tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55509939111020041322024-03-18T19:52:42.852-07:00Yoga NijnMare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-9404500386037931052014-08-13T11:52:00.000-07:002014-08-13T11:52:47.261-07:00So I doThere are several options: 1). This is just the aftermath of the infection. Patience. 2). This is an allergic reaction to the lamotrigine. Potentially dangerous. 3). This is what happens when you sing too much for too long. Stupid.<br />
<br />
It has been over a month now. My throat feels weird. When I talk, it hurts afterwards.
I wear a sign that reads “can not speak”. I avoid people. I feel a burden to others. I feel afraid that my throat will never get better. I feel stupid for possibly straining my voice. I feel worried about lamotrigine allergy. I feel I am not assertive enough when it comes to talking to doctors. I feel this is all my fault, no matter what the cause is.<br />
<br />
My throat takes me to Nelson, where the doctor says that saunas are good. So I go to the pool and buy a great dress at the Sally Ann. The day after, my throat takes me to the cute town of Kaslo, where the psychiatrist says it might be the lamotrigine. With the prospect of bloodwork, Linda and I enjoy a wonderful lunch overlooking our lake from the other side.<br />
<br />
When my throat seems on the mend, I start the course I am enrolled in. Recertification for Hidden Language. One glorious day I happily make collages, and enjoy two Hidden Language classes. During the second class, my throat starts to feel like a razor blade. I cry my way into the little bridge. When I ask my body, it simply says: STOP.<br />
<br />
So I do.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"My mind doesn't do that usually"</td></tr>
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-20947902617584349712014-08-13T11:35:00.000-07:002014-08-13T11:35:58.086-07:00Just like the moonThe moon is round and magnificent as I walk to the space
that used to hold the Temple. Only the foundation is left. A platform. How tiny
it looks, and how beautiful the view. This calls for celebration. One toe, two
toes and Francesca and I are on the platform. When we do the Mother of Light
dance together I cannot help but think: This is the best dance platform ever!
All ashramites have been invited to design a new temple. My new Temple doesn’t
have any edges. No ceilings, no walls, just light & space. Just like the
moon. </div>
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<br />
(Meanwhile, in the fairy garden...)<br />
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-86560233996461840922014-07-16T17:35:00.000-07:002014-07-16T17:35:14.874-07:00And we don't like fire<div class="MsoNormal">
Moving from -20<span style="font-family: "High Tower Text";">˚</span>
in winter, to downpours in spring, we swiftly reach the exhilirating joys of +42<span style="font-family: "High Tower Text";">˚</span> in summer. Of course this
heatwave conveniently coincides with family week, where we double our numbers
to 120, including 40 kids. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I keep noticing how I tell people that ‘I hate kids’. But
actually I don’t. Kids can be a lot of fun. I like the way they look at things.
Their curiosity and laughter. However, a bunch of kids all at once, is too much
energy for me. Like a birthdayparty without escape. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
This year I decide to face my fears, and interact instead of
hide. I take my ‘harp to the kidszone and get involved in all sorts of
make-believe. With the professional musician daddies we play music on the stage
the next day. The kids dance around and sing Twinkle Little Star. I love
playing music with them; the kids, but mostly their dads.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
When my throat starts to hurt, my body conveniently remembers
an ear ache that has been lingering for weeks. Throat and ear quickly merge
into a pain that declares me sick for the rest of family week. In bed I hear
the kids yell at the beach, and cover the window with a blanket as to keep the
heat and noise out. Neither of them work. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
My fellow Ganesh-dwellers get more exhausted as time passes.
I only see the meal-end of family week: Bland mac & cheese, pizza and
pancakes. Kidsfood. On the last night, I make an effort to go to the gala.
Sitting at the back, I keep my germs to myself. It is actually quite cute: ‘We
are faeries!’, ‘We are dragon slayers!’, ‘We are goddesses!’ Still I leave
early. Too much noise, too much fuss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Already in bed, I hear Nadia and Mie in the lake. For the
first time this week, I feel stable enough to clamber down the rocks and join
them. The water feels so good as we laugh and swim. And I know: Tomorrow I am
better!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tomorrow comes. And the
much-prayed-for rain has washed almost all the kids away. But not my sore
throat. Following ancient yogic tradition, I am to be quarantined until all
symptoms have ceased. In a community like ours infection spreads like wildfire.
And we don’t like fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMaoY22Mvs08yGXpaaXABO1yGkNmq4bgglPJuOB1jNV0ToS4-OTz3P9i4kkOup7whQERxg_113IFYEl-a0NYSKJFNzsvjltP4gNS1o-EMIn46IrPeGAYLi0C3UVhcxdPrTXiDb22w3mj3r/s1600/judithbabyharp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMaoY22Mvs08yGXpaaXABO1yGkNmq4bgglPJuOB1jNV0ToS4-OTz3P9i4kkOup7whQERxg_113IFYEl-a0NYSKJFNzsvjltP4gNS1o-EMIn46IrPeGAYLi0C3UVhcxdPrTXiDb22w3mj3r/s1600/judithbabyharp.jpg" height="459" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some kids do have great taste</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHABR7EbPXLu2h6-nxttn1W49FwSA4MrCb-hHaRpPiwMUxI6oq0_cHmZiXrrg4D76b5FFQnsz9SO5CzE4ogDHRa3JPrMTFN4asAorIlOEa8wl2nPHhAC-QsGc7a7xz-4EwnUSaV9dBeFTY/s1600/galaprep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHABR7EbPXLu2h6-nxttn1W49FwSA4MrCb-hHaRpPiwMUxI6oq0_cHmZiXrrg4D76b5FFQnsz9SO5CzE4ogDHRa3JPrMTFN4asAorIlOEa8wl2nPHhAC-QsGc7a7xz-4EwnUSaV9dBeFTY/s1600/galaprep.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kids Zone extravaganza</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobZKRhleqgmWjBAZy79CODr24ScN2rRyddI6xDYDTxU2irWvnPk9B_rRfiFJnDFPYk0anJK1D5mBkfnsKX7N-RDf61geKBDHWg-C4dYr2fOOeoCmMD1SS6C5Uynvd1Z-kbiQLh0QxcjF_/s1600/faeriequeen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobZKRhleqgmWjBAZy79CODr24ScN2rRyddI6xDYDTxU2irWvnPk9B_rRfiFJnDFPYk0anJK1D5mBkfnsKX7N-RDf61geKBDHWg-C4dYr2fOOeoCmMD1SS6C5Uynvd1Z-kbiQLh0QxcjF_/s1600/faeriequeen.jpg" height="640" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There be wizards</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyw6YT_MMjQDJg2emo73Gi0jwfXbyjiotrOkYPfLXgSI5A-fFYPZKQM9V9x0_LDwYht1KRsv0xkzVUWkiddVXVoyA-5otsU7D7dlWiYoYgNdAAslZfuA_ejwmmC3E9hWtZAfnXsnZe7p5/s1600/LightJudith.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyw6YT_MMjQDJg2emo73Gi0jwfXbyjiotrOkYPfLXgSI5A-fFYPZKQM9V9x0_LDwYht1KRsv0xkzVUWkiddVXVoyA-5otsU7D7dlWiYoYgNdAAslZfuA_ejwmmC3E9hWtZAfnXsnZe7p5/s1600/LightJudith.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">According to the Ganesh girls, being ill makes me look angelic</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP1qFudpG1Ef12d4aP1OFiNZh02IgK1s0Uth-7VUBHeKVS0QDMc-s6wxYlpw0cdpF9_DWSSuXuJAFp06JuiF9GiDNYjwY7H4kdbPyA-HhyphenhyphenTsa29gFgmXWwDPDImSuOQA7haHNXaqNjkfvx/s1600/P1010003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP1qFudpG1Ef12d4aP1OFiNZh02IgK1s0Uth-7VUBHeKVS0QDMc-s6wxYlpw0cdpF9_DWSSuXuJAFp06JuiF9GiDNYjwY7H4kdbPyA-HhyphenhyphenTsa29gFgmXWwDPDImSuOQA7haHNXaqNjkfvx/s1600/P1010003.JPG" height="442" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think they are starting to like eachother</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGU7nkOniXUP2r0FWDWnBn2WhWwz2AzJWufelCCuLrubEZ90y9aKSEoFKFcQ1DyQIIEnZioAua_yKLTyxJnqxVzMm3N24oOtm4JedWmQjdFiRS_QFZyU4PVDGlpuwJycF9FvIfMXoRmDsN/s1600/P1010010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGU7nkOniXUP2r0FWDWnBn2WhWwz2AzJWufelCCuLrubEZ90y9aKSEoFKFcQ1DyQIIEnZioAua_yKLTyxJnqxVzMm3N24oOtm4JedWmQjdFiRS_QFZyU4PVDGlpuwJycF9FvIfMXoRmDsN/s1600/P1010010.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Being sick isn't quite as bad with a view like this</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-50418103941760605682014-07-03T13:53:00.000-07:002014-07-03T13:54:38.281-07:00The best we canThere is something precious about living in community. I get to see
everyone everyday. On good days and bad days. In roles they love and roles they
hate. And I recognize how I can be enthusiastic and grumpy and goal-oriented
and playful and lazy and eager too. I try to learn from all parts they mirror. What
aspects of myself do I want to strengthen, what parts of me have served their
goal? Sometimes it’s hard. Fortunately there is something called “laughter”.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the fire we laugh a lot. There is lightness combined
with care. We ask each other how we are, and take time to truly listen. We meet
in sharing circles with the whole community, and are being updated about the
