play.

After signing up and logging on, I began learning about materials, supplies, journals etc. but the element that has most captured my imagination at this very early stage is the preparing of the pages. I can honestly say it had never occurred to me that I would need to prepare the journal pages before creating my art, but I find the idea completely intoxicating. I watch video clips of Connie spreading the gel medium across a double page spread – blank, but now with a thin, glistening film covering the entire surface – and find that I am transfixed.

Upon this prepared page, magic happens. Colour bursts from paintbrush bristles. Long meandering lines doodle from one end to another. Texture is formed, bumpy-rough and lumpy-smooth. And in amongst these fireworks of brightest hue and mellow shade, there lies the spirit of an imagination at play.

And yet, before all this, comes the preparation of the page. In times gone by, I would have been impatient to jump straight into the colour, into the texture, into the drama of artistic expression. But something has changed. Something since I began the 21:5:800 challenge. Now, taking the time to do the work that needs to be done to prepare the blank page, seems completely natural and exquisitely fulfilling as an action in and of itself. I see now that the act of preparation is one that can be practiced mindfully – a journey and a destination all rolled into one.

Because the preparatory movements to be applied to the page are akin to those I now practice every day in my yoga practice. I lay down my mat in the middle of the lounge floor, the morning sun flooding the space with fresh summer light. I seat myself down upon the mat, cross-legged, straight-backed, and close my eyes. I draw my attention to my breath. In and out. In and out. Inhale follows exhale follows inhale. The breath my only point of focus, as I turn inwards. I consciously begin to lengthen my breath; breathing deep into my tummy, I feel my chest and abdomen expand, and then exhaling long and low, as the slow rush of air leaves my body.

Over and over again, I breath… consciously, mindfully. In this moment of calm, I set my sankalpa, my intention, and this now becomes my touchstone. On my next breath, I inhale and as I exhale I speak the word that has been spoken for centuries. A word ancient and powerful. A word that resonates deep within my core, before filling the room and travelling out of the open windows and into the world outside. Om. Om. Om.

And now, there are no words. There are no thoughts. There are no fears, reminders, longings, worries, distractions. Instead there is release. The kind of release one only ever finds once they have prepared the blank page of their mind. A double-page spread pristine, sealed and ready for the following stage. The flowing asanas tracing their way through the white space, their lines thinning and thickening, contracting and relaxing, holding and releasing. The breath remaining steady, staying constant.

In preparing the pages of my art journal, readying it for the colour, the texture, the words, I can find a quiet peace. A peace that begins at the tip of the medium laden brush and ends somewhere in the centre of my chest. I never would have guessed this kind of serenity would ever have been available to me. The shift from rush-rush-rush to be-here-now has been profound, all-encompassing. A tide of calm placidity spreads out over my mind and body, and I am prepared.

Prepared to move. Prepared to create. Prepared to set sail upon the seas of my imagination, with the winds of liberation speeding my progress. Never before have I felt such deep-seated assurance in my ability to build upon the blank surface, to make my mark, to inscribe the secrets that the soul whispered into the deepening blue of a dusk fast approaching. And I thought I’d feel giddy. I thought I’d feel nervous, filled with anticipatory flutterings.

But instead, I feel something so much better. So much more satisfying. What I feel is sustainable. My usual energy pattern of pyrotechnic explosion, followed by an exhausted shower of vanishing sparkles, appears arrested. Replaced by a creative sovreignty that carries with it longevity, a sense of jubilant productivity that flows from an eternal spring: glittering, pure, constant.

I fill my brush with the medium and apply it in the act of preparing the page.

Sankalpa & My 21:5:800 Experience

Amy Palko — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 19:35:13 +0000

Sankalpa. The intention I wish to bring to my practice. The quality I wish to bring to my day. The focus I wish to bring to my journey.

When I first caught sight of the 21:5:800 challenge, I knew it was for me. I’ve been looking to develop a yoga practice for such a long time, but with being a busy home-educating mum of 3, perhaps unsurprisingly, I never found the time. This was my opportunity to give it a go, to see if it was going to provide the sustenance my body and soul were crying out for. It has more than exceeded my expectations.

As for the writing, I knew that I wanted to push myself on this front. I knew that I was going to have to create some kind of routine, accompanied with accountability, in order to make the progress that I knew was available to me. I think deep down I have always wanted to be a writer, and over this last month it’s become profoundly clear to me that I need to pursue this. I need to give my words a chance to blossom on the page.

Through turning up to the mat day in, day out, and to the laptop day in, day out, I’ve discovered that I can articulate what it is that I’ve been searching for all these years. A creative playground. A room of one’s own. A space to explore, inspire, evolve, create, play, produce. The funny thing is, is that it was right in front of me the whole time. I only needed to give myself the permission to own it.

I’ve given that permission now, because I’m tired. I’m tired of apologizing for my art. I’m tired of belittling my gifts. I’m tired of living small. I’m tired of not allowing my light to shine.

