You'll know your Beloved first by his eyes and the way they land on you.
You will know by the softness of his gaze, the look of love laid bare and unabashed.
You'll know your Beloved by his hands, strong and nimble, and you will know by the feel of his hand in yours and how they mold together in effortless surrender.
You will know your Beloved by the ease of your head resting against his chest, the sound of his heart rhythm and the warmth of this contact like a coming home.
You'll know your Beloved by the sound of his voice, an ancient and recognizable tune, and it will feel like no time has passed even though it's been a long, long journey.
You will recognize your Beloved through the sensation of your hands running through his hair and the smell of it, the smell of his skin, especially the magic spot just behind his ears.
You'll know your Beloved by the way he walks, a tantric revelation through shoulder and hip movements, barely seen with the physical eyes, a dance.
You'll know your Beloved by the sound of his laughter and the glint in his eyes which jump starts your Hare-- hummingbird wings in the belly.
And you will know your Beloved through kiss, the feel of his breath near you, the taste of his mouth and the timelessness of merging.

(Prema feeling romantic :))

Mary got lost tracking her soul
in the Amazonian jungles
on her way to Machu Picchu.
It's 2011, Spring, the Equinox,
and no one knows where she is.
Even Prem stops receiving signals
so high in frequency they pierce the darkest of veils, skins, white linen.
The night sky reveals a map
as Venus aligns with the drift of the moon,
and on Earth,
each person's hair stands on end.
There's more abuzz here now
than bees, birds
and other myriad acts of Beauty.

As the moon rises, Prem explores a treetop

and scales branches with birds, possoms,
and brown buttterflies camoflauged against the limbs.
She nests and flits her gaze here and there in hopes of seed.
As the night sky brightens, she dreams raccoons, jaguars,
while Mary scans the surface of a beach.
There are no bees here.
She carves a bowl in the sand, fills it with saltwater,
and places a sprig of rosemary in the middle.
She splashes her skin in blessing and calls on the sun to set.
Her quest begins anew.
Tomorrow.

When Mary was eight, she learned to fly.

It took her weeks to conquer the spring

and to topple with grace.

She'd hop just when the wind was right

and felt it sail under her feet,

then she'd tuck her chin

as she'd seen swans do,

curve her neck

and throw her belly against her spine.

Weeks turned months and finally

Mary learned to land on feet rather her bum.

Mary accomplished alone.

Prem stayed grounded at eight.

She often stared into the green wall

from her green wicker chair.

She saw forms bend and mold and resurrect with wings

and then reach for the framed corpses of bees.

This morning, one month into the future,

Prem sings back to cardinals hidden in the blast

of thickly draped oak leaves

except for the occassional flash of red.

She dreams her double

and suddenly spies Mary crouched behind a giant rock,

hiding from a man.

At first, Prem worries that Mary is in danger,

but then she sees her grin

and knows she plays a game with their Beloved.

Prem tugs at a magnolia tree

and rips a bloom larger than the palm of her hand.

In ecstasy, she holds it to her nose

and instantly what-feels-a-shotgun-blast

destroys her right cheek.

She turns to her mother who is not there:

"am I bleeding?" she shrieks.

A soft voice resounds "no"

and then the bee tumbles onto her lap,

his wings collapse, ignite,

yet he can't make the leap to safety.

His body curls and lies still

while Prem grabs a mirror

and watches herself closely

as she extracts the stinger.

Mary tosses a pebble into the creek.

Ripples.

It's been three days now

and a black and white speckled pigeon

lights on Prem's balcony rail.

He puffs his chest

and looks sidelong at her

with his red eyes.

His pink claws grip the edge,

and Prem notes an amethyst shimmer

just below his beak.

He transmits promises:

golden-haired twins,

one boy, one girl,

wrapped around Prem's long legs.

They stand in a whistling field

someplace where the land is flat,

smooth like washed cotton,

the same as the dress she wears.

She remembers two gifts:

a butter knife and a pot of meadow grass.