latest news: It took 48 hours for the fire to be out; the fire chief is inspecting
the temple; Swami Lalitananda is being interviewed… We have satsangs outside
and inside, sharing inspirational stories. Despite the sadness many people
feel, there is also a sense of adventure, paired with gratitude. We are all
still here. What will be next?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ashram is quickly heading into the busiest time at the
ashram: Summer. After the Strawberry Social kick off, we will be flooded with courses and retreat guests and visitors from
outside roaming the grounds, not to mention family week: 80 guests extra for 5 days,
of whom 40 kids. We don’t have a lot of people to do the work. But instead of
going into panic mode, the ashram does what it does best: Taking care of
people. Without the people, the work wouldn’t be done in the first place. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So for two weeks, we work 6 hours a day instead of our
normal 8. While many opt for sleep, exhausted as they are, I have some good
talks with people I love, play music, read books, go for walks, and even enjoy
a sundrenched swim with the girls. The garden is overflowing with weeds, the
toilets are getting dirty, dustbunnies are discovering the yogarooms, and we
learn to thrive in new and unforeseen ways. We simply do what we always do: The
best we can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBbE-FhHouctF5dmR9fDAUJemC6nJ8uqooRUalF0S4t0Kj-1IAiI3f3RDEl8IukliuUci1I4xEkGp7HMouzUI6nhs5H-0Nx96_rBlKEaTj9Qp5K7PnbMXA-5yYeyDYQ7SzihuEtPDhqJuQ/s1600/beachdinner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBbE-FhHouctF5dmR9fDAUJemC6nJ8uqooRUalF0S4t0Kj-1IAiI3f3RDEl8IukliuUci1I4xEkGp7HMouzUI6nhs5H-0Nx96_rBlKEaTj9Qp5K7PnbMXA-5yYeyDYQ7SzihuEtPDhqJuQ/s1600/beachdinner.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beach Dinner</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMG513LUelssFPwTdbuBz6G1RxnC6K6wdXXAQhUFgDnZ4AXSGsNpE4roUkob32jligvXy6emcy_tk0dlcgSNvTMMK9LkGXcm9HtkY_s7mndRs9hQqKoySKRKP-dNlQfalukit2s-_rOo5U/s1600/strawberries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMG513LUelssFPwTdbuBz6G1RxnC6K6wdXXAQhUFgDnZ4AXSGsNpE4roUkob32jligvXy6emcy_tk0dlcgSNvTMMK9LkGXcm9HtkY_s7mndRs9hQqKoySKRKP-dNlQfalukit2s-_rOo5U/s1600/strawberries.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prepping Strawberries</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXktqgId4CHIrFM6P87fU1WiRFQsasTnfLZn7wd_RSMOBp459ctTshhH5vYNnUbShjnyASVD1kVu32M2lJYqPUQPB0V4Ql3iyaDFIkyOqYa4oMYKa3JnIia9tR4VNmnAuCBgoYzsiWSR6t/s1600/aprons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXktqgId4CHIrFM6P87fU1WiRFQsasTnfLZn7wd_RSMOBp459ctTshhH5vYNnUbShjnyASVD1kVu32M2lJYqPUQPB0V4Ql3iyaDFIkyOqYa4oMYKa3JnIia9tR4VNmnAuCBgoYzsiWSR6t/s1600/aprons.jpg" height="450" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strawberry Servers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyIMxuIqw_EvVnatw23QHPqhlUy2pEa8ZNhAe4gqKHLDw0wKYBjU4tGCxvScrnAcvusG4_rI6Xpsngtm1-eekxtT2eTJ0wRTawgr6la709FsOmnmdwae2CvX8dAoHJS77vO2i0OaCjcb6/s1600/facepainting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyIMxuIqw_EvVnatw23QHPqhlUy2pEa8ZNhAe4gqKHLDw0wKYBjU4tGCxvScrnAcvusG4_rI6Xpsngtm1-eekxtT2eTJ0wRTawgr6la709FsOmnmdwae2CvX8dAoHJS77vO2i0OaCjcb6/s1600/facepainting.jpg" height="430" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Face painter extra-ordinaire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-57973522795518566042014-06-06T14:38:00.000-07:002014-06-06T14:38:36.530-07:00My Temple lies withinMy reflection day. A warm day. More precisely, hot. So hot that I keep on moving into the shade, my autoharp in tow. After dinner, still searching for the right melody, I notice fluorescent tops.
Is Amy afraid a car will hit her on her walk? And why is Swami Satyananda running? And then I become aware of the distinct smell in the air. It is not the burnpile.<br />
<br />
I hear something about the tipi and the firebrigade and go back home. I don’t want to be in the way.
From the deck I watch the beach. The smoke coming from the trees. The fuss of firehoses and pumps. Somehow I am not that touched. This can happen on a hot day. This is what all the firedrills were for. But then I look again and see the flames, and realise. It is not the tipi or the trees around. It is the Temple.<br />
<br />
The Temple Swami Radha dreamt about as a child, the Temple we chant in every night, the giant tortoise, holding us all safe in her belly. And now I am touched, and afraid. And so I chant, for all the firefighters and support, and all the water of the lake to extinguish this fire.<br />
<br />
But as I chant I begin to realize that even though the Temple can burn and the ashram can vanish, horrible this might be, the teachings are right here, inside of me. I can rely on the mantra, the divine light invocation. I can gather the facts and do a straightwalk. I can take a walk with my senses or have a cup of tea with Divine Mother. The fire serves as a reminder. It is not about the outside. My temple lies within.<br />
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-50863151658480172322014-05-22T13:29:00.001-07:002014-05-22T13:29:59.528-07:00A large & wonderful safetynetIn the Springlight everything looks so much brighter. Plants grow and little groundhogs whack their tails, as the lake glistens and glistens. I finally join the ranks of the wear-your-payamapants-all-day-long-ashramites, sporting glossy green Boutique pants to match my glossy blue toenails.
<br><br>
In my new home, the boilerroom of Ganesh, I feel like living on a boat, water lapping all around. Playing music on the deck. Showering with a view & all sorts of bugs. Soon more people will move in, but for now, I immensely enjoy my private residence at the lake.
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KgsdHSbkKvs1o_aQxS-YgL9he6cJnRBfcTIO-kql1YtVSG4CrhkGsCdr9JOpHfOj7Ydtcu_ZPD4J1X4iEo2ZBD2G0TjlWGzZ1wgFQ-f_eaViXuDIL3cxxdIpWSEQoE6wSmXBzw59NQI4/s1600/P1010001.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KgsdHSbkKvs1o_aQxS-YgL9he6cJnRBfcTIO-kql1YtVSG4CrhkGsCdr9JOpHfOj7Ydtcu_ZPD4J1X4iEo2ZBD2G0TjlWGzZ1wgFQ-f_eaViXuDIL3cxxdIpWSEQoE6wSmXBzw59NQI4/s320/P1010001.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd_K6mI4OnJVoN4BO9BY1DKd9Bp5eO3R5A1awguzSi834qe9n7pErxlnCUu7i9PwZPcTDzEslhI_fRKxWD57jLGOl43L2V5_i52yCCbKdGjfPwQFFu8GrBm4HNn09Pg6NTaNRCJdJvaWlC/s1600/P1010002.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd_K6mI4OnJVoN4BO9BY1DKd9Bp5eO3R5A1awguzSi834qe9n7pErxlnCUu7i9PwZPcTDzEslhI_fRKxWD57jLGOl43L2V5_i52yCCbKdGjfPwQFFu8GrBm4HNn09Pg6NTaNRCJdJvaWlC/s320/P1010002.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLvgZvtO8AlpQPTnrlVp-VN_TeHHEDbErNlFEQCjB38ndEtyDW8QaM5mhLS3_Z1ew5jFOQGwW6hbM2oan3KElVPSrQeDGMkQJUatFBCEvPOMZPeRiIwi7emeExTslVQGhC3zZV75mdNM1W/s1600/P1010007.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLvgZvtO8AlpQPTnrlVp-VN_TeHHEDbErNlFEQCjB38ndEtyDW8QaM5mhLS3_Z1ew5jFOQGwW6hbM2oan3KElVPSrQeDGMkQJUatFBCEvPOMZPeRiIwi7emeExTslVQGhC3zZV75mdNM1W/s320/P1010007.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0ihtbCh8VxcqXexgIfXN2fFPcEhD7yvdWZYsxY6wkCj_SV4KZ8P7JUrjEm3zXr-enWgpOAi5-rqqDL9eiCsbxwNZhvqw2fFf9ji0wAGw17vZuvfXYqhqe2zaVthNSJVUm1GIEEEC0zuK/s1600/P1010011.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0ihtbCh8VxcqXexgIfXN2fFPcEhD7yvdWZYsxY6wkCj_SV4KZ8P7JUrjEm3zXr-enWgpOAi5-rqqDL9eiCsbxwNZhvqw2fFf9ji0wAGw17vZuvfXYqhqe2zaVthNSJVUm1GIEEEC0zuK/s320/P1010011.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxOaafHy4pjJkOOgn1VKljWw42P9_3zGLpQvVGAJ1bXGcA6e_ybzZSFyk_sd0vZwihI2oihaZ2v2NDXCOtEiQUeoDuTYJQ_88-CQGbUgYBSqpypz9Qy_BLLi9fQEnxnOssMLwkPc82rJt/s1600/P1010014.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxOaafHy4pjJkOOgn1VKljWw42P9_3zGLpQvVGAJ1bXGcA6e_ybzZSFyk_sd0vZwihI2oihaZ2v2NDXCOtEiQUeoDuTYJQ_88-CQGbUgYBSqpypz9Qy_BLLi9fQEnxnOssMLwkPc82rJt/s320/P1010014.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMjFpiGHVpFAuhj6V_Wh916ESwuJdUrJ9-foWfgwHV90VI_dhDplHzu9gb2VhUQQTmBPcinWH-eZshjXl7JaDJZ8lgHAYaGFjcR96I566UuGLGJdtZI66M75ubvn7c83xzyrGVL_fETQX/s1600/P1010017.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMjFpiGHVpFAuhj6V_Wh916ESwuJdUrJ9-foWfgwHV90VI_dhDplHzu9gb2VhUQQTmBPcinWH-eZshjXl7JaDJZ8lgHAYaGFjcR96I566UuGLGJdtZI66M75ubvn7c83xzyrGVL_fETQX/s320/P1010017.JPG" /></a>
<br>
In karma yoga, my main task gets switched: No more entering registrations, no more awkward phone calls or painted on smiles; just the computer and me, working on the wiki in Shakti. Added bonus: Amy & Andrej. Not to mention Forestkitty.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mF5mFLhRdUKaPsl-7bAjih2rPGOifFitjRE7N5g_RBKPitaEKlP3xoHygfg2lOPAcMViGSWBGLo4IVQ0fbYZgqYRrQAenw2HdWCv63xcW7-HaXjKrWaEIcnq33tbrFlRj6pTASbZG0Yl/s1600/trampoline-kitty-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mF5mFLhRdUKaPsl-7bAjih2rPGOifFitjRE7N5g_RBKPitaEKlP3xoHygfg2lOPAcMViGSWBGLo4IVQ0fbYZgqYRrQAenw2HdWCv63xcW7-HaXjKrWaEIcnq33tbrFlRj6pTASbZG0Yl/s320/trampoline-kitty-1.jpg" /></a></div>
In our women’s class, I clamber up the mountainside for a meditation. Wobbly at times, I am steady in the light. I don’t want to come down, but realise that that’s where my class is and lessons are learned. Moving back down, I fall and hurt myself. Though it’s a tiny wound, I get help from many.