I’m telling you all this because I think it’s something that a lot of creative souls feel – that sense that your art isn’t really art, it’s only a hobby, really, and you’re sure that no-one would really be interested in experiencing it, let alone paying for the pleasure. It’s crippling, isn’t it? This belief that our creative self is trapped somewhere within our heart of hearts, and that if we could only find the key, find it and turn it in the lock, our creative self could step forward. Step forward and claim the space.

I imagine my creative self in a red dress. A beautiful long red dress that sashays as she walks. She’s still me, but a more radiant, luminous version. A glow emanates from her skin, and her eyes twinkle with a sense of mischief. However, mischief is not all that resides within that gaze; a deep conviction of her right to create, to produce, to birth rests there too.

This self sets aside any notion that she ‘can’t be a writer’, ‘isn’t good enough to be an author’, ‘can’t live up to expectations’. This self laughs at the idea that she isn’t intrinsically creative – a life-giving force that sends words skipping across the void. She also holds no truck with naysayers who try to downplay her talents, try to limit her with their perceptions, shame her with their ideas of acceptability.

I’m thinking this self has way more fun than the self that I most often portray. The one who refuses to live up to her potential. Who would rather talk about what she would like to do, and who she’d like to be, than actually risk the doing and the being. I don’t want to get to the end of my life thinking that I could have been so much more if I had only embraced that creative self, worn the red dress, and just got on with living the life I was born to live.

So, sankalpa: an intention, a resolution. A setting of one’s heart upon a quality that resonates within and shines through every pore. Throughout this challenge I’ve experimented with many intentions. I wanted to swim in their waters… the sea of joy, the lake of gentleness, the river of flow, the fountain of now. The one that resonated the most was the stream of namaste. The light in me sees the light in you.

For me this is a quality of gratitude, clarity, openness, grace… and a sense that I can see, really see, the divine spark fanned to a flame within myself and within others. As I go forward into the next 10 day extension of 21:5:800, I’m going to experiment with holding onto this sankalpa throughout my yoga practice, my writing practice, my living practice. I want to see how it feels and I want to see how it affects my creativity. That creative self is on the verge of coming out to play.

Namaste.

21:5:800 – Day 19: We Are All Divas

Amy Palko — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 20:58:44 +0000

Yoga

Today I made a small alteration to my practice, but it made a huge difference; I moved to music. I discovered some old relaxation cds that I had never listened to, and decided to give ‘Serenity’. The effect was really incredible. I found it easier to hold positions for longer. I found it easier to control my breath. I found it easier to move from one pose to another. And I found it easier to focus on the practice, rather than all the other things that creep into my mind when I’m striving to release my thoughts.

The other thing that I think is making a difference for me is reading about yogic philosophy. I’m finding it absolutely fascinating, and I can see that it is also affecting my writing practice…

Writing

Today was the day for creating my full moon dreamboard, which you can see on my Posterous. As is always the case, the board did not turn out the way I expected. There’s a lot of movement there, a lot of energy and a lot about performance of one kind or another. I’ve also included the quote which precedes my 800 words today. I’ve chosen to use the quote and my dreamboard as my prompt for today…

When you step onto the stage of lila, you have a choice. You can drag yourself across the stage like you have been mixing Quaaludes with alcohol, or you can step into the universal spotlight like a great diva. The stage is set; the roles have been cast. In experiencing the passion of lila, the first step is to take command of the stage that is your life and develop a stage presence that embraces the fullness and complexity of your role on the stage of maya. ~ Darren Main

I read these words yesterday and they struck home. Like an arrow that has found its mark, these words penetrated my heart and reverberated around the house of my soul. It was one of those moments where you sense that you have been seen. Truly seen. Now, these words follow me from room to room. They are tracing my footsteps, tugging at my shadow, mirroring the rise and fall of my breath. And I find myself wondering in those moments where my movements are occupied with preparing the dinner, making the beds, retrieving the mail, “What would it be like to command the stage that is my life? To step out into the universal spotlight? To develop a stage presence of a great diva?”

It would require you to step out from behind the mask that you’ve so carefully constructed. Step out and step forward, unadorned by the trappings of doubt, the trimmings of terror. What will they say? What will they think? This familiar refrain repeats and repeats and repeats, almost as if it longs to drown out the embryonic retort that whispers: Who cares? Who really cares if you deign to be you? Who really cares if you peel off all those old costumes, the clothes of a character you were never born to be? Who cares if you enter stage left, the spotlight tracking your step as you make your way to the centre, the audience hushed, the usherettes awed?

And you know, you don’t need to worry about forgetting your lines. There never was a line that you didn’t know. The script is unravelling as we speak. Unveiling and revealing. And the picture your words are making is all down to you. You get to decide how you develop this role. You get to choose whether to play your life in a major or minor key. But just remember this. The world will not thank you for playing it small. There are no brownie points for hiding your light beneath layers and layers of false belief. Just as a star is born to shine, so are you.

Because if there is one thing this life is not, is a dress rehearsal. It sounds trite and cliche, but it’s no less true for that. The tickets have been sold, the programmes printed, the stage is set, the chorus line rehearsed… all that remains is for you to begin. Just start. Just say anything. Anything at all. It’s ok. It’ll be the right thing. Just go ahead. Begin.

