Moon Dance

It starts in a quaint leafy garden. I sit in a daydream on the cute little rickety bench. It is dusk: the changing of the guards in the sky. Jimmy Morrison is quietly wailing inside, wafting out the back door. You’re wandering from room to room –

Where’s my belt?

Slicking your hair –

Here it is.


So charming, so handsome as you stare intently.

Right, I think that’s all I need…

You don’t say anything you just look at me with a knowing and –

What are you smiling at?

“Why are you sitting out here in the rain?” You ask, joining me on the bench.

It’s raining – ha! I hadn’t even noticed. Then, a single, lingering –

A little kiss.

A soft assuredness. I hold your gaze. You quietly hum along to Jimmy.

I wet my lips. I can still feel the urgency of your mouth on mine, your warm hand cupping my cheek, as you press into me. You draw your face away but I lift my legs onto your lap and slide in closer to you, your mouth, your breath still close.

“Come on, we should go inside.”

My heart sinks. “We should.” I say.

Your lips grab a sting of wet skin at my neck sending a chill up my spine. But then you’re gone, swallowed up by the house, by the day. The thrill racing through my body gets me up to standing. I am wired. I want to hold this feeling – my skin tingling – I can’t contain it. I surge forward.

The slam of the back door snaps me awake. She’s gone. Raindrops pound on my bedroom window. I squint, straining to see through the thick wall of rain, searching. A thunderclap booms.
 A flicker darts across my yard. A burst of lightning and she’s there – bones, limbs flashing – just for a moment.

Wait it’s gone.
The wind groans and – wait, no – my blood beating. I’m still dreaming. I know it. Wake up! I want to see! That’s insane. Why would anyone be out…? My eyes dart around the room. Wake up! I’m alone in the bed. I remind myself again. The pillows next to me still hold the concave shape where her head lay. But I am alone. My blood pumps faster as my eyes search the darkness once more.

Thunder groans.

I wait for the lightning to strike. The wind howls, billowing across the window pane until – yes! Finally the light cracks and her eyes slap me in the face, wicked… taunting… They are locked into mine. A shrill down my spine pulls me under the windowsill. My heart is pounding. It’s dark.

The naked banshee is out there, exposed by the light. She’s waiting. She saw me, too. I grab my nerve and slowly crawl back from my hiding space. The darkness has slipped away slightly so I can just make her out. I sit dumbfounded, in awe. It feels childish, sick, pervy even. But I can’t look away. She is…

Suddenly the wind whips her hair sky high. Her body ripples, it cowers and lets out a hideous shriek. The rain is pounding down. Her heavy hair clutches desperately at her back. Her pale skin sparkles in the moonlight. She flicks her head back, suddenly violent, mouth wide to lap it up. Her arms outstretched, her eyes wild. It’s intoxicating. I can barely breathe. But then a giggle falls out of my mouth, catching me by surprise. I’m drowning and she’s dancing, mooching, seductive and slow. Her shrill laughter leaps over the storm. She’s glorious! She’s everywhere and everything and stop! Stop this! Stop it now! I want you here!

And then she’s gone. Where…?

I dart quickly back through the squeaky, snapping door. I want you to feel this.

Then I hear the snap of the door. The urgent footsteps down the corridor. Fuck. Fuck. I’m fucking shitting it – quick! No! Don’t move a muscle. Sleep!

Darkness. I scan the room: the outline of the bed, the window, the drawers. Then, slowly you appear. I can just make out your torso, your broad shoulders looking up to the ceiling. I stand staring at you. You have no idea I am here, do you?

I can hear you dripping on the floor.

I’m soaked. My hair clings to me. The chill of it slips down my body and forms a puddle at my feet.

I hear you tiptoe quietly.

I tiptoe carefully, quietly round the base of the bed. I want to look at you. To see your face, your skin, the shape of your back as it cascades along to your waist. Stripped bare. I could do anything to you right at this moment. You don’t even know who I am, what I’m capable of. Your hand lies close to your face, strong and gentle. I remember the palm of that hand, holding, pressing, loving my skin.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” I hear you say, slowly waking up.

The sun is rising. You reach out drowsily and clutch my hand. For a moment I can feel you.

“Don’t leave me.”


But you know I have to.

