On Monday night I went to the Kundalini Yoga class and the exercises were directed toward the Pineal Center. I call this chakra/gland the observatory in us. It is the place that is “faithful and true” “And Holy is Thy Name.” It is in the brain, as the hypothalamus, and is behind, what is identified as the third eye. It is shaped like a pinecone and hence its name, Pineal. It does its job of waiting and looking for us to line up, so the doors to the eternal in us can open and let us fly. This is the portal through which we sail after death.
In the yoga class, we worked hard and I did indeed have a feeling of movement in my head. Strips of colors moved out of their place and flew in all directions. They made their way into my drawings.
During the meditation time I felt that I was sitting in a brightly lit white calla lily, as I sat cross legged at the end of the class, an open flower holding me safe, contained and at the same time I am in a marvelous vortex.
Picture of our tour group meditating in India. This is the teacher who advised us to meditate a minute for every year of our lives and spend an hour on our passions in the morning before going out of the house to do our work of the day.
Meantime back on the street, living across the road from a newly renovated house with eight apartments, the party started about 10am on Saturday morning, with lots of people, outdoor games and noise.
I became invested in it being over early but at 11.30 pm there were about 20 young men out on the roof. Cars were everywhere; young people were stopping and staring up at this darkened house with the silhouettes on the roof. The noise level rose and fell with the cadence of people detached from the ordinary.
I painted pictures on my porch, during the day and was occupied with my reading, writing and painting, behind the big hedge.
However the monster party on my doorstep crept closer to me as I tried to sleep in the warm night and the window closed against the noise. I left my bed and withdrew into the back of the house. My intention became “to want nothing for the young men on the roof,” but to be seized myself by a desire for my own movement, investing in what little fragments of eternity I touch off, prepared to dance into attunement. Maybe even consider how that outer chaos is a compensation for the lack of jubilation in myself.
I go to the bucket and wait for my snakes of anger, frustration and belligerence to be transformed into calla lilies, bluebells or daffodils, the gift of holding down a solemn calm and solitude.
I stole some dreams from people I met this week. I heard of the three loud knocks under the bed dream, the fall that emasculated a boyfriend in quiet a difficult way and the unremembered dreams of horror. Then I had my own Sunday night dream of horror, which I am working on. Working on a dream always puts some perspective on it and takes away the horror once something is admitted.
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