You start off in a faltering voice, the trembling augmented by the echo, as your words bounce back at you. Someone coughs. You shuffle your feet, and tug at your clothes. In all honesty, you are wishing that you hadn’t come along this evening. You could have stayed at home, put your feet up, had a cup of tea, watched EastEnders, caught up on FaceBook friends. In fact, what the hell are you doing here? Didn’t you always want an easy life? Didn’t you? Didn’t you?

But deep down in your secret heart, that place where time dies and revives every second, that place where you know it’s all just an illusion, that place where you are still and always you… there, you know that you are not here to hide behind a mug of tea and an avatar. You know you were born to be a diva. To inhale deeply and let your voice carry you forth on the dust motes dancing in the limelight. This time your voice is stronger. It has a resonance, a timbre. You stand there knowing that you can be heard all the way up to the gods.

And the gods are listening. They’re all rooting for you to give an inspired performance. They’re willing you on, not keeping you in check. Not proclaiming your worth or defining your limits. They’re longing that you’ll choose to be ‘big’ – live life as large as you can; larger, in fact. That round of applause that you hear… that’s them. That’s them rejoicing that you chose to give a stand out performance of being you. That you shoved aside fear, and stepped beyond the comfort zone.

Because there are relatively few rewards for taking a minor part, for being an understudy. Wouldn’t you rather dance, sing, perform like no-one was watching? Wouldn’t you rather be a diva? A radiant diva that attracts all the light when she walks onto the stage. Luminous and free. Wouldn’t you rather be the star you are, and not the walk-on part you play, terrified that even the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other might be beyond you?

Because we are all stars – points of light in the theatre of a collective imagination – divas on the stage of our existence.

Are you ready for your big performance? How do you command the stage? How would you describe your stage presence?

21:5:800 – Day 18: Returning

Amy Palko — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 22:33:00 +0000

Yoga

On a recommendation from the delightful @suburbanyogini I bought Darren Main’s Yoga and the Path of the Urban Mystic. I cannot tell you how much I am enjoying it, and I’m finding that it is really helping my yoga practice. It’s not a book for poses, technique etc. As Darren says it’s more about how to take yoga off the mat and into the world.

I found the following quote from that book particularly reassuring:

Yoga, like all mystical traditions, is a practice, not perfection. It is the process of returning to your yoga practice over and over again that gives you the benefits. Doing the perfect yoga pose or clearing your mind of all thought is well and good, but in the end it is the practice of returning to yoga that allows you to live life to the fullest.

I just love that. I returned to my yoga practice this morning not seeking perfection – just returning. Returning.

Writing

Today I seem to have turned my words towards reminiscence. I don’t really know why. But then, as I’ve discovered, I so very rarely know why I choose to write about anything. I realize now that I have returned in my writing practice, just as I have returned to my yoga practice.

Grandad wanted just to drive us back home again. He had driven me and my tiny daughter the 6 and a bit hours to get to our new home on the north western tip of Scotland, and now that we had arrived, the disappointment was palpable. Our home sat on the edge of the kyle: a long inlet where the Atlantic flows past, shaping and reshaping the sand bars. It was an old shepherd’s cottage built sometime in the early nineteenth century; its walls were a dirty whitewash, its outbuildings crumbling with rust red corrugated iron roofs, its coal shed door was lying off its hinges. Quite frankly, it was a tad uninspiring.

I pushed the key into the lock and turned. The door swung open to reveal concrete floors, dirt-encrusted walls… it was dark, dirty, and I was thinking that I had made a big mistake. This was our new, fresh start. Our wee girl was only just turned 1 and I was 7 months pregnant with our son and I was standing in this house in the middle of nowhere, which was an utter shambles, and, as I was about to discover, had no electricity or running water. I felt my daughters small chubby arms wrap around my legs, and I bent down to pick her up. Balancing her on my hip, I turned to look at my grandparents who both had a look of horror and dismay.

“It’ll be fine.” I try to reassure them, although even I cannot deny the waver that has entered my voice. “All it really needs is a lick of paint. And some carpet. And a bit of a spring clean.” I realize that I’m not convincing either them or myself. My baby starts to cry, and I can feel the tears spring to my own eyes. Grandma and Grandad don’t seem far off crying either. They reluctantly turn to leave, Grandad placing a £20 note in my hand as we hug. “For paint”, he tells me. I walk them to the door, and my baby and I, we wave good-bye and blow kisses as they drive back down the single track road.

We stand there watching until the car turns the corner and can no longer be seen. Then it is just the two of us, standing outside a house that is barely inhabitable, surrounded by miles and miles of empty wilderness. As far as my gaze allows, I can see no evidence of humanity other than the single track road which runs empty in each direction. I am 20 years old and I am the most isolated I’ve ever been, both then and since. We leave that house a year later, and the whole area a year after that.

Fast forward one decade…

The sky stretching out over kyle and cape is a clear blue. Not a cloud can be seen, and the water is smooth, glassy, turquoise. I am standing in front of the house that used to be my home and my children are running in the field that slopes down to the shore. I slip my hand into my husband’s and look up at him, wondering whether to ask the question that has settled upon the moment. “Did we make the right decision moving away? Did we choose correctly? Look at how free the children are. Maybe we made a mistake. Maybe we should move back. Maybe.”

