Karma: a novel

"The rape, the unpredictability of the drugs, the thirst, starvation, and isolation had to be a method to break me,. I tried to remain strong emotionally, and tired to encourage myself. I tried to adhere to the main objective of staying alive. I replaced the tape on the window, and then dealt with the darkness." (excerpt from Karma, by Nacy Deville)

This is a book that's extremely hard to talk about, but is one that has rocked me to my very core. Even though a fiction it isn't faraway from the truth when it comes to the plight of those who find themselves trapped in the world of human trafficking. Hard to believe this STILL goes on in this day and age. Affirms that we have a long way to go in this world. I finished this book several weeks ago and it still haunts me to this day. The reason? Well for one, the author doesn't hold back. Not at all. She lays it all out, and well, some of the scenes in the book were hard to take. The book centers around a woman being abducted and forced into this dark underground world. A few times I had to put it down and take a break. Nonetheless, I got through it and glad I did. Read it. I really can't say more. If anything, it will raise your awareness around human trafficking. We can no longer live in a world where it is accepted to use living beings, human or otherwise, as a commodity for our own selfish needs. 

For What Binds Us

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they've been set down --
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

 

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

 

as all flesh
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest --

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.

 

 - Jane Hirschfield -

 

(Of Gravity & Angels)

 

Sharing

Do I bore you with my poetry? Haha. Sorry, but over the past several years I've become a fan. Can't say I've always been one, but for some reason it happened. The following poem a dear friend sent to me. I love that. Thank you, E! 

I've been feeling multitudes lately. I don't understand why I waver between utter confusion and knowing at the same time. The month of June has brought with it an abundance of light. I've been taking pictures again! Yay! Then again, I've been feeling this weight bearing down on me, not sure what or why it is there. Since being busy I've abandoned my stream of conscious writing. Feel the need to pick it up again. Haven't been sleeping well. Strange that it is light when I go to bed and light again when I wake up. I don't know if I will ever get used to this! However, surviving winter in Sweden comes with its reward, the Spring and Summer. Absolutely beautiful, really. 

My mind has been more active than normal. A bit unsettling. With that, I feel better equipped. Observing the rise and fall of my thought patterns. Even in the mist of news that pulls the rug from under me I am able to reside into some type of inner calmness. Amazing how that happens. Then again, I can say that now, but who knows what tomorrow will bring. I just might flip out, haha. Anyway, more later. Enjoy the poem. 

The Faces at Braga

In monastery darkness

by the light of one flashlight

the old shrine room waits in silence

While above the door

we see the terrible figure,

fierce eyes demanding, "Will you step through?"

And the old monk leads us,

bent back nudging blackness

prayer beads in the hand that beckons.

We light the butter lamps

and bow, eyes blinking in the

pungent smoke, look up without a word,

see faces in meditation,

a hundred faces carved above,

eye lines wrinkled in the hand held light.

Such love in solid wood!

Taken from the hillsides and carved in silence

they have the vibrant stillness of those who made them.

Engulfed by the past

they have been neglected, but through

smoke and darkness they are like the flowers

we have seen growing

through the dust of eroded slopes,

then slowly opening faces turned toward the mountain.

Carved in devotion

their eyes have softened through age

and their mouths curve through delight of the carver's hand.

If only our own faces

would allow the invisible carver's hand

to bring the deep grain of love to the surface.

If only we knew

as the carver knew, how the flaws

in the wood led his searching chisel to the very core,

we would smile, too

and not need faces immobilized

by fear and the weight of things undone.

When we fight with our failing

we ignore the entrance to the shrine itself

and wrestle with the guardian, fierce figure on the side of good.

And as we fight

our eyes are hooded with grief

and our mouths are dry with pain.

If only we could give ourselves

to the blows of the carver's hands,

the lines in our faces would be the trace lines of rivers

feeding the sea

where voices meet, praising the features

of the mountain and the cloud and the sky.

Our faces would fall away

until we, growing younger toward death

every day, would gather all our flaws in celebration

to merge with them perfectly,

impossibly, wedded to our essence,

full of silence from the carver's hands.

(David Whyte, Where Many Rivers Meet)

Climb

"Silence is beautiful, not awkward. The human tendency to be afraid of something beautiful is awkward."   - Elliot Kay

Sometimes the climb is overwhelming. I've felt it on many occasions. Finding myself in a deep hole wondering how in the hell will I manage to climb myself out of this one? The past several years since starting this blog have brought immense change and experience, and at the same time, a thread of knowing that has always stayed with me. A constant. If there is one thing the practice of yoga has brought to my life is a sustained connection to that constant. To the fluctuations of my own mind, to the constant change and contrast of my external life. Settling into the highs and the lows have instilled that the pulse of life is ever changing, morphing, expanding, contracting. That is the one thing I can come to expect. But, is it not true that the more things change, the more things stay the same? Gosh, it's all paradox.

Lately, I've been contemplating my own mortality. Morbid I know, hahaha, but for some reason it has popped into my consciousness. Reflecting on the fragility of life. This sense has compelled me to stop wasting time on trivial things. Essentially, we always have the answers, trusting it is another story. To my amazement that wisdom is always there . . . waiting. I mean, wow, in my case it has taken eternal patience, hahaha. No kidding.

I can't say much has come easy for me. Arduous could be a word for it. But often, I realize much of the limitations have been bound in my own mind. Those chains seems to be coming loose in time. It's a nice feeling. To feel settled inside myself. Not totally there, but deeper nonetheless.

Each little step doesn't have to be in vain. Each step brings me closer in. Each step reveals something new. It's that that makes it interesting. Who knows what will be inside the package once I remove all the covering, that's the best part! In the meantime, I can savour each part of the process.