What are you Really Thinking During Yoga? It’s just a funny–or is it? It took me a long time to find peace and quiet in yoga. Anyway, that’s this week’s entry on the Yoga blog. My Thanksgiving gift is What Does Anyone Want–a fall poem about the intense beauty of fall burning pledges into lovers’ hearts. Really? I have to wonder why anyone would write poetry to get clear and to transmit understanding. Is poetry encryption or distillation? Or is it more like freeze-drying words. Maybe it’s just a treasure hunt. But every now and then that’s how words come to me.
Are you getting curious about PDX Playwrights’offerings at Fertile Ground 2014?
The Advocate–the Lewis & Clark Law School magazine wrote a lovely article about my recent work in Cambodia. You can take a look here.
The amazing, life-changing adventure in SE Asia BLOG will continue to be available and you can always get there with the BLOG button. I’m rereading it myself to try and get a handle on the experience. There may be a few more posts that need to get written. Feel free to suggest things you want expanded. So far I have 28 posts from the trip (yes, I know they number up to 27 but there’s a 2a–back when I had a different idea about how it would all work.)
And this, this little potato, really this is the secret of Chanukah. How the perfectly ordinary, so common among us, shines with greatness in the lights of hope, happiness, family, food and song.
A holiday weekend funny. This little video is probably no exaggeration–at least in some of the early days of yoga practice. And then, in the end, that age-old quesion–who IS the actual sociopath who leaves during shavasana.
Parties of the first and second part:
Whereof two bile ducts agree to be stingy;
two hearts to pour generous;
tour ears pledge to listen more than two tongues wag;
tell tales and re remember.
Suddenly, other parts of me required unfolding and oxygen. I had to explore right here inside, even though visas and maps were tricky to come by. “Magnificent” helped me stretch and circulate blood through numbed extremities and circumvented pathways.
She could close every comment, every argument. Last words were her specialty: last words and stage whispers. She could keep a list a mile long. She could drink scotch and laugh with the men. And with the Bitch, I was funny and glib. With her, I had a context, a ‘tude, a style. With the Bitch boa wrapped around my shoulders, nothing could hurt me. My stride was, sexy, witty, and impermeable.