I am seduced by its wild beauty. The months of wind and rain, the drafts that whistled through the house, the isolation, the dark nights so black that I could not see my hand in front of my face… they all evaporate like dew under the heat of a northern sun. All I can think of is the freedom, the air, the water, the land… the solitude. The lack of neighbours that left me so utterly desolate ten years ago suddenly seems like bliss. I feel the strongest need to retreat, to run away and live on the edge of the wilderness. Far away from the madding crowd.

But it’s not to be. It’s not right for us, and we know it. As we drive away along that single-track road, in the wing mirror I catch site of the peeling white wash, the rusting red roofs of the outbuildings, the gate where I stood and waved goodbye to my grandparents, and there… there I find release. I am set free, and the memories that I have of this corner of the world are gently wrapped in the fabric of my heart and placed gently, reverently in the past.

As we drive back down south, the narrow road winding its way past wild cotton and marsh reed, a bird of prey soars overhead. Circling on thermals, its wings spread wide and its eyes far-seeing. We drive on, facing the future.

What do you find yourself returning to? Are you returning by choice or by habit?

21:5:800 – Day 17: Bus-Stop Angels

Amy Palko — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 23:09:17 +0000

Yoga

Finding it a little difficult to fit in my yoga now as my uni teaching has started. However, I’ve worked through my practice tonight, and I feel so much better for it. I think one of the biggest lessons that I’ve learned from this challenge has been that I cannot sacrifice my own needs as readily as I have in the past. It doesn’t feel good. And when I take the time to practice my yoga… well, that just feels yummy.

Writing

If I’m finding time to do my yoga practice difficult, then the writing practice is ten times harder! However, I had a wonderful prompt today, which I’ve used to get the words flowing…

A huge pile of white feathers eddies and swirls revealing and concealing the dark tarmac pavement. As each bus and car passes, a gust of wind catches them and they move as one. Dancing in the exhaust. Beside the white sea of mobile fluff stand the bus-stop, its clear windows revealing stray feathers caught in the roadside weeds.

I am waiting for the number 16, and I’m hoping it’ll be late. I’m hoping it won’t arrive in four minutes time as it’s scheduled, because I cannot take my eyes off these feathers. And as I watch them sway and twirl, I am struck by one overwhelming question. It’s a very simple question consisting of only one word. How?

Gabriel was waiting. He wasn’t especially keen on waiting. Uriel was much more patient. While Gabriel paced, Uriel stood still, the wind moving around his bare feet, ruffling the feathers of his wings. “Oh look, here he comes now” muttered Gabriel under his breath, as Michael’s distinctive form moved into sight. He was running, and behind him the bus appeared.

Jangling the change in his hands, Gabriel shifted from foot to foot. “Come on, come on.” Michael was always late. For an archangel he had an appalling sense of time. And today of all days, he really needed to be here on time. If he misses this bus… well, who’s to say what would happen.

Uriel calmly stepped forward and hailed the bus. Michael was still running flat out, but had now been overtaken by the maroon double-decker. He was clearly out of breath, as he sucked in large breaths of humid June air, and sweat began to trickle down either temple.

“We should just let him miss it,” Gabriel said. “That’s not very charitable, is it? Where’s your generosity? Your tolerance?” Uriel replied. “I think I lost it right around the time I knew we were going to have to travel today by public transport.” snapped Gabriel.

The bus pulled over to the side of the road, and its doors opened. Uriel climbed aboard first, and slowly dropped his fare into the ticket dispenser. Gabriel ascended next, and not bothering to buy Michael more time, threw in his change, and moved off down the aisle dodging shopping bags, buggies and an labrador pup, to find a seat beside a surly, acne bespeckled teen.

The bus-driver was just readying to move off, and had just placed his finger to the button to close the doors, when Michael arrived, huffing and puffing at the bus-stop, and leapt from kerb to bus. Unfortunately for Michael, while his feet landed square upon the bus, his wings got caught in the closing doors. After a struggle, which saw Michael surge forward towards the alarmed bus-driver, only to be pulled back by his trapped wings, he managed to wriggle free. Rummaging in his pocket for his fare, his face said it all. “Gabriel? You couldn’t lend us a pound twenty, could you?”

The bus pulled away from the stop where the three archangels alighted, leaving behind a swirling, dancing pile of the softest white feathers.

21:5:800 – Day 15: The Tarot Lady’s Shop

Amy Palko — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 19:38:44 +0000

Image by Susannah Conway

Yoga

You may have noticed that I haven’t offered any updates for the last couple of days. This is because I’ve not managed to stick to my writing practice as I’ve been getting home (very) late from teaching. My yoga practice, however, is just going from strength to strength. I am so loving it!

I’ve now taught my daughter the yoga practice and the two of us work our way through poses, breathing in tandem, Om-ing together. Feels deeply special, connecting through yoga.

