Hot Tea and Mid-Morning Yoga

Leading my friends in yoga has been a wonderful experience for me. My mind. my heart, stretches itself even farther in my meditation when I take the responsibility of aiding another in a similar meditation upon myself. As we lay in Corpse pose, a traditional yoga ending pose, I allowed my mind to drift towards those bodies laying around me. I could hear so much when I let my thoughts loose from their usual egocentric track. Their breathing, slow and even. The pulse of blood through a nearby wrist. But more, I could hear even farther. Traffic lulled by a few blocks away, people chatted a few yards away, I felt as though I could even hear each single leaf in the wind.
Something was in the way though, preventing my perception. I just wanted that rhythmic interruption to cease. And I realized that it was my own heartbeat that I perceived to be impeding my abilities to know the world around me. Just as I had become very thankful for my mind and my new understanding of it, I, too, felt new love of my heart. It was very much like my heart had grown in size to accommodate a space to love itself. And yet I could not prevent one philosophical thought from clinging to my brain cells: Could it be that my own life prevented my ability love and understand others as I ought?
Do thoughts of myself distract from thoughts of others? Certainly. But this is natural and there is nothing wrong with that. One cannot care for another unless one has cared for oneself. There must be a balance. And, perhaps, the body affords yet one more bit of wisdom for us. our heart beats and we hear only ourselves, and it is followed by silence where we see the world and others. The physical heart pounds out a rhythm: Beat. Beat. Silence. Beat. Beat. Silence.
Perhaps the metaphorical heat ought to beat a similar rhythm: Beat (meet my needs). Beat (observe the world around me). Silence (be selfless).

A Beautiful Mind

Laying in bed one night, my mind began to wander. My imagination whipped around dazzlingly and furiously before my mind's eye and suddenly came to a complete halt. Out of the chaos, the day-dreams, the brilliant colors and beautiful music exploded a cavern of silence. The movement itself did not cease, however it was pressed into the background and the periphery. There was but one thought that hung in this hall of serenity: how frightfully thankful I was for my mind.
My mind has been such a wonderful home to me. It is a wonderful, mysterious, and tremendously beautiful landscape for which my soul to traverse. To explore the recesses of my own mind--to delve into the unexplored caves and journey through the sun-licked fields to the distant mountains--is the most wonderful experience I can imagine. It is both fueled by and fuels my desires to explore and understand the reality outside of me. My mind is a beautiful gift for which I am inextricably thankful.

A Brief Window into the Past

This morning marked a very special occasion in my city. A time capsule from 1959 (The centennial celebration of my city) was finally opened. In it were the memories of a fun-loving small town. The photographs of smiling men dressed in truly old-fashioned garb with grins spread wide across their face filled my heart with a sort of longing. How wonderful it would be to live in a community like that--where 400 volunteers are easily wrangled to put on a pageant about the city's history. Just to live in a place where community is so strong, that would be a wonderful experience.
I was struck, though, by another aspect of this window into the past. A letter from one Mr. Carlson to his future family was read aloud. In it he discussed the necessity of going beyond what is in front of us, and taking that one step further to go beyond the beyond. We must go beyond ourselves to live in love and community with each other and we must go beyond our circumstances to build the world in which we live into a better place. He sought to impress upon his family the importance of enjoying the simply things in life: "fresh fruit", "a light breeze" and the like. But it was one of his final comments that really reached to my heart:
"We can not create. We can not destroy. We can only transform."
My sister and I had quite the debate on the veracity of this statement. She disagreed with it citing the atom bomb and our ability to clone. However, from a chemistry stance, matter is neither created nor destroyed. We can change the world, but what have we really changed? nothing but the order of the atoms. We merely transform their order and form. From my sister's point of view, this transformation has destroyed one thing and created another. In the end, we are both right. From a philosophical perspective, we will both still be right.

Mr. Carlson has given me quite a lot to ponder.

The Sun Still Shines

When life presses in from every angle, I solace myself with the fact that the sun still shines. When situations become unbearably confusing, I know that the sky is still blue. My sanity can remain intact. No matter what I say, there is nothing within my power to change the course of the sun. I can call west north, but what have I accomplished? I have changed nothing that matters, just the label--which in itself has no power.
My troubles are real and important, but they do not define my life. What I must overcome does not tell me who I am. How I overcome is the proof of my character. Who I am matters. What I do is significant. Each action affects another life, and every life matters. I can change a life, I can change the world, but no matter how hare I try, some things are beyond me. I am not God. That position has already been filled. His love is more constant than the shining sun, yet He cares for each distress in my life.
So you see, when life presses in from every angle, I solace myself with the fact that the sun still shines.

Phoenix

"Like a Phoenix from the ashes, I will rise again..."

There is an inescapable pull between humanity and the idea of the Phoenix. We can't help but be moved by the majestic, powerful creature that bursts into, and is consumed by, flame and yet whose story does not end there. From the pile of ashes, there is a new birth. In a graphic illustration, the concept of life from death, beginnings from ends, and hope after tragedy begin to truly make sense to the human heart and mind. Practically from birth, we are fed phrases about hope:
"As long as there is life, there is hope" - Cicero
"Rags to riches"
"There's always a glimmer of hope"
"Hope springs eternal"
"There's a light at the end of the tunnel"

In our minds, we all understand the power of hope. But until we are faced with our own life catching fire and burning into ashes, and we are faced with the choice to rise victoriously from the ashes or simply to demure and die, we will never understand quite how hope makes us human. Until then, our minds will never fully understand what our hearts have always known and our hearts will never understand the power of what they hold.