I put my head on your chest, wrap my arms tightly around your waist and tell you I will never let you go.

Say it.

“I don’t want to let you go.”

Again. Quick!

“I don’t want to let you go.”


I hold you close.
 It’s just you and me, gently rocking back and forth.

I don’t want to.

Don’t wake up.

But I don’t –

Please, sleep.

Don’t go.

Please! Don’t!

But as I rise every morning, she is gone.

Hidden

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There is a longing in my chest that aches for you. Thoughts of you suffocate my day as I wait here in the shadows, under the comfort of thick, warm blankets.

Do you even know?

Your brilliant beam illuminates the Earth. And she bursts with colour and life for you. We danced and played in her waves, ducking, weaving and diving with joy in our hearts. But your brilliance is blinding and I am lost at sea with each pulling tide.

You said you loved me, once. Your face was all aglow. And for a moment I truly believed.

But I am called back to my place amongst the stars. And you must chase the day.

You etch a scar on my heart every time you turn your face away. You have left a thousand marks that shoot out of me and scatter across the universe. I have spent years catching each and every one and pinning them on the galaxy’s ceiling. There they shimmer with the memory of you.

When you grow tired of running, know that I will be waiting. And we will dance until we fall down out of the sky. And there we will rest. And you will tell me the story of how the sun loved the moon so much, he died every night to let her breathe.

Hatha, as in hatha yoga, is sometimes taken to mean sun and moon from the syllables “ha” and “tha” representing solar and lunar energies. Yoga means “yoke”, so hatha yoga is a binding or yoking together of solar and lunar energies.

Fire Fly

My eyelids draw to a close as I drag deeply on my cigarette. The gentle insect drone hangs in the hot air, swelling inside my head, as I sit here alone on the back step.

I love this hour. Coming home late from work to the old, sleeping farmhouse. The smell of sweat, garlic and sweet fruit infused on my fingertips. I’m away from the city, away from the world. Just me, and the stillness of the outback. We’re old friends now.

Staying up into the early hours of the morning has become of my hobbies recently.

I take a generous swig of wine and hold it in my mouth for a moment, letting my tongue soak in the dark grape. The eucalyptus trees that line the stream at the end of the field are silhouetted against the city lights. As I let the mouthful of wine escape down my throat I wonder how many of those skyscrapers are occupied right now. Bustling with worker bees hammering away at their desks. Shutting out the world and zoning in on spreadsheets, deadlines and bonuses: The Important Stuff. Why do we do this to ourselves? What is the point?

Christ, who the hell do you think you are? You think working in the kitchen is ‘the shit’, like you’ve got it all worked out, huh? Who are you kidding?

But at least I’m happy.

Well, most of the time. When Cam’s on.

Aren’t I?

Well, yeah, why not? I like the work, I like the people. What else do you need? And Cam is a pisser – man, I’d hang around that joint just so I can muck around with him – he’s quality!

Fuck, I don’t know. It’ll do for now.

I take another drag, another mouthful.

I can’t stay here forever – I know that. This house will fall apart, for one.

I do want more than this though. I deserve more. At least, I hope I do.

Wondering what I’m doing with my life is fast becoming another hobby of mine.

I try to quiet my mind with another drag, another mouthful.

Then, a distraction of another kind. Beyond the trees, something glows. I squint my eyes and concentrate on the spot. It’s a red ring with a centre of bright white.

The bushfires. Of course, I had forgotten. I remember a sound bite from the morning’s news debating whether or not they had been deliberately lit. They were big this year. It kind of amazes me that someone would have the guts to do it. It’s an amazement that borders on awe. The exhileration, the buzz they must feel seeing the blaze, the press, the control through the destruction…

Another drag, another mouthful.

Wait a minute. The ring looks bigger now. It can’t be. The fires are miles away. They can’t reach us here.

Can they?

I squint my eyes, harder this time.

Images start dancing out of the flames, morphing into solid silhouettes.

There is a figure. It dances alone in the flames. It’s hypnotic. I’m transfixed on their flight, the flow. It’s hard to make out if the heat is radiating off their flesh or if they are burning. But then the figure steps forward, further into the bright light at the centre of the flames and I can see him. His skin is dry and his cheeks are pale.