Writing

As I said, no writing the last couple of days, but I have managed to meet today’s target. I used one of the photo prompts very kindly given by the delightfully talented Susannah Conway on Bindu Wiles’ blog today as my jumping off place. I seem to have ended up with something of a story fragment…

I walk past the shop door every day, but never see it. When I was first told of it and where it was located, I didn’t believe it. I mean, I walk down that street every day on my way to work, and I’ve never seen it all the years I’ve made that journey. It was only when Lucy took me there and pointed it out, did I credit its existence. But even now, I wonder if it was ever really there. Whether it wasn’t just a trick of the light. Or some alteration in my consciousness caused by the thick green smell of marijuana smoke that seemed to emanate from the walls of Lucy’s small apartment.

It was while we were sitting in her tiny kitchenette drinking some strange herbal tea, that smelled a bit like compost, when she first mentioned that we should visit the shop. The light filtering in through the dust-coated window-pane reflected off the unwashed dishes piled high in the sink, distracting me momentarily with thoughts of hygiene and salmonella. “Sorry, what did you say?” She sighed, before repeating that we really should go down and check out the tarot lady’s shop on Marlin St. “You know” she said, “the one next to the computer repair place. The one where you got your laptop fixed?” She twirled a long blond curl, her head set to one side, as she looked at me, expectantly. I merely raised my eyebrows in an expression I hoped was a picture of ignorance.

Lucy often spoke of things I had no knowledge of. In fact, I often wondered why she still wanted to hang out with me. I wasn’t really like any of her other friends. People my mother would have called ‘colourful’ but in such a tone of voice that you knew she actually meant downright weird. With my plain mid-brown hair and conservative clothes, I blended in most places. Became invisible. Except when I came along to Lucy’s flat-warming party. There I think I was the most conspicuous I’ve ever been in my entire life. My lack of piercings, tattoos, or tropical fish hair colour marked me as the odd one out; a role I found intensely uncomfortable. After I turned down a hit of the bong doing the rounds in the living room, defended my choice not to take up residence on a beach in Goa in the kitchen, and walked in on a naked couple in the bathroom, I left. There’s only so much one can take in an evening.

Lucy was still looking at me. I shrugged before saying, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a tarot lady’s shop there, Lucy. And I walk past there all the time. I would have noticed if there was one there. Trust me.” Lucy wasn’t having it though. She then tried several different ways of describing its location to me. “It’s no good,” I told her. “I know exactly where you’re talking about. But I’ve never seen it.” “But you must have” she insisted. “Look, go and grab your coat, and I’ll show you. Maybe we can pop in and make an appointment to have our cards read while we’re there.”

There are some people in this world who are forces of nature; when they have an idea, things happen. Lucy was one of those people. It was because of Lucy that we went to that weird bookshop on Brown that keeps the blinds closed even during opening hours. It was also her fault that we ended up at a house party in the middle of nowhere hosted by someone we’d never met. I never know what she’s going to come up with next. And there must be a part of me that rather likes that, because I keep popping round for a cup of funny tea. Because, you see, Lucy’s one of the very few people who knows me inside out. She knows all my secrets, my preferences, my habits. In fact, she’s the only person in this whole city that really gets me. She’s become my touchstone in this large anonymous city where it becomes so easy to lose yourself. Lose your way.

Walking along Marlin St. me in blue jeans, black anorak, Lucy resplendent in tie-dye, I knew we looked every bit the odd couple. But when she put her hand in mine, that didn’t seem to matter quite as much as it should have. The sky was threatening rain, and the water already lying on the pavement from this morning’s downpour had begun to seep into my trainers. I was just beginning to wonder whether I had brought an umbrella, when Lucy squealed, ‘Look! There it is! See, I told you it was next to the repair shop.’

And she was right. There it was. A narrow doorway between the computer repair shop and a pizza takeaway with a small sign blue-tacked to the window which said, ‘Tarot Reading’s Available by Mme Truffaut.’ I felt my hackles rise at the misuse of the apostrophe, a pet hate of mine, but didn’t mention it as I know it gets on Lucy’s nerves. ‘Come on’ she said, ‘Let’s go in and see how much she charges.’ I was about to pull back, when Lucy dragged me forward, and before I knew it we were tumbling in through the door of the tarot lady’s shop.

21:5:800 – Day 12: In Which Writing Was A Struggle

Amy Palko — Sat, 19 Jun 2010 22:57:22 +0000

Yoga

Namaste. I see the goddess in you. I started my yoga practice this morning with this as my intention, and it felt beautiful. Namaste.

Writing

And the writing wasn’t so beautiful. Not my finest, by any stretch of the imagination. But then, isn’t that the way? It’s a writer’s lot to feel a certain dissatisfaction most of the time when it concerns the putting down of words. Anyway, I hit my target. Tomorrow will be better. But for now it feels like the sign in the gardens of Dean Gallery were right – there will be no miracles here. At least not today.

