Growth
Things do not change, we change.
-Henry David Thoreau
I have a weekend ritual that has started out of necessity and now is a game of “Catch the Blue Runner”. Or sky vine. Or, that stinking thing grew right before my eyes again. It started at a farmers market two seasons ago when I spotted this lovely vine with dripping purple flowers, much like the wisteria vines of the north. It appeared as a little pot, unassuming broad green flowers, and curling tendrils of baby vines seeking a place to nestle their shoots. I had this image in my mind of a gracious front porch with an impressive awning of greenery. It would wrap around the porch and have flecks of luscious amethyst blooms peeking out of inconspicuous points along the width. I would invite guests over and have them sit on the white wicker chairs and enjoy a glass of chilled lemonade, freshly made only minutes ago. We would converse and laugh as the glow of the afternoon would flit and flicker between the leaves and cast speckled patterns of shade across the porch. Knock knock, hello? Hello, is this thing on?
My consciousness inevitably converses with the grandiose part of my intellect that feeds these images to my mind and away we go. I call the vine the beast. It tries to take over the entire area where it was planted, swallowing shrubs and small ground cover flowers in its wake. It sends out large thick feeder shoots from its base and from those main arteries continues a network of intricate byways to shame the best engineering minds of mortal men. It has wrapped itself around the posts and lattice trim of the ceiling, but it also tries to engulf my front porch light, the gutters, cross over my actual ceiling, around the top, the roof, and even is so bold as to stretch tendrils out as if to grab unsuspecting visitors approaching the front door.
Four lessons were learned:
1.) The degree of effort that is expended on a project directly relates to
its outcome. Good in, good out. Crap in, crap out.
2.) Life will find a way to move forward. Bidden or unbidden.
3.) The vine is home to ants.
4.) I am allergic to the vine.
We may apply lessons one and two to our practice. In class I explain that we always have to be conscious of our bodies, what we fuel it with, the amount of stress we accept, and how our practice helps to balance our intentions with reality. If we give ourselves a solid practice once a week, our bodies will reflect movement once a week. The benefits increase exponentially as you give your body more time and patience. Ideally the yogis say to practice every day, either at sunrise or sunset. Reality will tell you fit it in when you can, and try to be consistent. The gift is in the giving.
Life moves forward. It seeks the avenues to bend and move. It sprouts forth out of our source and strives to shine upward and feels life’s warmth and energy. Of course the rain comes, and especially in Florida hurricanes come as well. Last year the vine was cut back to the quick, destroyed by hurricanes. There was literally nothing but the nub. And now I run to keep up with the adventurous tendrils seeking its next plateau. When one shoot is broken off, two more shoots grow back. When a main feeder vine is cut back, another comes up in its place, in a different area. Large vines strive forward and up while smaller vines wrap and hold and support and assist. And along the way flowers pop up here and there that feed the bumblebees and hummingbirds. It helps itself seek a place to exist in harmony with its surroundings. And while it takes command of the path on which it grows, it also supports life, shows beauty, and provides shelter for other organisms. Namely ants.
The ants crawl on me as I prune. They are not fire ants, nor do they bite significantly. They crawl along the avenues and build homes to raise their families. How can I get angry when we all look for shelter and a place to call home? I just flick them off comment on how they stick to my sweat and move ahead. Just like the vine.
It is interesting to notice how my skin just starts to crawl with itching sensations the moment the first leaf hits my body. I turn red, itch, scratch, sweat, curse, rub, go faster, and repeat the cycle until the process is finished. Shouldn’t we all protect what is precious? If someone were to approach you and insist that you cannot possibly take one more step in the direction you were heading, wouldn’t you dig in your heals, roll up your sleeves and possibly bar your teeth? Fighting for life and moving forward is admirable. Lesson learned.
The reality is that the vine is a beauty. It looks shaggy by Friday, chopped back on Sunday, and laughs and wiggles and blooms all the way until the next time I give it “a good hair cut”. Every day it grows and reaches and stretches. Every day. It takes but also gives back. It desires the right to exist and bloom and show the world its talents and strength. It has patience and persistence in its intentions. And it protects and fights for what it needs to fulfill the goal of existing with intention and harmony.