I look away then and reach for the wine bottle sitting beside me. This wine must be strong. Or I’m drinking way too fast. I sniff the opening and scan the label. Everything looks ok. I light up another cigarette and turn my gaze back to the flames.

They’re much bigger now. And closer. I can almost make out his features now. The flickering flames form fingers and limbs. Four arms protrude from his body. A drum is tucked under one, another points towards his lifted foot, the third is on his heart and the fourth hand is extended, his palm facing me.

An old memory flashes to mind – I’m walking to school. I come to the pedestrian crossing. The man in the white coat with bright reflectors across his torso waits. As I approach, he holds out his hand to the traffic on either side. He keeps his hand in place as he strolls confidently into the road, blows his whistle loud and clear and I sprint across to the other side.

‘Go, little fire fly! Run like the wind!’, he would call after me. And my legs would shoot off, gaining pace, going faster and faster. My heart racing. My blood pumping.

My palms are sweating.

What the hell is going on? I’m being pulled from my seat, compelled forward – by what? What is this?! My blood pumps faster and I have am forced to grip my hands on the step beneath me just to ground myself to the spot.

I am not of my body. It wants to run, wants to chase.

My gaze locks on the figure. It is fully formed now. And so close. Come on. Come to me. Step out from the flames. Come to me. Open up my chest. Nestle under my ribcage. You’ve ignited the engine, now ignite my heart. Show me what I am. Do that for me. Please.

Do it. Do it now.

Come to me. Do it.

Why don’t you come?

What’s your problem?!

What are you waiting for?

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SO AFRAID OF?!

I hear myself scream out loud.

And suddenly my body takes over. I shoot off the stairs and I am running. Running with the heat, the buzzing insects cheering me onwards. My lungs gasping for air. Running towards the ring of fire. Wanting, reaching, chasing. He holds my gaze until my chest cries out, ripping inside my chest. My body lurches, wincing, my eyes clenching. I come to a grinding hault, my hands on my knees to hold me upright. I heave the air in.

I open my eyes and look up. He is gone. So too is the fire.

And it’s just me, alone. Standing in the middle of the field. My old friend softly hums to me while I catch my breath. I wait as my pulsating veins calm themselves. Waiting somewhere between home and the rest of the world.

 

In the Nataraja statues, Shiva dances alone in a ring of flame. When this image has four arms, one hands holds the drum, signifying both the rhythm of time and our own heartbeats; another gestures toward his lifted foot. A third hand is raised in abhaya mudra, which resembles our modern gesture for “stop”, but in this case signifies “fear not”. The fourth is in teaching mode. One foot, usually the left, is crushing a small misshapen figure representing ignorant action, while the other lifts, indicating liberation.

– Downward Dogs & Warriors: Wisdom Tales for Modern Yogis, Zo Newell (2007, pg. 36)

Dharma Dog’s Addiction

The grooves on the lid of the jar strain against the skin on my hand. Fucking – stupid – bloody – argh! – why do they make them so – fucking owwww! – give up – no! Fuck you I want some fucking peanut butter – fatty – what did you say? – someone will walk in any second now – why can’t I open – you really want them to see this? – FUCK!!!

A squeal from the other room. It pierces my ear and punches me in the stomach, ricocheting up my spine. I leap out of myself, over the toybox, army roll down the corridor and dive over the the bike parked ever so cleverly in the one of the most frequented pathways in the entire house. By the time I have made it through the gauntlet and into the living room doorway, the shrill has dissolve into an infectious giggle. It bounces around her body with boundless energy.

His tail kicks up such a desperate dance. It’s determined to snap off from his backside and fly off back to it’s maker, unaware that it’s already home. He has her tiny frame pinned to the floor with all four paws and a sloppy, wet tongue. He’s strategic – I’ll give him that: he’s got shoulders, hips and face covered – she’s not going anywhere. Not that this ever crosses her mind. She is exactly where she wants to be. Right here, right now, this is her bliss. Her truth. All of her short five years on the planet have come to this moment. And she is all light and love.

“Kitti, you ok there?”

It’s a stupid question, really. I feel sheepish as soon as it leaves my mouth. She, on the other hand, pays it no attention. It doesn’t even make a dint on her bliss bubble. It simply bounces off into the stratosphere, deleted from reality.