Antoine de Saint-Exupery, author of The Little Prince, once stated “A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.” I’m wondering if the same applies to words… I’m wondering if I approach all the words in the world bearing within me the image of a novel, or at very least a blog post, then does that pile of words cease to be a pile of words. Do they become raw potential? Do they become the material of great works? Or even just works? I would settle for works tonight…

It is late, and I’ve spent the day preparing for a goddess workshop that I’m co-hosting tomorrow, and it is now close to 11pm and I’m tired and my knee hurts and I would really quite like to go to bed. But I can’t. I promised myself I would keep up my writing and that I would hit my daily target of 800 words. It’s been going relatively well, I think. My posts have received some really beautiful comments, and I can read them back without feeling too uncomfortable. Without feeling too great a pang of disappointment that I didn’t quite achieve the flow, the rhythm of words that I initially set out to achieve.

Another source of comfort at times like this is the divine choreographer Martha Graham. She’s the one who claimed:

“There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique, and if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium; and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, not how it compares with other expression. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”

I have that quote on a sticky note where I can see it every day. It rings so true for me. Because that’s what the work of true creatives is – keeping the channel open. And I am trying. Just some days it seems easier to keep it open than others. Sometimes it gets blocked with fear, boredom, anger… but mostly fear. Fear that whatever is produced just won’t be good enough. Won’t pass muster. Will be deficient and embarrassing in its failed enterprise.

Awful, isn’t it? When I see it written down like that, it looks awful. That kind of reaching. I feel like that drifter in Carole King’s Tapestry, the one who “reached for something golden hanging from a tree, And his hand came down empty.” And yet, it’s comforting to know that even one such as Martha Graham didn’t find satisfaction in her creativity. The blessed unrest, that pacing across the lounge floor as I walk away from the computer and back and away and back, is what keeps me striving for better. It’s what stops me from growing complacent and proud. It’s what stops me from getting lazy.

I am yearning for that feeling I get when the words are flowing. When they drift from my soul, move out of my hands and imprint themselves upon the page. I imagine them as points of orange flame sent out across the Ganges. Words set alight and released, leaving them to lodge in the hearts of those they are meant for. I feel then that I’m doing what I’m here for. I feel focused, like a beacon that shines a light into the dark places, the thin places. Finding the words that fit together feels like it makes things right.

When I began the challenge of 5 days of yoga a week and 21 days of 800 words, I thought it would be the yoga that would find me wanting, not the writing. But the yoga is blissful. A friend told me the other day there that she admired my discipline, but in all honesty, my practice feels like a gift, a delicious gift that I now can’t imagine not having in my life any more. The writing, however, the writing…

But maybe it’s just late. Maybe now that I’m in the depth of night and the sun is due to rise in only a few hours, my energy is unfocused. It’s dispersed, scattered like grains of spilled salt. Maybe when the sun rises, I’ll find that flow again, that sense of purpose. I do hope so.

21:5:800 – Day 11: Finding Love in Thin Places

Amy Palko — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 22:56:41 +0000

Yoga

Flow. I started this yoga practice looking for flow, and while I’ve had moments where I could sense flow in my movements, in my breath, but on the whole flow has eluded me. Today I found what I was looking for. And I’m not surprised in the slightest that it arrived on the day when I chose to practice with the intention of gratitude.

Writing

Whereas the yoga flowed, the writing did not. Every word felt like a wrench, as though I had to tug it from my heart to get it to speak, to sing. I think it was worth it though. What do you think?

The last of the day’s sunshine is glancing off the flaking white paint of the old lighthouse that stands just outside my window. At the very edge of the land, it is falling into silent decay. The glass from the windows is broken or missing. The doors are boarded up. The lamp is missing. Around all four sides, it is surrounded by high fencing designed to keep out the curious. All day long the gulls and terns swoop over its flat roof and turret, and the ships pass by its extinguished beacon.

And yet, it is still completely beautiful to me. I don’t care that the light no longer pours through thick glass, an intensified beam that cuts through the miles and the darkness. For me, its very presence is a source of light in the world. As I look out at it now, I can see the sunset reflected on the interior walls, turning the drab and dusty turret bright orange. I close my eyes and imagine what it must be like inside that turret, the pure amber light flooding my senses. Tiny dust motes dance on faint zephyrs, and the distant call of seabirds floats in across the waves that gently lap at the breakwater.

There are some places where the division between the earthly and the divine seems less definite. The Celts called these “thin places”: places where you sense the sacred, places where, if you were to reach out your hand, reach it right out in front of you, then you just might feel the touch of an angel’s wing. When you find yourself in one of these places, you enter a state of sublime consciousness, where the very edges of your ego begin to dissipate and you dissolve into the in between.

In these thin places you can bathe in gratitude, you can let your wishes dance from your heart out into the ineffable, you can just be you and know that this is enough. There lies an invitation to just let go, to release your fears, your pettiness, your smallness, your worries, your sadness, your regrets out into the sunlight where they can evaporate like dew in the heat of an early summer sun. Take this invite; take it and feel grace enter into the thin space between now and always. Take it and feel yourself melt into the moment.

I remember another thin place I once visited. It was also a lighthouse. This one was called Rua Reidh and it sits out past Gairloch, on the far western coastline of Scotland. Standing in its grounds, looking out to sea, there is nothing between you and America other than miles and miles of bluegrey waves, their white crests punctuating the Atlantic vista. As I stared out at the enormity of ocean, the sun began to sink beneath the wide, steady horizon, and the sky turned from blue to peach to burnt orange to deep ruby before ending in a black velvet sprinkled with a million tiny stars. Diamond dust strewn across the heavens.