<br>
So I guess I will keep on clambering mountains to enjoy the sun, before I lose my balance and fall and start again. Fortunately I have a large & wonderful safetynet.
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWO5r39Pthrs_YJm03oNjzXyMEoz3RBG2hEAjMtPgtL83_qjukXqa5gmsLCxKSOkiDPwxB6PXH9l0xt3WfKPYteUOmP_Bd0deIcNDYlKGKOdHBaZQ1ELnkkIRPd9RTUeAXVcHOQ3WHxoWW/s1600/P1010008.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWO5r39Pthrs_YJm03oNjzXyMEoz3RBG2hEAjMtPgtL83_qjukXqa5gmsLCxKSOkiDPwxB6PXH9l0xt3WfKPYteUOmP_Bd0deIcNDYlKGKOdHBaZQ1ELnkkIRPd9RTUeAXVcHOQ3WHxoWW/s320/P1010008.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjel8r7eVjX8RiGnmvALHakbNMSaS62mHBITN-dHpN6VGMMhLvQOVEQTWEvQ9acPHxPuIFJBRhHsbyNdpt5ZcLocj4JFrmwHKzv81ZJEpF03-84cAWMbbDSFAV5rGOho8InsVlhyahPEbHn/s1600/P1010018.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjel8r7eVjX8RiGnmvALHakbNMSaS62mHBITN-dHpN6VGMMhLvQOVEQTWEvQ9acPHxPuIFJBRhHsbyNdpt5ZcLocj4JFrmwHKzv81ZJEpF03-84cAWMbbDSFAV5rGOho8InsVlhyahPEbHn/s320/P1010018.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ok3tmSKqx6Dd5cCd8DQQU0rkdbW_fpXnPkReX2gwG9b658mjRM1YHjSD2gFJL2yqTBZkWhJVCCiXK07GSDLAhNAOvku9RQPyPlFJ98L0Fx3ihvFqtC1zfPFzSkEJ45gRXCEOSoOpAfIX/s1600/P1010019.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ok3tmSKqx6Dd5cCd8DQQU0rkdbW_fpXnPkReX2gwG9b658mjRM1YHjSD2gFJL2yqTBZkWhJVCCiXK07GSDLAhNAOvku9RQPyPlFJ98L0Fx3ihvFqtC1zfPFzSkEJ45gRXCEOSoOpAfIX/s320/P1010019.JPG" /></a>
Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-69215650843535324432014-05-10T18:47:00.000-07:002014-05-10T18:47:41.663-07:00A clear case of OCDA great thing about living at the ashram is experiencing
things I never would have otherwise. Like raking through the huge fire with
Eva, our faces covered bankrobber style. Or politely telling an older Indian
man that I do not want to watch Youtube videos with him. Or waking up at 5am
because of the turkeys.
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
What is amazing too, is that when we decide it might be a
good thing to check on my medication with a psychiatrist, three days later I am
sitting in front of her, in the mini clinic a 10 minute drive away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She seems nice and knowleadgable, until she confesses: I
have a mild version of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), and it is my
specialism. Now I don’t want to be one of those specialists who sees their
specialism everywhere but I really think you have an OCD. You should definitely
read up on it. 75% is probably irrelevant for you (controlling behaviors,
counting, compulsive handwashing… which all can be very devastating &
disruptive), but the rest will surely hit the mark. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yes I do judge myself, and am sensitive to what others
might think, and I don’t do well with criticism and even worse in conflict. I
sometimes even straighten out a painting. Still I feel like I have stepped into
some cheap American self-help book. I politely sit through her examples and
well-meant advice, but in my mind I think: 25% sounds pretty normal to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once she is finished I tell her I don’t see the OCD in me.
She seems disappointed. I should really give it some thought. Then she asks
whether I ever get depressed without having negative and worrisome thoughts
before, and I say yes, I can just wake up feeling bad, no idea where it came
from. Hmm. Maybe you are bipolar after all... Fortunately she knows about
medication too, and that’s what I came for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I leave the clinic I wonder whether I should have said
different things in the conversation. Had I been too meek for my $200? Should I
have been more persistent? And there in the moment I see it: Thinking back to
what I could have done better (Ruminating! Obsessing!) A clear case of OCD. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I return to my room in the evening, I can barely open
the door. And then I remember, I was ‘reorganizing’. Putting stuff in the
Boutique. It is great seeing others wear my donations. Amber with the orange
scarf, Tanin with the maroon tuque, Penelope in the blue chequered shirt. I
casually navigate the chaos to reach my bed. But I cannot sleep: I have to wait
until the numbers on my clock line up with the freckles on my skin. And that
might take a while. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTU4Wr3Ea2zXu5_IlT3GwNmPttDiFFE6PNBapLiIaAtrbOX-KRe3kREd6vqd-sHU0BwnoCTEPh13J9BvD4LXv5d3YAzWVD5y4xHD6cMMROnS_r29JSg-4yyaZVd9soUeGZAfba0TXFOZjk/s1600/baby-geese-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTU4Wr3Ea2zXu5_IlT3GwNmPttDiFFE6PNBapLiIaAtrbOX-KRe3kREd6vqd-sHU0BwnoCTEPh13J9BvD4LXv5d3YAzWVD5y4xHD6cMMROnS_r29JSg-4yyaZVd9soUeGZAfba0TXFOZjk/s1600/baby-geese-3.jpg" height="418" width="640" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwY9fFPspO4MepUFvchH4HghI0d7d01W2rKpO3XgPaxcBjdoaV7VJzUb_lpn31r___CMafPtFEy3z7mBJJGqKnPCRSHd95DgLG8dm717u7TA4wbc95ehhJyIpAqJjZq_YqNdWLRzQk0mOv/s1600/baby-geese-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwY9fFPspO4MepUFvchH4HghI0d7d01W2rKpO3XgPaxcBjdoaV7VJzUb_lpn31r___CMafPtFEy3z7mBJJGqKnPCRSHd95DgLG8dm717u7TA4wbc95ehhJyIpAqJjZq_YqNdWLRzQk0mOv/s1600/baby-geese-1.jpg" height="418" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Geese!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-28628465294945958662014-03-20T12:27:00.000-07:002014-03-20T12:27:04.055-07:00I am just illA little mouse sits on the boardwalk to Mandala house. As I
sit next to it, it doesn’t move. It just looks at me, heart beating fast. There
is no blood, no obvious wounds. But it is clear something is wrong. Why don’t
you run little mouse? It isn’t safe in the middle of the path. When Francesca
joins, we gather it might have been stepped on. She picks it up to put it near
the herb garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been tracking my thoughts lately. Each time I say or
think something negative, I move my bracelet from wrist to wrist. I am amazed
at how neutral and even positive I am. The gloomy girl I thought I was, laughs
and enjoys a lot. But when I finally do go down, it is not my thoughts but my
body that goes. My chest and throat feel constricted. Is the air getting more
dense? I need space.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I muster all my energy to join the bhajan blast but things go
downhill from there. Simple questions create fog and my eyes just want to cry. I
cry on my way home, at the lake, waking up, at meal times, during karma yoga, in
my room, throughout satsang. People come up to me to hug and support, and I
just cry some more. Negative judgements start flooding in as I keep on
breathing through urges of self harm and suicidal ideation. I am loved, I am
strong, I just have to wait this out. I wear my silence badge as a coat of
armor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The little mouse didn’t have obvious signs of damage. I
don’t have obvious signs of damage. Physically there is nothing wrong with me,
but in my head of course there is. But aren’t neurotransmitters physical too?
Someone the other day was talking of bipolarity as “disease”, making large
gestures for the quotation marks. Later apologies were made. ‘I didn’t realise you
were next to me.’ At the time I said, ‘no offence taken’, and meant it. But it
lingered in my mind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For here I am: able bodied, smart. I teach, I have a PhD. But
obviously I am not trying hard enough. Obviously I am willing myself down the
drain. And though I know that is not true I sometimes wish that mental illness
would be visible. So I could remind myself and others: I am doing the best I
can. I am just ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-22709135051452767232014-03-16T13:08:00.001-07:002014-03-16T13:34:10.423-07:00And I singI love the snow. I love its pure whiteness. I love how it
covers everything in a blanket of muffled sound. I love how it is crisp under
my boots. I love how I can bury myself in it. But truth be told, enough is enough. Hibernation is not
meant to last. The butterflies I followed to the ashram, have all disappeared.