Namaste~
-Henry David Thoreau
I have a weekend ritual that has started out of necessity and now is a game of “Catch the Blue Runner”. Or sky vine. Or, that stinking thing grew right before my eyes again. It started at a farmers market two seasons ago when I spotted this lovely vine with dripping purple flowers, much like the wisteria vines of the north. It appeared as a little pot, unassuming broad green flowers, and curling tendrils of baby vines seeking a place to nestle their shoots. I had this image in my mind of a gracious front porch with an impressive awning of greenery. It would wrap around the porch and have flecks of luscious amethyst blooms peeking out of inconspicuous points along the width. I would invite guests over and have them sit on the white wicker chairs and enjoy a glass of chilled lemonade, freshly made only minutes ago. We would converse and laugh as the glow of the afternoon would flit and flicker between the leaves and cast speckled patterns of shade across the porch. Knock knock, hello? Hello, is this thing on?
My consciousness inevitably converses with the grandiose part of my intellect that feeds these images to my mind and away we go. I call the vine the beast. It tries to take over the entire area where it was planted, swallowing shrubs and small ground cover flowers in its wake. It sends out large thick feeder shoots from its base and from those main arteries continues a network of intricate byways to shame the best engineering minds of mortal men. It has wrapped itself around the posts and lattice trim of the ceiling, but it also tries to engulf my front porch light, the gutters, cross over my actual ceiling, around the top, the roof, and even is so bold as to stretch tendrils out as if to grab unsuspecting visitors approaching the front door.
Four lessons were learned:
1.) The degree of effort that is expended on a project directly relates to
its outcome. Good in, good out. Crap in, crap out.
2.) Life will find a way to move forward. Bidden or unbidden.
3.) The vine is home to ants.
4.) I am allergic to the vine.
We may apply lessons one and two to our practice. In class I explain that we always have to be conscious of our bodies, what we fuel it with, the amount of stress we accept, and how our practice helps to balance our intentions with reality. If we give ourselves a solid practice once a week, our bodies will reflect movement once a week. The benefits increase exponentially as you give your body more time and patience. Ideally the yogis say to practice every day, either at sunrise or sunset. Reality will tell you fit it in when you can, and try to be consistent. The gift is in the giving.
Life moves forward. It seeks the avenues to bend and move. It sprouts forth out of our source and strives to shine upward and feels life’s warmth and energy. Of course the rain comes, and especially in Florida hurricanes come as well. Last year the vine was cut back to the quick, destroyed by hurricanes. There was literally nothing but the nub. And now I run to keep up with the adventurous tendrils seeking its next plateau. When one shoot is broken off, two more shoots grow back. When a main feeder vine is cut back, another comes up in its place, in a different area. Large vines strive forward and up while smaller vines wrap and hold and support and assist. And along the way flowers pop up here and there that feed the bumblebees and hummingbirds. It helps itself seek a place to exist in harmony with its surroundings. And while it takes command of the path on which it grows, it also supports life, shows beauty, and provides shelter for other organisms. Namely ants.
The ants crawl on me as I prune. They are not fire ants, nor do they bite significantly. They crawl along the avenues and build homes to raise their families. How can I get angry when we all look for shelter and a place to call home? I just flick them off comment on how they stick to my sweat and move ahead. Just like the vine.
It is interesting to notice how my skin just starts to crawl with itching sensations the moment the first leaf hits my body. I turn red, itch, scratch, sweat, curse, rub, go faster, and repeat the cycle until the process is finished. Shouldn’t we all protect what is precious? If someone were to approach you and insist that you cannot possibly take one more step in the direction you were heading, wouldn’t you dig in your heals, roll up your sleeves and possibly bar your teeth? Fighting for life and moving forward is admirable. Lesson learned.
The reality is that the vine is a beauty. It looks shaggy by Friday, chopped back on Sunday, and laughs and wiggles and blooms all the way until the next time I give it “a good hair cut”. Every day it grows and reaches and stretches. Every day. It takes but also gives back. It desires the right to exist and bloom and show the world its talents and strength. It has patience and persistence in its intentions. And it protects and fights for what it needs to fulfill the goal of existing with intention and harmony.
Namaste~