Meanwhile, Mary unlocks her apartment door

and a black bee swims past her shoulder,

hits the wall and rebounds into the sparse, long, empty hall.

A light flickers at the top of the spiraling staircase.

She hears his buzz, but cannot see his form.

Mary closes the door,

grabs her pen

and writes in her journal

of her love for the Gorilla Bee.

While Prem takes care of the birds,

Mary studies bees.

Prem watches mourning doves dive for second helpings

of a meal they can't remember wanting.

She keeps up with the watering,

prays for rain with heartfelt dance,

while Mary sits on levees in Missouri,

hoping the river swell subsides.

Both work for Shakti

on behalf of Shiva

until the day of the great uniting.

On the day after, a dove leaves Mary three feathers

and she weaves them into necklaces, bracelets,

alchemizes them into the gold reflected in her heart.

On the day before, Prem finds a dead bee

half eaten by ants on the sidewalk

near a lawn turned desert.

Three weeks now she suffers 100 degree weather

while Mary waits in a makeshift raft in the center of the sea.

There was once a cave they knew

like the cracks in the dry dirt.

They could read the markings,

send word on the southeast wind

and, with intention, directly go.

Not everything is forgotten.

It hides behind the blue lines in the darkening sky,

in the tapestry of the womb,

ready to be revealed.

Prem and Mary return to their chores,

silent, steady, and with unwavering focus.

It's two days after and nothing is complete.

     Whoa....Prema has a new obsession, along with sipping in episodes of 6 Feet Under that I never saw like it's fine wine and Nick Cave's new cd, Dig Lazarus Dig...

     Yes, the infinite bliss of the gong!

     Well, the gong is not always a blissful experience for the listeners; it really challenges the idea of "letting go" at a whole new level.

     I attended Mehtab and Guru Karam's Gong concert this past weekend, and although I've met the gong on many other occasions, I had never heard Guru Karam play, or a woman play, for that matter! Something radical occured when Guru Karam joined Mehtab's playing at the start of our practice. The Goddess first whispered through her subtle introductory stirrings and then moaned low, long and deep in synchronistic rhythm with Mehtab's very solar, very blasting bangs of the gong. Early in the practice, my left/right brain wanted to make sense of this masculine/feminine expression. My mind first worked desperately to catagorize the two, and then the first level of release commenced; I stopped fighting and collapsed into the messages the Universe began to present.

     I won't go into the gritty details of childhood memories that spontaneously arose and then dissolved, nor the description of my experience of self annihilation that felt at once hot and sharp and then scattered to the winds of Infinity in a cradle of soft gratitude. But I will say that I immediately bought Mehtab Benton's new book, Gong Yoga.
     Gong Yoga is a blast to read, mostly because Mehtab's authentic voice shines through each word. His humor is present as well as his gentle and clear character. I am learning tons about the history of the gong, how it is used on an energetic level for healing and enlightenment. So, I found myself early this morning at work before anyone else, feeling the urge to practice the up and down strokes illustrated in the book. I sat before the gong in reverence and opened up personal sacred space. After meditating on the breath, I pulled the velvet casing from the gong to reveal it's splendor. I chose the smaller gong to work with, since I could sit in Sukhasana and play. I started small and light and followed the sound from start to its completion, and then struck the gong a bit more strong each time. I delighted to find different tones from the edges of the circle and in towards center. I had visions of my playing for those in deep relaxation and playing with intention to heal, to transform, to journey, to reveal potential for all of my students. I caught a glimpse of the future and now I focus on self training for my Yoga and Meditation class next week where we will focus on Nada Yoga, the yoga of sound, using, yes!, the gong!
     As I complete this, I hear the sound of the gong weaving its tale in the room next door for the Kundalini students who finish their morning experience. I pause, and even with the separation of a wall, I am pulled into the etheric realms and sigh and smile. My deep gratitude for Mehtab and Guru Karam, the beauty of their playing together and then not together, the beauty and grace of their presence and the gift of yoga they share with the world. And I express again my gratitiude for the wisdom and power of the gong. I look forward to a long life together.