I am awaiting new directions.
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In the dark winter months, my mind has grown darker,
following old patterns of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fear. Crossing
the half time mark of my stay here, my mind starts to project beyond the
ashram. Telling me I have not invested in security,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have not invested in economic stability. Having burned my bridges, I have to start from scratch. Afraid, I bury myself a
little deeper, distancing myself from the world.</div>
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But when the sun comes out, and the snow melts, I start to
remember. How could I forget the pure beauty of the lake and mountains? How
could I forget strength and support? How could I forget that tiny seeds grow
into nourishing plants? For I have invested in my self. In my own truth, my own
strength, my own wisdom, my own joy. The seeds I have planted here, will grow a
lifetime.They might not be visible. I am not peace itself, I cannot
levitate, my emotions can be a bumpy ride. But I try again every day. </div>
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And I sing. </div>
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-49153115423901259452014-01-16T10:48:00.001-08:002014-01-16T10:48:51.718-08:00ShiftI once went on a yoga retreat in the desert, women-only. We
stretched and hiked, laughed and soaked in the hot tub overlooking the empty
sand. On my departure I was asked: Why don’t you become a yoga-teacher
yourself? I smiled and left. A far-fetched dream, a different world.
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<div class="MsoNormal">
When we sit in a circle introducing ourselves on the first
night of the three-month Yoga Development Course, I feel vulnerable. Who am I
to teach? Who am I to represent this lineage? I see myself through their eyes:
A weird girl with a funny accent. Unstable, incapable. But is it really their
eyes I am looking through? </div>
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How can I shift my focus? </div>
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From head to heart. From study to experience. From knowing
to loving. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As I enter the Radha room, fresh snow has turned the world
into a dream. I sit besides Swami Matananda: Inspiring, warm, funny, human. I see
a group of seventeen people. Seventeen bodies. Stiff and limber. Tall and
small. Muscular and soft. Seventeen people embarking on a journey to
themselves. Seventeen people and a tiny dog. I am not here to teach. I am not
here to lead the way. I am here to hold the light, so they may explore and find.
</div>
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Sitting on my yoga mat; the snow in my back, a Swami at my
side, the students in my sight; I realize that I am exactly where I need to be.
Exactly where I want to be. I open my mouth, and chant. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-16559503909507646102014-01-10T17:54:00.002-08:002014-01-10T17:56:34.244-08:002014? - Lightness & Trust<div class="MsoNormal">
While my whole being
screams for sleep and sanity, I tweak and twiddle in a frenzy of mock-genius. Yet somehow I manage to turn layer
upon layer of voice, autharp, clarinet and even drums into a true Sinterklaas present for my family: a mini folk festival. At the ashram I share some true Sinterklaas spiced cookies and frantic dice rolling. But as soon as Sinterklaas is off to Spain, I crash big time. It is almost reassuring to know I still have it in
me to hit rock bottom this hard.</div>
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I clamber out of bed when I feel slightly alive again. My
tears have all dried up and the scratches on my arms and legs will heal. As a
reward, I get to join Mie on the 13th to celebrate Santa Lucia. Dressed all in
white I follow her into the temple, holding a candle, practicing my best Danish
on a sweet song. </div>
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The month ends in an abundance of space and light:
Solstice bonfire in the snow, 5 Rhythms Dance, jolly outbursts
of song & dance, watching the highly ashram-inappropriate Cloud
Atlas, playing Citadels after hours, making Divine
Mothers out of clay,
laughing, skinny dipping in the freezing lake, teaching Kundalini Yoga
3HO style, sharing gifts of the heart,
bedtime conversations, music, empowering ritual on the beach, snow,
snow, snow, cuddles and candles and
chanting in the Temple into the New Year. Slightly exhausting yet highly
satisfying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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2014? - Lightness & trust. </div>
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<br />Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-4637374273305120662013-11-21T16:32:00.000-08:002013-11-21T16:32:23.693-08:00I Fly<div>
Halloween brings laughter, candy-apples and great costumes.
Being the lake myself, my favorites are Waldo (Bryn) and a deer (Amy). I even turn
out an expert face painter (be it non-symmetrical). In the evening, while most
people watch “As it is in Heaven”, a small group of die-hards meets to play “the
Game of Enlightenment”. Though I end up far from enlightened, it is great to
play a board game again. The evening is topped off with dance and I like it,
like it here. </div>
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Halloween moves into November, our planning and study month.
The ashram is filled with meetings on victories and problems, budgets and
income, ideals and reality. Fortunately I only have to attend a few, and can
focus on more important matters at hand: My 108 mini-collages. I get into a
rhythm of cutting magazines after satsang, and assembling collages before
breakfast. After sadly having left my summer residence, this is how I christen
my Buddha Loka room: Covering the entire place in paper scraps. Best part of
moving? Not having to pee in a bucket anymore…</div>
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Miraculously, I complete a week early, and have my next
project already lined up. Music of course. While my paper collages were
conveniently limited by the cardsize I set, Audacity allows me to add layer upon
layer of sound. Who knew I could harmonize so well with myself? New songs want
to be sung and turned into bits & bytes. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjqHDkHQ24_YIKGHHSrIof1ei-fwpRf_NnA_4QVQzdr-JmTeEmDkky9ra7Bj1rUvYgFpx7clOEyNOKtdmrhkPxS1o99BlDUeyJYgH7BGtA7JshJTb7uebkqUsmntPV9SevOX1gCFFZO0f/s1600/Harpie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjqHDkHQ24_YIKGHHSrIof1ei-fwpRf_NnA_4QVQzdr-JmTeEmDkky9ra7Bj1rUvYgFpx7clOEyNOKtdmrhkPxS1o99BlDUeyJYgH7BGtA7JshJTb7uebkqUsmntPV9SevOX1gCFFZO0f/s640/Harpie.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At our last Bhajan Blast</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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But my biggest victory takes place on the mat. Having often
ridiculed the swan as the impossible pose, I coin it my study pose of the
month. I do it in my room, in the Office, during class. And though my head nearly
touches the ground, my breasts get all squished and my hips get heavier with
every try, for one glorious second, I fly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisQg-x6pG4GZtEdpCmp_kYCbshTggnpzfZJuUUctfABFfyA6PcvVPal4LIcOe7oN4emYc3KuSUCN6gz_U38moFkvU0TjEzyMIvkZKutAVS587GwQFBZ20QbYOsV3_g8xbK_a_69DzHupqz/s1600/IMG_7408_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisQg-x6pG4GZtEdpCmp_kYCbshTggnpzfZJuUUctfABFfyA6PcvVPal4LIcOe7oN4emYc3KuSUCN6gz_U38moFkvU0TjEzyMIvkZKutAVS587GwQFBZ20QbYOsV3_g8xbK_a_69DzHupqz/s640/IMG_7408_sm.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eagle on the Beach (no evidence of Swan yet)</td></tr>
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-58320886542313734962013-10-24T19:54:00.000-07:002013-10-24T19:55:16.467-07:00I am Good the Way I amIn the middle of our environmental emergency (leaking propane tank, Mandala House evacuation, crazy dinner speculations), a thought pops into my head: “I am fine again”. And just like that, I get out of bed after a week of heavy usage, and leave behind my depression.<br />
<br />
I guess I had it coming. For is midnight really the best time to cut your own hair? Were my fast-paced thoughts truly that briljant? Did I sincerely believe that I had finally conquered the bipolar beast within? Yes I did. For I was a new me. My best self: social, happy and bursting with energy. So occasionally I was a bit agitated, and could not follow my own threads, but well, no one is perfect, right?<br />
<br />
Thanksgiving weekend we are low on people, so I happily brush up my karma and work the phones and clean some rooms, instead of joining the garden blessing and the community workshop. That’s how good I am. But at dinner, my energy drains with my every bite. At satsang I hit an all time low, and leave early with tears streaming down my face. <br />
<br />