Their love is impenetrable. He can’t help but smother her with joy. It’s completely out of his control. She is helpless to it’s power. She can do nothing but surrender herself of it.

I smile and let out a long breath. I realise I am still holding the peanut butter jar. It’s no longer cutting grooves into my skin. Without shifting my gaze from the two friends on the floor, I gently twist open the lid, plunge my middle finger in and scoop out a generous dollop. I wrap my mouth around my peanut-buttered digit, relishing the salty goodness.

Who needs artificial distractions to entertain our minds when life itself shows us when – and how – to shift our focus? The illuminated life is so much more vibrant than we give it credit for. If we would only pay attention.

 

Dharana (focus) is holding one’s awareness in one place – Part 3, Sutra #3

This steady single focus propagating unceasingly is Dhyana – Part 3, Sutra #2

“As a man thinketh, so shall he be.”

It is better to live your own dharma unsuccessfully than to try to live someone else’s dharma. – Bhagavad Gita

Chandra

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I dare not look away from her gentle eyes for fear that they might shatter into a thousand tiny stars.

“This cannot be.” I hear her say, “It is time to move on.”

I cannot get these last words out of my mind. That, and the moment we met. All those years ago.

Her startling, blue eyes flashed up at mine as she boarded the tram. Panic washed over her face as she caught my eye before her pretty features scanned for a seat. A smirk crept over my face, shuffling in my seat, as the thrill shot through my body. Her head adopted a slight tilt as she stared out the window, giving way to the dreamy lilt of her world as she drew in a long, deep breath.

“Next stop Commercial Road. This tram will turn at Commercial Road.”

The tram tugged on the bearings below, wincing to a stop. She scrambled with the tiny clasp on her little red bag. Finally stuffing her phone inside, she leapt off her seat and made a bee line for the door, her tall heels clumping loudly on the hard floor.

My senses rocketed as I stood close behind her. I could see the tiny blonde hairs on the back of her exposed neck. The skin on her neck tightened as her head turned over her shoulder, her lips pouting, before snapping out of my vision to greet the opening doors. A soft, sweet scent wafted over me as I stepped through the ghostly remnants of her figure.

She wandered further along the tram stop, pausing as the tram slid away. I flung myself up onto the railing and perched my bum onto the cold metal bar. The thud of my bag hitting the concrete made her neck and shoulders jerk in my direction. I quickly caught her gaze. A broad, brilliant smile spread across her face. She quickly hid it from me, but I’d already caught the disease – my face also breaking into an involuntary smile. My eyes eagerly traced the slim line of her legs and waist.

The headlights of the oncoming tram bore down on us. Man that got here fast – too fast. She recoiled from the brightness and cocked her head towards me again. This time she didn’t look away but rather took a ride over my body, her eyes ducking swiftly from my feet to my crotch, flitting to my brow before finally coming to rest on my eyes again. It was my turn to flash my pearly smile and I did so, confidently now. She was hooked.

She barely seemed to notice the tram hurtle boisterously into the stop beside her.

“Hi.” I said. Her body jolted slightly, stunned.

“Hi.” Came her confident reply, her voice shocking me momentarily. It was strong, mature and womanly. It seemed odd against her small frame. My heart raced. That’s intimidating. She’s different.

“I’m Surya.” I choked out, my confidence escaping me.

She bit her lip before replying in her warm, melodic voice, “Chandra.”

The bell of the tram rang into the night air, penetrating the tunnel vision that had taken over us. My head jerked away from her eyes as I leapt off the railing. When I looked up again, she had vanished. I clambered onto the tram, my head tossing around wildly in search of her.

There. She was staring straight at me. The side of her mouth turned up at the edges. The carriage was silent and empty around us. The disease took us both then, ridiculous grins running rampant. I strolled carefully and deliberately towards her. As I slid into the seat beside her, our eyes locked.

“Hello again. Are you following me?” I teased.

She grinned. A wild, cheeky flash in her eye now. “I guess it would appear that way now, wouldn’t it?”

Candra or Chandra (चन्द्र) comes from the Sanskrit word meaning “moon” or “luminous, as in the light from the moon”.

Regarding the philosophy behind Hatha Yoga, it is understood that ideally, in perfect health, a male predominantly expresses those qualities attributed to the Sun and a female predominantly expresses the Moon qualities. – See more here.