Except this descent into darkness was momentarily disrupted by the rhythmic revolutions of the lighthouse beam, as it cut through the night sky, sending out a long line of light across the cold black waters. Standing so close to this light, with my love standing behind me, his arms entwined around my waist, my head resting against his chest, we are dazzled by the brightness. The cold night begins to settle all around us, but we are entranced by the rotations of the lighthouse beam, and we stay standing there for a long time.

It is possible to fall so deeply, irrevocably in love in these places that the love found there shines throughout a lifetime. It illuminates the days when the sun refuses to rise, and sorrow and confusion reign. It chases away the shadows brought by money worries, parenting woes, work stress and domestic fatigue. It calls you home when you’re lost in the dark. It carries you through the good times too: the birthdays, the Sunday lie-ins, the champagne fizz and the sweet understanding that you find in one another’s arms when you’re reunited after a long day’s work.

I think of all this and more as I stare out of the window at dimly outlined shape of the dilapidated lighthouse. The sun is now journeying around the globe, and night has fallen across the river Forth. Unmanned lighthouses, automated pulses of light, strike a beat in the deepening blue. I stare out and feel profound gratitude for the thin places. They’ve brought me more riches than one person could ever hope for in a single lifetime. A solitary gull cries as it soars up passed my window and out of view, trawling the twilight behind it. I breathe, reach my hand out in front of me, and touch…

Have you visited a thin place? What did you find there?

21:5:800 – Day 10: What Am I?

Amy Palko — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 21:18:08 +0000

Yoga

Today’s practice was undertaken with the intention of release. I’m finding a freedom in my movement that I never had before. I’m finding a reach in my limbs that I never had before. I’m finding a peace in my soul that I never had before. Tomorrow’s practice will be undertaken with the intention of gratitude.

Writing

I had one of those moments before starting to write this evening where I felt like I had lost all my words. That they had all abandoned me and that I wasn’t going to manage my 800 words that I’ve committed to. Slowly and stuttering they began to stumble from my fingertips onto the keyboard, before straggling across the screen. Soon, however, they began to flow smoothly, and before long, my fingers were racing to keep up with them. Funny how writing works, isn’t it?

Ever play that game of ‘What am I?’ How about we play it now, except we hearken back to our seven year old selves…

I am standing in front of the bathroom mirror. It’s not our bathroom, as we are on holiday. Holiday is when I don’t have to go to school and everybody smiles a lot more. We are on holiday in France and this is a French bathroom. It has a large mirror which takes up one half of the wall about the sink. Sunbeams are streaming through the frosted window above the cistern, and are reflected in the smooth surface of the mirror. I am imagining that I am Alice, and that this is the looking glass that leads to an adventure. I am always looking for an adventure. I stare at myself and myself stares back. The sunbeams have turned my eyes a soft gold colour.

My eyes are hazel back at home. I know this because our teacher put us into groups , splitting us up by eye colour; most of my class has brown eyes or blue eyes. Only me and Lisa had ‘hazel’ eyes, although we looked into each other’s eyes and agreed that they were not the same at all. But here, in this place, my eyes are gold. My eyes are like those that survey the savannah, keeping watch on the pride. These eyes are fierce and clear and focused. These eyes are benevolent and kind, but they are not passive, and they are not the eyes of one that can be bent to the will of another. These eyes display a leonine spirit. One that refuses to be broken.

What am I? I am a lion.

I am in the playground at school. It’s breaktime and all the children have broken free of the closeted classrooms and are now standing around getting soaked in the smirr. The fine drizzle just keeps coming, seeping into our anoraks, our thick woolen tights, our scuffed black shoes. A sudden notion takes over me and I flip off my hood and shake my long red hair out. I am laughing as I look at Lisa, who now has a glint in her hazel eyes. Lisa is always up for being wild. She pulls down the hood of her navy jacket and shakes her dark hair loose, and soon we two are standing laughing as the soft Scottish rain dresses the strands of our hair in the tiniest of droplets.

We’ve played this game often, but on such a grey day, as our classmates huddle and wait for the school bell that will invite them back into the dry, stuffy warmth of the classroom, this game feels wild. Our hair loose, pent up energy running through our legs, we start to canter around the playground’s edge. Lisa neighs loudly, and I copy. The two of us, reckless and free, take our canter up to a gallop. Now charging and laughing, neighing and jumping, the ends of our long manes flying out beside us, the colourless tarmacadam playground disappears and Lisa and I are galloping through fields, leaping over hedgerows, fording fast flowing burns. We two have found freedom.

What am I? I am a horse.

I am standing at the edge of the pool. The smell of chlorine makes my eyes sting. My wee brother has already jumped in. He got changed faster than I did. He always does. My skin has broken out into tiny goosebumps, and before I get any colder, I jump in. The water splashes up high on either side of me, as my body plummets, stone-like, to the tiled bottom of the pool. My ears fill instantly and suddenly all I hear is filtered through gallons and gallons of clear turquoise water. My world has become one of legs and kicking feet, bubbles and the occasional goggled face. My lungs start to burn, so I bend my legs, push my feet against the floor, and kick madly for the surface.