In bed I play the same record over and over again: “You should have known. How could you think you would ever be better? You’re pathetic. This is all your own fault. If only you had done more hatha, sang more mantra, reflected more diligently, made more of an effort to be an extravert an optimist a saint.” I also learn that all that excess energy does come with a pricetag. I am exhausted. <br />
<br />
When all is over I talk to my counselor. “What would happen”, she asks, “If you were still bipolar, but you weren’t beating yourself up about it?” I am flabbergasted. In all these years it never once occurred to me that I could be ill, without blaming myself for being ill; without scolding myself for not trying hard enough.<br />
<br />
Back at the ashram I buy the ring that has been calling to me for some time now. The large blue cabochon lapis is easy to spot with my every gesture. Besides being pretty, it helps me remember: I don’t have to judge nor condemn myself. I am good the way I am. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1MQ2TMCZBC4id5Bl50pampkM_oBqpONloU5hyphenhyphene_13Rt31Dc3nEDMiTQnL9rMfgVjWoS38Hwph-tATqwhmYQtpgoR7xQf5U2vO36px1RGmxiIHTxukojRmYsIhiMCsGbZfFPxA_sGfy7V/s1600/P1010019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1MQ2TMCZBC4id5Bl50pampkM_oBqpONloU5hyphenhyphene_13Rt31Dc3nEDMiTQnL9rMfgVjWoS38Hwph-tATqwhmYQtpgoR7xQf5U2vO36px1RGmxiIHTxukojRmYsIhiMCsGbZfFPxA_sGfy7V/s640/P1010019.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ring & Autoharp, a wonderful Pair</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTlZo7_VP0WPfgMJM3BhqQlkW1sw5hJ2gc_0joW56MC9iVKf6JOPAazupZSyDwfW6P2hpuO53waR6jZAT02O7tqb8pOyEC-O20TzPqVCYpkqYJE_GN-kvxHQugEZTWFfSFEOYi3eC9G3V/s1600/P1010029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTlZo7_VP0WPfgMJM3BhqQlkW1sw5hJ2gc_0joW56MC9iVKf6JOPAazupZSyDwfW6P2hpuO53waR6jZAT02O7tqb8pOyEC-O20TzPqVCYpkqYJE_GN-kvxHQugEZTWFfSFEOYi3eC9G3V/s640/P1010029.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working on 108 Collages... Sponsor me! <b>http://yasodhara108.kintera.org/2013/judith</b> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-61517461208602885602013-09-28T19:03:00.000-07:002013-09-28T19:03:36.229-07:00Like the Tree<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglS0z_aw1Zrv1ebXSSQRAxnReYYQxxfxpGbj4y4CSvg25VQf5mhHAZI7PHwNRuruwRMXbdh0H5vYAarVnFcEsMAFXJq6PhNTT1lf5oDXBhW_XLs3WUvqnp5H6hzKs6jBpQ57a2hLLhF_uj/s1600/IMG_9169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglS0z_aw1Zrv1ebXSSQRAxnReYYQxxfxpGbj4y4CSvg25VQf5mhHAZI7PHwNRuruwRMXbdh0H5vYAarVnFcEsMAFXJq6PhNTT1lf5oDXBhW_XLs3WUvqnp5H6hzKs6jBpQ57a2hLLhF_uj/s640/IMG_9169.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
Seeing my parents and sister in Calgary is weird, but wonderful. We take off to tour such beautiful places as Banff and Lake Louise. It is almost like the good old days, sitting in the car for days to go and see Spain, Croatia, Denmark, just the four of us... But of course, things
are different now. I did not used to live in an ashram in Canada, my father did
not used to have Parkinson’s disease. We weren’t four adults in one obscenely
large RV.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvRNJ9bep7Lhm6nWD5WQB7IMAWcsikA-SrPZF7nxfYRv1bNRcsY12dmC6nG_eMFnKfcR7mn1xLXFnK1n3ukrd5eVXRlM5GSCZSAgal4ruXiOYkBCzk7oonlFi_5ECvb0pMwisw0R9ZjU6W/s1600/IMG_9433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvRNJ9bep7Lhm6nWD5WQB7IMAWcsikA-SrPZF7nxfYRv1bNRcsY12dmC6nG_eMFnKfcR7mn1xLXFnK1n3ukrd5eVXRlM5GSCZSAgal4ruXiOYkBCzk7oonlFi_5ECvb0pMwisw0R9ZjU6W/s640/IMG_9433.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgikAqb2SCHFTfsvwFN5To8wEfXXh2lSjoR6fe5G_pXGqGa2sO_6bUK9zjG72YXGn4J6BQWys1R1Mq_emVCd-yJC5QhmTbK7kOvbaB8UHyAWveFrKIbVLKKbvNawp9K51dwwPDgOydj00wA/s1600/IMG_9440.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgikAqb2SCHFTfsvwFN5To8wEfXXh2lSjoR6fe5G_pXGqGa2sO_6bUK9zjG72YXGn4J6BQWys1R1Mq_emVCd-yJC5QhmTbK7kOvbaB8UHyAWveFrKIbVLKKbvNawp9K51dwwPDgOydj00wA/s640/IMG_9440.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoUxOt5rBj6ClJUX_07T3oToSHi7F8_iR95pR4X8Xk1e3NTJWO-MoK3Gm8pex6MrQWy91uf-V4GS9qA3Ca6ahMUZGRrc_AjzeHdToZGBSdz843Z8Fc_kG6lj14uev2Ob47UAY6-DSS7ay7/s1600/IMG_9368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoUxOt5rBj6ClJUX_07T3oToSHi7F8_iR95pR4X8Xk1e3NTJWO-MoK3Gm8pex6MrQWy91uf-V4GS9qA3Ca6ahMUZGRrc_AjzeHdToZGBSdz843Z8Fc_kG6lj14uev2Ob47UAY6-DSS7ay7/s400/IMG_9368.JPG" width="266" /></a>Though the start is rough and wobbly, we find a rythm that
suits us all, with short drives, pleasant hikes to beautiful sights, plenty of
nap time and the odd game of rummikub. It is nice to be able to cook a whole
meal again, instead of peeling carrots for 60 mouths. It is nice to rediscover
reading, play clarinet outside and do some hatha with Margie. It is nice to
talk and laugh and share without Skype telling me the connection is bad.</div>
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Back at the ashram I show off my home like a proud mother
and we do some karma yoga in the garden. Satsang feels heavy with
all the swami’s leading. Despite all our time in the RV together, I have
steered away from explaining the spiritual side of the ashram. What it is I find
here, besides the deer, the lake and a space to play music. When it is time
for my family to leave, we all cry in a large bout of awkwardness. I feel the
bad daughter all over again: I should have explained things better, I should
have played a different song on my autoharp, I should not live in Canada, I
should have a mortgage.</div><br>
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Then I start to remember again. I connect to that part of me
that knows: “I am okay the way I am”. The part of me that helps me give
meaning. The part of me I bow for at the altar every night so I won’t forget.
And it helps to talk to other ashramites, as they tell me: “I cried for a week after my parents came for a
visit!”. </div>
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I am on my own journey. But it's nice to remember my roots. Like the Tree. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisvpjgpG4pzhVW41TLMJilBx3DcKUCOP18IFZTb4TlfaK1pNMXtX3Yzvfyp_WBA_ruo_sZPYK0I8FuX1qVjpO8XzjIpVDMIRbavwqHyqidwd9j9B0k8hi440caSqHws-pVAIadH4rLadKo/s1600/IMG_9274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisvpjgpG4pzhVW41TLMJilBx3DcKUCOP18IFZTb4TlfaK1pNMXtX3Yzvfyp_WBA_ruo_sZPYK0I8FuX1qVjpO8XzjIpVDMIRbavwqHyqidwd9j9B0k8hi440caSqHws-pVAIadH4rLadKo/s640/IMG_9274.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-49335948639357466462013-09-28T09:24:00.003-07:002013-09-28T09:24:23.797-07:00Who am I?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9gtppOMGFXchd0FKGB1-GMY2kLaa8WY48yAVMMgOAV3WRp4fdwAaUYiUcAvuWJ-5JA_04wsBeNSgb7aOAp1uIYyuJQabXgJ5vOm_hgHlMbyKhNGkPHa2p11VWw7I0PU3nEnOJLwrtk6Oq/s1600/who-am-i-mask-workshop-05_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9gtppOMGFXchd0FKGB1-GMY2kLaa8WY48yAVMMgOAV3WRp4fdwAaUYiUcAvuWJ-5JA_04wsBeNSgb7aOAp1uIYyuJQabXgJ5vOm_hgHlMbyKhNGkPHa2p11VWw7I0PU3nEnOJLwrtk6Oq/s640/who-am-i-mask-workshop-05_sm.jpg" width="640" /></a>While a bear is roaming the ashram, we have found a great way to hide...</div>
Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-91518432892619443702013-08-30T10:56:00.000-07:002013-08-30T10:56:26.689-07:00I can simply take my timeWhen I see the huge spider hovering above my head while I am singing in the shower, I realize: It is time to go. And I am not the only one to go. While we were at almost 80 people last week, this week it is 35... <br />
<br />
Big difference it that I will be back in about 10 days. A way of testing my changed self in the outside world, with real stimuli: My parents & sister! We will meet up in Calgary and from there drive a rental RV through the beautiful nature (as I have been told) of places such as Banff and Jasper.<br />
<br />
Whether my inner nature will be just as pretty remains to be seen, as old habits and patterns die hard. It already starts when I am getting ready for my trip, and feel the cortisol coarsing through my veins.<br />
<br />
But then I realize: I don't have to be on an early ferry at all. I can simply take my time...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://web41.its.hawaii.edu/kaohana.windward.hawaii.edu/images/wp/2012/12/time-travel2-photo-courtesy-of-junussyndicate-on-deviantART.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="404" src="http://web41.its.hawaii.edu/kaohana.windward.hawaii.edu/images/wp/2012/12/time-travel2-photo-courtesy-of-junussyndicate-on-deviantART.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://web41.its.hawaii.edu/kaohana.windward.hawaii.edu/images/wp/2012/12/time-travel2-photo-courtesy-of-junussyndicate-on-deviantART.jpg</td></tr>
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-43843499094460112662013-08-15T16:02:00.001-07:002013-08-15T16:02:54.011-07:00Anaphylactic ImaginationI used to judge the wasp by its stinger. Surely creatures that can kill must be evil. I would run away and hide until the horror was over. Nowadays I remain calm. Looking at one of them, sitting on my hand, I think it unfair to hate a creature for something it might never do. I marvel at my growth; all calm, all unshaken.<br />
<br />