This morning, I woke to the sound of mourning doves flirting with one another deep in the dense foliage of the giant oak outside my windows. It had gotten cooler over night, and the dog immediately stood up from his bed on the floor when I roused and placed his chin on the bedside...code for "can I come up there?"
    I patted the side of the bed in invitation and he happily bounded up with all 65 pounds of him as if he were a mere six pounds.
    He sniffed and licked my small jaguar stuffed animal that he still insists is a real cat and then grunted in satisfaction as he placed his head on the pillow next to mine. It's rare that I stay in bed for very long in the morning these days. Today, I indulged.
     When I finally did put my feet on the ground, I opened the balcony French door and was kissed by a soft, cool breeze that entered the room and filled it with the sweet scent of oregano, lavender, lime mint, herbal scents from my mini potted garden outdoors. It was a perfect morning for a hike on the Green Belt: there were no clouds in the sky, the northern birds were dancing in the light of their new late fall/winter home, and most Austinites were still sleeping after a Friday night of partying.
     I decided to take my camera this time. Geoff and I stepped into the car and smiled all the way to the hiking path about three miles away. We could, of course, walk there on the city streets, but we decided to save all of  our energy for the tread upon sacred Earthy ground, rocks, cracked dirt and crumbling leaves.
     I took Geoff off the leash as soon as we hit the trail. He danced on and off the path, running so delightfully that his backend would bounce a foot higher than his head with each leap. He did his usual race for the creek, splash, splash, and then would bound back to me like a big white bunny gone mad with joy. I stopped here and there to get shots of him on the Path. We climbed to our Krishna cave and sat for a moment, listening to the Goddess whisper all around us, above us, below us. There were no bats in sight, no spiders. Geoff even seemed more relaxed inside the cave than he usually is.
     Then off again down the Path surrounded by blooming yellow daisies and fluttering butterflies weaving in and out of the woods. We stopped again at our secret spot, the place where I lay on my natural mesa and allow the water to roll over me as it drifts with laughter to the Colorado River (aka Town Lake in the city). I did not go in the water this time. I stayed on the rocky bank and threw sticks for Geoff to retrieve while I took pictures of him swimming them back to me.
     It was a simple morning. A luxuriously simple morning just like I love. We thought of those we adore on the Path and sent waves of heartlove their way. We envisioned a beautiful world because it was right there in front, around us, behind us, underneath us. Geoff met a little black dog friend on the way back to the car, and they played chase for the last twenty minutes of the walk. When we hit the street again, I dried Geoff and poured him some fresh Spring water. We smiled all the way back home.

 

I was eight years old when I first began to study Inkan Shamanism, and at that time, it was as if finding old friends. It was Spring, and I was assigned my first Social Studies project. It was my choice what I wanted to research, and I joyfully dove into the task. When I look back at that time period, I see how at this age I began to bloom even then into who I was becoming. It was a creative time: I was often painting, sculpting, drawing, researching and enthusiastically writing. Language and expression were pure magic for me. And at this age, sexual energies too began to fully awaken, but while my other girl friends were flirting with boys, I cooked those energies in ecstatic creative processes.

            My dad and I flipped through his mother's collection of National Geographic magazines in order to discover my first research project. I found myself intrigued by stories of native cultures, whether from Africa, North America, South America, Mexico. I was intrigued by the paint on their faces, the dances, the eyes of natives staring soulfully back at me, the jungle, the Mayan pyramids, and then there was Machu Picchu. Like love at first sight, I pointed at the page and told Dad, "this is it." We combed through the pages of the lengthy article. I smiled back at lamas grazing on the grassy Andes mountainside, at the geometric pattern of the sacred temples, at the bright pinks, black, reds woven in the Shamans' ponchos, at the ponchos themselves, at the pointed hats, and at how they held colorful bundles to the sky and their eyes spoke some Spirit language I understood in my young heart.                 

