Archive | February, 2013

Hass En Honorarium

7 Feb

I have moved into his Hass; Hass has seduced me
I heard his name whispered in the rafters for years,
And my friend is laughing, she’s asking me,
“How many ways can you rift on words?”

I want to push her knee-deep in clichés, as
The dogs and cats rain around us, but instead
I say, “same song, different tune,” because
I don’t want to explain.

See Hass no one understands you I do,
Who else can hear Shakespeare in Whitman?
(we can his sing songs together)

Who else can frolic through pastoral leaves
that pepper the Vietnamese jungles,
causing colors so Brilliant they remind us
of the Fall.

Tell me,

Who else can fling out Greek odes
that honor the Romans?

No one can.

In my sleep, I dream of monsters standing
Next to my bed, and I think this is why
We are poets because we can see
What others don’t, the inter-connectedness
The criss/cross/crass beat of our nation

And I don’t sleep anymore, but who cares
Who cares, when history reflects back
An identity that we don’t want to own and
When I say, “Czelaw,” only you
Know that the brightness has forsaken my city

Hass, I love you.  I can’t count the ways; there are too many
And please, don’t tell me that today is
No different than a thousand yesterdays
We really are on the same page

Instead dear one, in-between the
Seam of you and me, and the pitter-pat
Of the black cat who lapped up
All the porridge, please,
please be.

Please be the beef that lets us all
Know, “how do you do it so good?”

The Sounds of Yoga and How They Can Heal

5 Feb

For the past week I’ve been in bed, suffering from the flu. Not just the flu, but the stomach flu, which in my opinion, is the worst kind of flu.  I’d like to say that I used this week of bedrest to reflect upon my life, but in truth, I laid there with a mashed-potato brain going over every person I’d been in contact with wondering, “Who was that shit who gave me the flu?”

Considering half my office has been sick, and both my roommates, I came to the conclusion that there was no one of knowing the culprit.  Then I blew my nose and noticed my box of Kleenex was getting empty.  I felt that I had to take matters into my own hands.  I couldn’t take another week of the head cold that was starting to develop, like the flu’s last parting kiss – the final Fuck You.

After much contemplation (because my Dayquiled brain could barely make decisions), I decided to attend a Restorative Sound Healing Yoga workshop.  I was vaguely concerned that I was making the wrong decision.  However, from what I knew of Restorative Yoga I felt that a couple of hours lying on the ground with blankets, listening to soothing music wasn’t the worst thing I could do.

I’m a big believer in natural healing.  Not that I’m entirely for homeopathic treatments, but it makes sense to me that nature can provide solutions, as we are of it.  Often we turn our backs on what Mother Nature has to offer in our own hubris, and I like to lie with her occasionally.  Anyway, who doesn’t want their Mom when they’re ill?  And so, I drug myself to this Sound Healing Yoga workshop.  I figured if I started to feel really bad I could just leave.

At first I was pretty nervous.  My stomach was still talking to me, and I didn’t want to sneeze into the silence; then the instructors starting talking.

“Sound is a powerful healing tool because it is vibrational in nature and everything and everyone has a vibration.  Every organ, every bone, every cell in the body has its own resonant frequency. Together they make up a composite frequency like the instruments of an orchestra. When one organ in the body is out of tune it will affect the whole body, especially since the human body is about 90% water, and water is a great carrier of sound.  That’s why music is such a large part of our lives, and why it’s used in commercials, jingles and to express – our bodies respond to the vibrations and pull them in.  That’s why music can be soothing or it’s opposite.”

Everything they were saying made sense to me.  I had taken some Auditory classes in college and was somewhat familiar with Nada Yoga, or the Yoga of sound.  Nada Yoga had always fascinated me because in Spanish Nada means, “nothing,” and when there is a blank space, it can be filled with anything.  In Nada Yoga this means the unstruck sound that sits deep within us; this is supposed to be our essence, our true, pure sound.

And, hypothetical speaking, if a sound sits deep within us then like all sounds couldn’t it get out of key?

So we were told to take Savasana pose, the final resting pose in Yoga, which was the same horizontal position I had been in all week; except there was a cushion beneath my knees, so my lower back could release, and I was lying on a Yoga mat.  A blanket covered me and another was placed behind my head.  There was even a pillow for my eyes.

“This is supposed to be spa Yoga,” the instructors told us.

One walked around playing singing Tibetan bowls and rainmakers.  Another came back and massaged Aryuvedic oil into my neck.  I was finally able to breathe deeply, which hadn’t been possible all week.

A third instructor struck tuning forks and placed on them on the unseen meridians of my body, and they vibrated all the way from my lower back to the top of my head.  I didn’t cough or sniffle for three hours.  My chapped lips and red nose thanked me, as I rose from the ground, two hours later, feeling much better than I had when I went in.

We are oceans, of water and feeling, and we wave back and forth to one another.  In sickness the tide is low, the water is still, and we want someone, anything to rock us back to health.