Yet I still run away from so many situations and people, simply because they might sting. Some might have stung in the past, but most have only ever stung in my imagination. My imagination is highly anaphylactic. Such growth and wisdom indeed.<br />
<br />
So instead of running I try to breathe. Calm and ease make me survive the Celebrations at the Ashram. When I don't focus on the stinger but on the colors, lovely things happen. Nice talks to new and old people. A night under shooting stars in good company. Flowers in the water, cake on my plate. Songs taught, learned and sang.<br />
<br />
And no-one dies. <br />
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-45431725508397957332013-08-08T08:18:00.000-07:002013-08-08T09:21:05.816-07:00Communal HermitAfter the heat comes the storm. A beautiful storm, with
lightning reflected on the waves of the lake, and thunder rumbling from
mountain to mountain. Things are shifting. It gets dark after satsang again,
all cherries have been picked and the apples will soon be ripe. In my mind I
see the grass and walking paths covered in snow like in winter. It is not so
much the cold, but the silence. </br>
<br>
Now, at the start of the 50th anniversary
celebration, we are over a 100 people like in Family Week. Extra beds have been
put up, and all my favorite spots are taken. It is harder to avoid the buzz in
the atrium and around, than the abundance of wasps who mainly want to sit on my
feet.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I understand better now why I am attracted to communities,
but not to being with groups of people. Living at the Marwixstraat for 6 years with 6 others I was appreciated
for my cooking and company as well as my tendency to leave the room when things
got too much. Similarly, at the ashram, there is no need for awkward conversations (silent
meals!) and having to go out at night to “have fun” (straight home after
satsang!). Communal living gives me a sense of belonging, while honoring my
inner introvert.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"><br>
Marce is here for a bit, and he reminds me of my old self,
and how I have changed. I was scared I would want to go back to our old life,
living above the Mamamini (= thrift store) together, listening to Noorderzon (=
August arts festival) from our window. And yes, those were good times. But if
anything, his being here shows me that my life is here. This is my home. I even
have a social insurance number now.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"><br>
And here, at home, I indulge in being alone. A lot. And
though old habits and guilt still tell me I should be more social and connect
more; I am actually connecting more. To a part of me that I have been
neglecting for way too long. The part of me that tells me that I am okay the
way I am. It is okay to be a communal hermit.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0rR8gko5iJr5ZQ97glsyCP6pxkYokGb5SRLRRMmljV-pKS8wqJq-s4Oy8wC0Tj5s7H-XoqnSIU1611OxJc8NYB-OwDlG_ZThhG5xxTkZ6tD0liBTxeahnUtPfT0wyXxOYvwNRGDP3fsHv/s1600/944599_10151801993103834_102200912_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0rR8gko5iJr5ZQ97glsyCP6pxkYokGb5SRLRRMmljV-pKS8wqJq-s4Oy8wC0Tj5s7H-XoqnSIU1611OxJc8NYB-OwDlG_ZThhG5xxTkZ6tD0liBTxeahnUtPfT0wyXxOYvwNRGDP3fsHv/s640/944599_10151801993103834_102200912_n.jpg" width="438" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bhajan Blast at the Beach with Noemie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibnLmq5GkFR_MwcohhpR3LMR0jfRiLCozcGo_r3rfu8WRlcOeieS7ohw6EpaOk1MmUgkHTa-sXHpHCilBEm7xPGx1iiASxtlxzPuMHBcH_3S7VWXO_skcMMbgcrnFlE4bigEUvqU1gNQxG/s1600/1011564_10100549080959961_1801593618_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibnLmq5GkFR_MwcohhpR3LMR0jfRiLCozcGo_r3rfu8WRlcOeieS7ohw6EpaOk1MmUgkHTa-sXHpHCilBEm7xPGx1iiASxtlxzPuMHBcH_3S7VWXO_skcMMbgcrnFlE4bigEUvqU1gNQxG/s640/1011564_10100549080959961_1801593618_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">X-Treme dishes with Andriko, Ametisse & Amy, as we hold the fort for X-Treme dishqueen Kim. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6oseCO5DVsL9swkWquwufCUzaulG9TA_fSk6IQw2ZcdbNLg5fyfaRU7OiuhExzblci6JI8SlUYaVmJ7ks3j7dHugZrF4WuiE_gtoKE0_GGeHTbHjaN7y0fruTQFJnilqpDTCmnlLe0aQQ/s1600/1014192_10151475843846582_658993072_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6oseCO5DVsL9swkWquwufCUzaulG9TA_fSk6IQw2ZcdbNLg5fyfaRU7OiuhExzblci6JI8SlUYaVmJ7ks3j7dHugZrF4WuiE_gtoKE0_GGeHTbHjaN7y0fruTQFJnilqpDTCmnlLe0aQQ/s640/1014192_10151475843846582_658993072_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake by Andriko</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-87227195111371665092013-07-13T17:59:00.000-07:002013-07-13T17:59:18.378-07:00This Awesomeness is my HomeWhen asked what I think of kids, I generally say <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t like them. This is not true. I like
their magic, their bright eyes, their curious minds. I envy their pink dresses
and rainbow boots, their endless possibilities. But it’s their energy that is
too much. The screaming and whining. The trampling over boundaries I had
forgotten were there. But most of all, I am no responsible grown-up. How would
I know what’s right for them? What if I break the baby I am holding? What if I
scar them for life?<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For here is the thing. The question of liking kids is not
innocent anymore. It is loaded. At my age, it is a small step to: Do you have
kids yourself? No? Do you want them? (time is ticking) And no I don’t. I guess
I was born without a biological clock. Or it has been set to very last-minute. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been told that I will be lonely, that I am missing
out. But with every choice I make, I am missing out on all sorts of things
anyway. How much I would have missed if I hadn’t moved to the ashram! In other
lives I am sure I have been a fine (or crappy) mother, granddad or midwife. In
this life I have other things to do. Finding my balance is hard enough without
runny noses to wipe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still this family week I am amazed at the joy the families bring
to the ashram. They do karma yoga in the morning and there is kid’s program in
the afternoon, while the parents partake in a much needed relaxation workshop.
I end up joining the roaming minstrels, playing for the kids on the beach and
on Easter rock in the scorching heat. It is fun sitting between all these
little humans, explaining my autoharp, even singing "the river is flowing"
for the umpteenth time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the final night there are performances on the outdoor
stage under the trees, “<a href="http://www.buitenkunst.nl/" target="_blank">Buitenkunst</a>”-style. We are tired and mosquitos are
eating us alive, but it is a wonderful end to a magical week. I thought family
week would push me over the edge (and yes I was close), but it mainly made me
feel even more appreciative of the ashram. We did such an awesome job. And guess
what: This awesomeness is my home.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPpiRCckT7HqUGeX-9iTB99GWlplVYsY0MbaskvCU_27gy9LjZ5qxe_akM_SPRU8nFJM4lhcrtNYMrqLJX8GPyh5qVaUhkEXQB2Ctw4CtA5F8rYDAVILVH8GHIQo3hrGtDB40IdN_SywYq/s1600/1001659_10151762399618834_1842739598_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPpiRCckT7HqUGeX-9iTB99GWlplVYsY0MbaskvCU_27gy9LjZ5qxe_akM_SPRU8nFJM4lhcrtNYMrqLJX8GPyh5qVaUhkEXQB2Ctw4CtA5F8rYDAVILVH8GHIQo3hrGtDB40IdN_SywYq/s640/1001659_10151762399618834_1842739598_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summer Kitchen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Qn0Ar7-N2HPjiuKl3VdwUqwYwq41_7FNGPv_bT_kmhrRJkUWbwaMOYdprSYRsW6HZs1b5vXzruar8f5Br1oSSyYuf0pcGfG-68uN5oPHu24yYuCehxWwCjdm9Lf841lf8gpeZg5VjpMy/s1600/969690_10151760005653834_62178904_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Qn0Ar7-N2HPjiuKl3VdwUqwYwq41_7FNGPv_bT_kmhrRJkUWbwaMOYdprSYRsW6HZs1b5vXzruar8f5Br1oSSyYuf0pcGfG-68uN5oPHu24yYuCehxWwCjdm9Lf841lf8gpeZg5VjpMy/s640/969690_10151760005653834_62178904_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Easter Rock</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuu4nBGINmRXR9RVdPze4_Qz1c1V8bMEzZpI0w73WOG2V7xrdAz3Vuuqb-5DGIGM0LbVW3iJCWwkuzYlnXla3170Pc7Niuz7et1ojAfRMpYugR_aMv5axkADI0RSuwT-BYA2qjwCt_rW9F/s1600/971671_10151762400343834_541528482_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuu4nBGINmRXR9RVdPze4_Qz1c1V8bMEzZpI0w73WOG2V7xrdAz3Vuuqb-5DGIGM0LbVW3iJCWwkuzYlnXla3170Pc7Niuz7et1ojAfRMpYugR_aMv5axkADI0RSuwT-BYA2qjwCt_rW9F/s640/971671_10151762400343834_541528482_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garden Shed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOn7tXbCUAzcChNdRr1WuILzu7lOkC1GKEImC_xlThDWJGrfehTmuCfJsylnmz7x1d1Lpuso4EkIIDZ-PQeUzzXPnwyfOiOEaINCZ0RiQMEqZJtH31LnKex24QJhOC7qEJhx3mYjBlD9nL/s1600/998816_10151764007793834_1157466351_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOn7tXbCUAzcChNdRr1WuILzu7lOkC1GKEImC_xlThDWJGrfehTmuCfJsylnmz7x1d1Lpuso4EkIIDZ-PQeUzzXPnwyfOiOEaINCZ0RiQMEqZJtH31LnKex24QJhOC7qEJhx3mYjBlD9nL/s640/998816_10151764007793834_1157466351_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Da Funk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEvgvk0niKNyTZDTIMjjVOWbwtrWkWdfZkZG-pQSdJbuSIMPXxQqKeJHA0fiaIpwjRjkBlyCM4hrW_bBdYwQRhe9k6aO5dDJe87cnzBamHgZA-5h_DVYMHsWaRDnCSVQJ7g33hYfyPzHY1/s1600/1012872_10151757989363834_726388792_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEvgvk0niKNyTZDTIMjjVOWbwtrWkWdfZkZG-pQSdJbuSIMPXxQqKeJHA0fiaIpwjRjkBlyCM4hrW_bBdYwQRhe9k6aO5dDJe87cnzBamHgZA-5h_DVYMHsWaRDnCSVQJ7g33hYfyPzHY1/s640/1012872_10151757989363834_726388792_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summer Bliss</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-8129423778016968602013-07-04T13:58:00.000-07:002013-07-04T13:58:15.699-07:00Breathing out, Breathing inOut of nowhere the weather turns. From pouring rain to scorching hot. I get to sit in the shade playing with pebbles and irrigation lines.Very happy-making as Scott Westerfeld in his Uglies series would have it. At night I wake up at 1 in the heat and stumble outside carrying my yogamat and blankets. Lying down, the sky is filled with stars and a coyote barks in the distance. The morning turns the lake into my shower and in the evening I sing and sing and sing. Breathing out, Breathing in.