Collecting bottles, tossing leftovers, taking out the garbage
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Gayle Garrison is a Chapel Hill yoga teacher by day.
If only I can hang in there until again I can find that terrible solitude that keeps company with the crags of unknownness. How those spaces scare me, but it is the only thing which even approaches satisfaction of integrity.
In the space of the four years following this small event, my consciousness has been assaulting itself with pointed questions who’ve led me into vast, unknown, and sometimes positively obliterating stretches of mind.
It might be a sin against space or reality to try to concretize things into words. Then again there is this urge to describe the moment. What is this urge? Why is it so?
Being well, what can we call it? Freedom from physical disturbance, from illness, or from psychological tensions? Is it freedom from illusion and self-imposed limitation? Well-being probably encompasses all of these interrelated conditions as well as others whose reality is unmet as of yet.
If we are to build on earth a shelter that is a shrine to the infinite potential of humanity, we must come to terms with the roots of creativity, which is itself the art of building forms whose function reveals purpose.
What each can contribute toward the good of the whole is definite and needed. So each must ask himself or herself how we qualify or color the lines of force which course through us as human beings.
The dust of sham recognition settled over the furniture where I should move about. Do I stir it and sneeze, or move so delicately that only molecules will notice me?
Just today I found that the dialogue with a book supersedes the lecture being given by it. Some compilers of books even work upon that premise.