I break through to hear my brother’s laughter as he clings to the side. I’ve surprised him by bursting through the blue. Come, I say, let’s imagine we’re in the ocean! We dive and we swim and we dive and we swim, all the way across the length of the pool. Our feet are now tails and we can feel our dorsal fins showing as we glide just beneath surface. Holding our breath for long seconds, we feel like we belong, that the water is our home. Breaking through for air, we throw our heads back and let loose peals of laughter, the water running down our noses. Our arms, now flippers, flap against the water, splashing each other and anyone nearby. The water sluices off our backs, and we dive back down into the turquoise.

What am I? I am a dolphin.

If that’s what I am, what are you? When you were 7? When you are the age you are today?

21:5:800 – Day 9: Releasing Ghosts Through Savasana

Amy Palko — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 20:12:39 +0000

Yoga

Today’s yoga was completed at 7.30 this morning. I would struggle to remember a time when I woke up especially early in order to do exercise. But, you see, I don’t really see yoga as exercise, as such – it’s so much more. And it is precisely this that I’ve chosen to write my 800 words about today…

Writing

Once again, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by my writing. I really never know exactly what will flow through when I sit down to write. Today my writing was sparked off by a quote on the yoga pose savasana…

A what pose? You want me to pose like a dead person? Why on earth would I want to do that!?

My first thoughts at adopting savasana – or corpse pose, as it’s also known – were not entirely positive. However, this whole yoga thing is still so very new to me, that I knew that I owed it to myself to give up any judgements I may have about the practice, or my capability to achieve half the positions I had committed to attempt.

I’ve surprised myself with how quickly I’ve grown into my practice. How, after even only one week, it’s now become an indispensable part of my day. The foot stretch is still fairly uncomfortable. The child pose is bliss. The plank is an impossibility. The pigeon makes me cry large fat tears for no real reason I have managed to discern. But it’s corpse pose which has surprised me the most…

I have an image in my head. I am standing in front of a mirror, and the mirror-me reflected in the glass seems grey, insubstantial, veiled. As I stand and watch this figure, the veils begin to fall away. Each veil is as fine as gossamer silk, and as it peels away and drops to the floor, the reflection appears a little less grey and a little more radiant. Layer by layer by layer the veils pull away to reveal a luminous me: one who is unashamed, one who is not afraid to step forward as herself.

This is the vision I see when I lie in corpse pose. As Terri Guillemets so beautifully claims, the “corpse pose restores life. Dead parts of your being fall away, the ghosts are released.” When I lie flat on my back, open palms resting lightly by my side, breathing slow but regular, body utterly motionless other than the rhythmic rise and fall of chest and belly, I am in a state of unveiling. My ghost selves are dissipating, dissolving into the ether leaving behind something essential, something pure.

There goes that ghost of humiliation, and there goes the ghost of shame. Hand in hand, the ghosts of embarrassment and fear leave the scene, with the ghost of loss hurrying to catch them up. The ghost of need appears reluctant to leave, but is eventually persuaded by the ghost of lack. The ghost of overload, the ghost of inadequacy and the ghost which just can’t say no are among the last to leave. They seem reluctant to relinquish the place they’ve made home.

You see, they’ve all been so welcomed, made to feel at home. They’re like the guests who wouldn’t leave, and who started making ever more excessive demands on their host. There’s the mistaken belief that by treating them well, by suppressing your true self, your true emotions, that they’ll eventually be satisfied and go away. But they don’t. Instead they grow ever more comfortable, and take ever increasing liberties. After a while, you forget that they were “just visiting” and you believe that they belong.

But they don’t. Belong, that is. And that’s what I realize during savasana. While I’m lying on the floor it suddenly begins to make sense. I feel like with my eyes closed I suddenly see my life, my direction, my self, so much clearer than I did before. As I breathe in and out I repeat the mantra that appears to have become my touchstone throughout this yoga writing challenge: Just let go. These three words over and over and over until they lose their original meaning and become magical sounds which I use to detach the ghosts.

And from beneath these ghostly veils, there’s a shining self which has been trying to find release for oh such a long time. There are glimmers beneath gossamer. There’s a glow beyond the ghosts. Because this luminous figure wrapped up in the veils is me at my highest potential. My work, while I’m here, is to help free that figure. To let that figure breathe and shine; dance and laugh; connect and share. But mostly, my work is to let her be herself. Because that’s what she really wants, and that’s what she really deserves.

And all I need do is keep turning up to the mat. Turn up to the mat, lie prone as I melt into the present moment, that place which is presided over by the goddess of the inbetween. She’s working her magic, but only if I show up to work my own. But together we can speak the sounds (just let go just let go just let go), unwrap the veils, and then one day, one day the last ghost will leave. The work won’t stop there, of course. These ghosts are tricky, and they’ll do their very best to cling to clothes, weave around limbs, drape themselves over shoulders.

Thank goodness for savasana.

How has your experience with savasana been?