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf40AJf-lEQpNqBGmyIx6Oio-1O_dPNTSMf04L4oMors_ghRj79qy8LZkHcRQGfDjW-zT8QdHFNvIxzavq1jjhs0GUk7pUcBCQEiMldg6QL8O57XOfxN_xu-fXocVvUxBFQS4dNznCPvcn/s1600/018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf40AJf-lEQpNqBGmyIx6Oio-1O_dPNTSMf04L4oMors_ghRj79qy8LZkHcRQGfDjW-zT8QdHFNvIxzavq1jjhs0GUk7pUcBCQEiMldg6QL8O57XOfxN_xu-fXocVvUxBFQS4dNznCPvcn/s320/018.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-10926666550507965812013-07-04T13:57:00.002-07:002013-07-04T13:57:34.145-07:00The New NormalThe lake isn’t always friendly. It is too easy to slide into
the cold and simply forget. Also, the rocks could hurt. Especially when banging
my head against them. So I don’t. And<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t take the pair of scissors out of my bag. Just my journal. A small
victory.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the first “I hate you” my pen refuses to write any
further. Frustrated I chuck my journal into the water. Wonderful move. Now I
have to go in anyway. And yes it is cold. It’s growing dark after a rainy day. The
cold clears the fog in my mind a bit. Soaking wet I walk to Shakti. In the hot
bath I cry some more. And a thought comes to mind: Maybe I should try a higher
dosage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Telling people I am diagnosed bipolar 2 and taking lithium,
has gained responses such as:</div>
<ul>
<li>But you are wonderful!</li>
<li>Surely you’re not sick, everyone has moodswings.</li>
<li>When do you want to go off your medication?</li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course I would like to go off my medication: I might be
able to focus again like I used to. I wouldn’t have to worry about getting into
a coma when my diet changes. I wouldn’t have to worry about my thyroid, my
kidneys, shaky hands, dry throat, my weight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, these reactions just feed my dark side: If I am not
really sick, I am cleary pathetic. If I am that wonderful, why am I thinking of
hurting myself? If I depend on medication, obviously I am not trying hard
enough. I have no backbone, no self-control, I am worthless. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here I am, living in the middle of nowhere, doing
everything that the textbooks recommend: Healthy diet, structure, exercise,
support, plenty of sleep, nature… The things I foolishly thought would allow me
to go off my meds. To be sane. Yet today I receive my special delivery: Drugs
that ironically could result in mood-swings, depression and suicidal
tendencies. Drugs to mellow me out. Drugs to knock me out whenever the lake is
calling me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want to take these drugs, I don’t want to up my
lithium. I just want to be normal. But this is what normal looks like for me,
and for many others like me. For that is another response I get when telling
people I am bipolar: My father, my grandmother, my neighbor, my sister, …,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is bipolar too.Or simply: Me too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Playing music on my favorite bench I discover the tiny
autoharp-screw I lost a long time ago. Somehow it fills me with hope. If I can
find this tiny screw against all odds, I might accept my own reality. </div>
<br />
Crazy is the new normal. And using drugs beats being
dead.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZH8hcpYJRJrtTFVnlCOKUNVwS8rIuKM31WP2fEFEaRvo_wkxK4_c1updT635fbimRMouzC7uKdK81eVnhyphenhyphenSPryJCjBPm9bFMqOgowwl3cN12qCKsVXIiW0Y9iRR5KzU50Rqtss250ihyphenhyphen/s1600/P1010003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZH8hcpYJRJrtTFVnlCOKUNVwS8rIuKM31WP2fEFEaRvo_wkxK4_c1updT635fbimRMouzC7uKdK81eVnhyphenhyphenSPryJCjBPm9bFMqOgowwl3cN12qCKsVXIiW0Y9iRR5KzU50Rqtss250ihyphenhyphen/s640/P1010003.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<![endif]-->Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-36322595138203557242013-06-07T18:48:00.000-07:002013-06-07T18:48:01.453-07:00Residents Only<div class="MsoNormal">
The little boy looks puzzled as I move up the stairs to
my room. “Why is she going there daddy?” “Because I live here!” I want to yell.
Later I learn my room has been an integral part of this group’s self-led tour.
I can almost see them crowding eachother, gawking through the windows to catch
a glimpse of a true ashram dwelling. “It is all made of wood! Who is that blue
man with the flute?” In my mind I quickly scan my room. Unmade bed? Check.
Floor covered in clothes? Check. Dirty underwear? Most likely. I don’t like other
people seeing my mess. But I keep on spilling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I experiment with riding the wave, going with the flow. I
write two songs in two nights, get hooked on the Walking Dead, sing autoharp in between. This is the good
life. Making friends, cracking jokes. Why so serious?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it is an illusion. My mind still thinks, “If
all is well, all will be well”. But of course it is not. I am told in the office
that I am too much and need to calm down. That I need to keep myself in check for
I disturb others. I react annoyed while blood rushes through my veins. Did
someone just turn on the heating?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel stupid, I feel ashamed. Maybe I should never work in
the office again. Maybe I should leave the ashram. Maybe… I need to take a deep
breath and a long bath. The world isn’t ending, I will be fine. The girl on the
phone sounds shocked about our thorough medical procedure. Just when she wanted
to get away from it all, we present her with the facts: “You are ill”. When I
was younger I wanted to go on a holiday without myself. I still do. But guess
what. There is no escape. So I do what I can, and make a sign. Residents Only.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4yidlq85wQXOj4Umn8yCVwCwDHrcnBhSkFQwCNfSNL9ubP8hyphenhyphenJYa5RpAgcWoVo-zgNGA2dfpVWLfbSlKpJf7OYGzNIrDd8eXZWVZtdsNYCsTNTpez4RwOYWiOIUA_Cz7IpterXX-8PqEm/s1600/P1010060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4yidlq85wQXOj4Umn8yCVwCwDHrcnBhSkFQwCNfSNL9ubP8hyphenhyphenJYa5RpAgcWoVo-zgNGA2dfpVWLfbSlKpJf7OYGzNIrDd8eXZWVZtdsNYCsTNTpez4RwOYWiOIUA_Cz7IpterXX-8PqEm/s640/P1010060.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-88330936195701435562013-05-31T12:29:00.001-07:002013-05-31T12:29:14.199-07:00Saraswati Come to MeIt might have been Krishna’s flute, but lately I suspect it
was Saraswati’s veena calling me here. After all, this ashram is dedicated to
her. Goddess of wisdom, speech and the arts. Saraswati is the part of me that
stays up late, engrossed in her collage; that wakes up at 5AM and reaches for her
autoharp; that lies in the grass entranced by banjo, guitar and accordeon. She
is the part of me that sings. She is the part of me that wants to dance.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Kcid1q5N60JvyVFKHXDAkLFok9D6m-jmc6dZ7zQBnbdG47JRqNREfCcnhzScDNezIwHe9Haa2HyK0kklqWrRrlDe8IXR-sbq6O1zE0h6cWYDeuUVFCVYVuqlplXFzgfniUrk1vkeTM4l/s1600/431917_10151669830318834_1599601792_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Kcid1q5N60JvyVFKHXDAkLFok9D6m-jmc6dZ7zQBnbdG47JRqNREfCcnhzScDNezIwHe9Haa2HyK0kklqWrRrlDe8IXR-sbq6O1zE0h6cWYDeuUVFCVYVuqlplXFzgfniUrk1vkeTM4l/s640/431917_10151669830318834_1599601792_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anusha is a classical Indian dancer. Before her evening performance,
we all join her workshop. I love our joyful sincerity and willingness to learn.
This is the ashram: We try and fail and try again and support eachother, over
and over. And one day, we might even remember. In the evening the karma yogi’s
form a circle and practice our newly found knowledge, to the sound of ta-ka-de-me.
I look over this random collective from all over the globe, and am impressed.