            I would dream Machu Picchu at night. I was there alone, in offering. I was a woman in the dream, with long hair that blew in the wind when I raised my outstretched arms to the sky, and then I would dream of the Amazon jungle, where I was stalked by a man, stalking like a big cat. The dream was always the same: I was never afraid; in fact, it was joy, pure joy, like the feeling I had when I was writing or drawing, and this man would always stalk his way to the same riverside to meet me and we would laugh at the sight of each other, lost friends, lost lovers found. It did not matter what it was exactly, but I knew it was a pure love, a natural love. I carried that energy into waking life, and Dad assisted me as we created a mini Machu Picchu from papier mache. My essay focused on the Inka, the Shamans, and it was as though I had uncovered diamonds-my heart a treasure-bed, and then I would return to dreaming. And as my friends continued their young search for love among school boys, I dreamed about the man in the jungle.

            I was lucky enough to be born into a music-loving household. My brothers and I grew up with psychedelic rock like Cream, Jimi Hendrix, Santana and the Doors. When I would listen to Jim Morrison, lately dubbed the electric shaman, my dreams took on new dimensions and flight. He sang trance. As a teenager, I bought my first shaman book and began to practice some of the techniques. I bought a rattle, went on sacred missions deep in the Louisiana woods and would retrieve medicine stones and feathers near murky bayous. I spent hours listening to the wind, the trees, the animals. And then I would return to my small room and scare myself with how easily I'd enter trance states.

            In college, I studied Native American history and literature, and would allow hot tears to stream down my face in Dr. Ray Miles' class as he shared "truths" behind the history we had been fed as children. My heart broke wide open. We hosted yearly Pow Wows on campus, and behind the masquerade of elaborate dress and dance and fry bread and turquoise jewelry, I caught glimpses of the intention and I was moved. I offered to drive two storytellers from the Choctaw Nation to local schools to share part of their culture and made friends with one in particular, Greyhawk, who would show up repeatedly in the next several years of my life. The last time I saw him, we both attended a Pow Wow in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina wreaked her havoc. There was immense sadness in his eyes when he described the loss of his home and the struggle to keep his wife and children happy as they searched for higher ground. All of these experiences fed the shaman-healer in me.

            Around the time I last saw Greyhawk, I decided it was finally time to leave my sales executive job and feed the yoga teacher I had become and the person in whom I longed to give full birth, the healer. I was thirty-three, divorced, with no children. I sold my car, furniture, fancy dresses and heels, cut my long dyed black hair, unveiling the silver it had begun to turn and went North to Kripalu Yoga Center in the Berkshire Mountains as a volunteer. And this is where my Dream medicine began to awaken. At Kripalu, I found both the man who had stalked me for years in my dreams and came face-to-face, forehead-to-forehead, with the shaman, Don Francisco, dressed in Inkan ceremonial garb, red, pink, black, donning his pointed hat as he gave me the Spirit rites. I recognized the man from my dreams when I first saw him as energy, big cat stealthy energy, and then I saw his face and heard clearly from within, "there he is." Ray Crist was the man to give me all rites of the Munay-Ki and to help polish all that hid the natural radiance within. With him, I experienced the energy of a love so pure in my own heart that I thought inconceivable in this lifetime. I assisted Dr. Alberto Villoldo in his Four Winds' master classes within that year at Kripalu, and the last thing he told me as he patted my hand was, "you've probably gotten what you've needed from us already to do the work," after I had asked him about the Healing the Light Body School. And like a blessing, I knew that I had been waiting for something simple...another human being's permission and gentle push. I now live in Austin, Texas, teaching yoga full-time and assisting others in reclaiming their power and recognizing their luminosity. I continue to pass on this gift of Munay-Ki, the source of love, and I continue to work with developing Dream medicine/ Dream Power since I now "see" its workings in my own life. This story has only just begun.