It’s always a good start to the morning with rounds of Surya Namaskara to begin the practice of Pranayama and Dhyana. An ex-student of mine spoke highly of Vipassana to me during the early days of the pandemic and I would like to incorporate this lengthy practice into my life somehow, perhaps in a gentler way. I was very impressed he could manage the entire ten days which can be quite severe and that he continues with the practice despite his demanding schedule.
It’s an effort to show up to my poetry blog every day for a poem, a self imposition, but it’s an opportunity I have learned to relish and appreciate. Today, it’s a simple poem about centering within oneself.
All roads lead back to Sanctum, even paths waylaid by ghosts, thorns and sink holes. This is where you will find me, within myself, stitched into a fabric of stolid integrity. Not here are the frayed ends of a cotton deception or torn linens woven in vacillations but the place of raw strength in the fibre of being and a silken self worth, still, steady, cut in true cloth, for like when a tuning fork ceases to vibrate to the vicissitudes of whim, it then arrives at self, in Sanctum.
Memories can sometimes be the burdens of years to those that remember too much for too long, a future can be a pipe dream and tomorrow is not a given. The stress on the present too is quite cliche like a popular bit size philosophy, and we always seem to seek to escape it through sensation or stimulus or deceptions, yet the safest place to be, is the sanctum within oneself in the stillness of now, when the world is not what it seems. Our sense of self according to me, exists only as we build it, in fibre by fibre of tensile strength, woven like a safety blanket, an intricate security harness, a central braid of gravity, never to yield to rupture, no matter the wondrous or the toxic that ricochets within our various echo chambers of life. So many lessons learned this past year and before that. Forever grateful.