This is my community, this is my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pLO-LYcBTHK1pLspAxqtyxdPDk-XBCFp60SjYFvIa8zIwVnaox1X4D1dJt7JOS-atNZ8CDFCO4qe_aQvN35gSn8UhNI_nMJ4ZlgD8LdtbSNWvSbrVO2TdpugZAVpkjkjTrOJfDR1Fm2t/s1600/933994_10151671817858834_1479531990_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pLO-LYcBTHK1pLspAxqtyxdPDk-XBCFp60SjYFvIa8zIwVnaox1X4D1dJt7JOS-atNZ8CDFCO4qe_aQvN35gSn8UhNI_nMJ4ZlgD8LdtbSNWvSbrVO2TdpugZAVpkjkjTrOJfDR1Fm2t/s640/933994_10151671817858834_1479531990_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
In the afternoon we celebrate the beautiful sari circus-tent Sara and Sylvia
made for the kid’s area. We dance to the gipsy music of
Pat and Noëmie and I join them to sing my “Kombucha for the soul” song. We savour
Jae’s kombucha, dancing some more. When duty calls, we all go back to our karma
yoga tasks, giddy with fermentation and light. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVAJg6WLs_l9vn7i3qr1UCUfbcFUJ8d6n96Xw7lyJH0glteSvCn9LMdg4F6VfQAlQlMT_srkS1SoVMaGWLd26gd4XTpOmUt0HgibFULMc0OBJ5QZQdAwOqn2xdXWLt9_HtAnWuazeAkD3/s1600/DSC_4548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVAJg6WLs_l9vn7i3qr1UCUfbcFUJ8d6n96Xw7lyJH0glteSvCn9LMdg4F6VfQAlQlMT_srkS1SoVMaGWLd26gd4XTpOmUt0HgibFULMc0OBJ5QZQdAwOqn2xdXWLt9_HtAnWuazeAkD3/s640/DSC_4548.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After we do a great job with the band, Anusha performs. Her
movements send shivers down my spine. She is so controlled, expressive,
beautiful. It’s like her soul shines through her every glance. It is
still light out when we bring the power down dancing on bare feet to Andrej’s
tunes. We fix the light by doing a light (divine light meditation). Sure
enough, the power would probably have come back on anyway. But where is the
beauty in that?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-DPF4_WhypmntysLuAPyVXQuVeZjGq3CnfAI8gyU3lAV0X72KPPjAXRcobrZp0lWoEoLuwQihoQkDvlA2E4dctRmehzULbfUlCMJqbJHfHvR2A2L_i35q3YSvsF6UKLfq2KDwcS8AKlZv/s1600/969143_10151671819128834_1547613490_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-DPF4_WhypmntysLuAPyVXQuVeZjGq3CnfAI8gyU3lAV0X72KPPjAXRcobrZp0lWoEoLuwQihoQkDvlA2E4dctRmehzULbfUlCMJqbJHfHvR2A2L_i35q3YSvsF6UKLfq2KDwcS8AKlZv/s640/969143_10151671819128834_1547613490_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-1149012822368279152013-05-22T18:57:00.000-07:002013-05-22T19:04:36.941-07:00Garden SpaAll people have internet, and yes that's where they found us. Still they call the ashram, thinking we are a spa. They come in, wanting to sign up for the massage. They leave disappointed, after doing tons of dishes with no scantily-clad yoga instructor in sight. Clearly, karma yoga is just another word for torture, ashram another word for hell.<br />
<br />
Just when I think we should include a big flashing sign on our website saying: No Spa! Modest Clothing! 100% Celibate Community! Work all Day & You have to Pay! I realise the huge potential for our ashram being a total spa. A Garden Spa. <br />
<br />
<i>Come to our community to enjoy our hoophouse sauna (a must for tomato lovers). </i><i>Have your feet pecked clean by our baby chicks (fish treatments are sooo 2012). </i><i><i><i>Get splashed with water while filling up the watering cans (add fish fertilizer for a tantalizing body odour you won't forget). Immerse yourself in</i> the healing powers of the compostpile (authentic smell & texture). </i>Discover nature by dipping into our freezing cold lake (pebble foot massage included).</i><br />
<br />
But this might attract too many people. I like the ashram as it is. And people that are looking for something else, will realize that sooner or later. And that in itself, is valuable too. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpG0q3oWeiin4mzCHv7SfLsQ9lGTQM7NnsNN2glyyovJiFwTjQpwNIx8gJiaBaRDceaePFWNMW1ioxeyD8C7sO-h74LKLYUnHm_tokwtU6k1jhbxP66QkJKytMR7epFw3pzbFYtiFAqY9X/s1600/Ametisse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpG0q3oWeiin4mzCHv7SfLsQ9lGTQM7NnsNN2glyyovJiFwTjQpwNIx8gJiaBaRDceaePFWNMW1ioxeyD8C7sO-h74LKLYUnHm_tokwtU6k1jhbxP66QkJKytMR7epFw3pzbFYtiFAqY9X/s640/Ametisse.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ametisse, bookstore babe & Quest student to be</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8jCHBPqKi7Ft5KNowBubJxgxdbT1kEBQiAEY7BNjrRj-NRSENHEU41Pj0UyT2jHw7yBFHKnF3YylujaGQPG2UTEyBvol4Psvf0d7oW39SMeCpNG1VTywP1AcZAQal4zG9wSSn7sO9UPQ/s1600/Corey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8jCHBPqKi7Ft5KNowBubJxgxdbT1kEBQiAEY7BNjrRj-NRSENHEU41Pj0UyT2jHw7yBFHKnF3YylujaGQPG2UTEyBvol4Psvf0d7oW39SMeCpNG1VTywP1AcZAQal4zG9wSSn7sO9UPQ/s640/Corey.jpg" width="448" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corey, partner in crime for storm swimming & forest meditation</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCl7ViDG5cIRJWF_aRIv4cq1o9_xcamiPBK9LIWs-mRUBaxhSdVXfEQiHTEhH9UvwjCEDN19No9-9ds1_M65JHvbzoIJMzDc0VmBOyNg0ZCiN-x5oBn6rksoZGVh5ts6sP_LNEVoimjOgs/s1600/Judith.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCl7ViDG5cIRJWF_aRIv4cq1o9_xcamiPBK9LIWs-mRUBaxhSdVXfEQiHTEhH9UvwjCEDN19No9-9ds1_M65JHvbzoIJMzDc0VmBOyNg0ZCiN-x5oBn6rksoZGVh5ts6sP_LNEVoimjOgs/s640/Judith.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Chickens love shiny rings, shiny eyes and clothing strings that look like worms. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550993911102004132.post-81788041358147132452013-05-14T18:42:00.000-07:002013-05-14T18:42:11.373-07:00Music is the best MedicineNothing more fun than being ill at the ashram.While it is 30
degrees out, I am struck by a vicious virus. Similar as for quite a few other
ashramites, my throat, ears and head hurt, and my energy is low. Not just for 3
or 4 days. No, for 10 days straight. For fear of contagion I am confined to my room,
where my food is being served, like I served others food before getting ill.
Note to self: Never take food to others again.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
So I bless the internet and watch loads of series including 3
seasons of Game of Thrones. Even better is skyping with Rita & Lieselotte
as quarantine doesn’t hold in cyberspace. I sleep and rest and sleep some more
and read good books while blowing my nose; like<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10836728-the-rook" target="_blank"> “the Rook”</a> and <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10996342-the-art-of-fielding" target="_blank">“the Art ofFielding”</a>. I see unfamiliar people pass my window, which is bizarre in our
small community. I get bored and annoyed and want to do something again. But
workcoordinator/first aider Jayne says with an evil grin: You are not doing anything but
going back to bed! And of course she is right. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I finally surrender, and realise that my body just
needs time; I can settle at last, and start to heal. Right now my left ear is
still clogged, but I am me again. I have energy, can go to hatha & satsang,
do karma yoga, and most importantly: sing. On our reflection day, Noëmie and I
have a great afternoon at the beach. While the geese are showing off their
extremely cute babies, we sing my songs while Noëmie plays her accordeon. Later
Pat joins us with the banjo and it is clear that we have to record a cd and
tour in an old ashram bus that Noëmie will paint and we will share kombucha
with our audiences. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When <a href="http://www.music-of-benares.com/" target="_blank">the Mishra's</a> come to play in the temple we are the
audience ourselves. Their classical Indian sitar & tabla music turns out to
be amazing. They are so skilled, so devoted, and there is such a great
interaction between father, son & grandson that I can only sit in awe,
energy pouring down my spine, leaving my hands in a tingle. Music is the best
medicine. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjAW5RVXMlpnBpT-oXwOJSmTLarIXOjj629M6hghYSm0dMtGkPiwihyphenhyphenGS3IuuId3JguvaSU3uXequp5o8Qr3gh0z7f_psQGZuVgd_GYKwXeTGY-LVjlbVlzQUiYLHb-Ykfx0WGdcZGStw/s1600/P1010005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjAW5RVXMlpnBpT-oXwOJSmTLarIXOjj629M6hghYSm0dMtGkPiwihyphenhyphenGS3IuuId3JguvaSU3uXequp5o8Qr3gh0z7f_psQGZuVgd_GYKwXeTGY-LVjlbVlzQUiYLHb-Ykfx0WGdcZGStw/s640/P1010005.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noëmie playing at the Beach</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGi3NqH0WzWQzlY4fh76Rcvw4tNl7kThfndbRIgPzM_sFec6kx962gQXVYSCFMW9SWxBhZxmSCYRO1_F7Vyvu3lnPJSpUdwwtAf9a8BY1tZs61Wuq2m1AeVYhjxQKZQu35yPf6-yMY4zq/s1600/P1010009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGi3NqH0WzWQzlY4fh76Rcvw4tNl7kThfndbRIgPzM_sFec6kx962gQXVYSCFMW9SWxBhZxmSCYRO1_F7Vyvu3lnPJSpUdwwtAf9a8BY1tZs61Wuq2m1AeVYhjxQKZQu35yPf6-yMY4zq/s640/P1010009.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Geese</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTxUhNfiGHgZWF40m75duf0mKRzjedvF48c7zZ1NNRLPYXwqBUEmigiqDFmc9kxA9K5kmiTF7UR8a-dYiTMV06qkgHvhMp7NBDHKynGPzL6QpwY9zolVktjwO_vAGF_b5oqF4qU_E3vtrj/s1600/P1010005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTxUhNfiGHgZWF40m75duf0mKRzjedvF48c7zZ1NNRLPYXwqBUEmigiqDFmc9kxA9K5kmiTF7UR8a-dYiTMV06qkgHvhMp7NBDHKynGPzL6QpwY9zolVktjwO_vAGF_b5oqF4qU_E3vtrj/s640/P1010005.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sylvia's 4 year ashram anniversary. In her own words: It is normal to go to university for 3-4 years. It should be even more normal to spend this time in a spiritual community: You learn so much more...</td></tr>
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Mare Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15808686276698800773noreply@blogger.com2