closing time

Two in the morning is just too late
for a girl like me to go to dream
two nights now
two a.m. is nothing but
Tequilla and techno
the Truckers and who knows...
what is keeping us all up tonight

tweet tweet

Fresh Tracks

Walking down Second Street
taking artful, erratic steps
slow languishing Southern drawl steps
wide and small steps,
a skid
a slash
a hop-hop-hop.

It's momentary art
Like the Buddhas and their mandalas
of sand
built to blow away
to be buried
to change and manifest.

Such is life

It is snowing again

snowing again

Just my two feet and
eight perfect paws
tracking up the freshly fallen snow
creating what could only be described as
"Modern Art" (one can get away with anything, it seems)

All black
All white
tonight

We forgo the sidewalk for straight down the street
cuz we can
in Carbondale
on Sunday night

the tree trunks are glistening wet
striking black
with bent branches stretching out like spiny fingers to the sky

stark
still
silent
skinny

like a coked out fashion model on a New York runway

the trees seem so vacant tonight

almost lonely

I float on my feet down that long flat river of white-wet
it is damp,
but not cold
smells like winter is fighting with spring

I pause under the streetlamps
gazing at the water
falling
as flakes of snow

can't move

frozen in time

like a Norman Rockwell painting,
still, but animated
a girl looking up
under a lamp
flakes as big as cotton balls piling up on her hat, her jacket,
her pink face

It is a look,
her look,
like a Mona Lisa smile,
that would make a passerby
pause and wonder
just what she's thinking
as she breathes in this moment


Keep looking
and you will see
she is mesmerized by the light
the falling snow

and

the soft
sudden
silence
of
Second Street
on Sunday.

weary

no more liquid to lubricate the right and left side
unbalanced
slouching
sliding
under the table

why not get up

there is nothing left to see

maybe they find you there in the morning
still waiting

for inspiration

...here comes the sun

Budweiser

(Just thinking while drinking)

In some parts of the Mid West
grits are considered a vegetable
more than an average sidedish
covered in cheese
even
to compliment the plate-sized steak
that
is slightly more pink
than the charcoal
on the grill
there are lines and lines of people with heavy platters of flesh hanging over the stools at the Chuck-a-Rama all-you-can-eat buffet in Little Rock, Arkansas
Mrs. Clinton stops by for a photo op with "America today" and talks at length
about universal health care
A man is choking on a bit of all-American meat and potatoes
or grits
he desparately reaches for the that red and white bottle
his wife pounds his back and screams
"Save my baby! Save my baby!"

The hospital won't get paid

A private jet lands in Aspen
the insurance executives hail a cab to find their accomodations
downtown
penthouse
$5,000 a night

Baby isn't going to make it

His woman (we just assumed she was his wife) wails in the emergency room
"Why? Why? Why?"

The ER doc shakes his weary head
simultainiously, in another more animated reality,
one with glitter and gold,
the executives
reach for their complementary bottle of Dom Perignon
summer sausage
and cheese



Living high on the hog


dying like dogs

choking on inequality
poor food choices

reaching for
the King of Beers
to wash it all down

drawn in half

Throw me a line
I'm still sinking

Thinking,
"Did I ever leave?"

Because I am a thousand miles away

still feeling
the water
whipping my face
from the back of that wave
as I watched you disappear

smaller and smaller

the sun on my skin
precious poison

tasting the salt
under another rainbow

still swimming
pretending to hold on
to this tiny piece of foam
to preserve
this life...

that one, actually

gazing out to the horizon
waiting
for one last wave

but it's never enough

Speaking in tongues

Speaking in tongues

I can't understand
I can't hear

I speak

instead

with my
tongue
in your mouth

Comprende?

Pulling in deep

Once again, I believe life
can be compared to a ride
on a gorgeous
breaking wave

a vertical face

THE DROP

the speed
the balance
the fear
the excitement
the thrill of it

Don't forget to breathe!

Open your eyes!

It's over so quick


It evaporates

Then it is rain

We live again

The stunning reality

What you believe you manifest:

I am able

I am rare and exquisite.

I am taller than you

I am a believer

Yes, you can, but will you?

Once all the confetti settles, the yard signs are recycled and the Conservatives are tucked snugly in their beds, Obama will be president.
Things will be the same as they were, or a little different, for most people.
Except for me, that is.
I will be sitting at a Carbondale Town Council meeting at 10:30 p.m. with a packet of papers in front of me as thick as the New York Times on Sunday and a self-proclaimed do-good developer with a vein popping out of his forehead pushing for just four more feet and five more units wondering why I am not playing hockey and drinking beer.
You see, I almost got swept up in election madness and thought I should get involved in politics. It was so exciting; I was giddy. I was part of the process last week at the Carbondale Democratic Caucuses.
I got to vote.
And it felt good for once.
"Yes we can," I was thinking as I raised my hand for Obama,
"Yes We Can!"
And then, at that vulnerable moment, just guess who (I’m not going to out her) said to me and every young, impressionable person with a pulse around, "We need some younger people to run for the town council. It is up to you! There are four seats open!"
Well, young impressionable number one just had a kid and has two jobs and just can’t do it. Number two had a similar story relating that "Scott Chaplin was right. No young person around here can afford to take on what is equivalent to a part time job with little compensation. I can’t even afford to live here as it is," he said.
Then me, (I was number three), "I’d love to... but, I’m really, really busy on Tuesdays. Usually playing hockey and drinking beer."
I said that kind of as a joke, but not really. It has actually been suggested to me on more than one occasion that I consider running for town council because, one, there are four seats up, and two, it seems like a bunch of people think it’s important for the board to somewhat represent the Carbondale community. And, while I am tan, I am not Hispanic, so I can’t help there, but, what I am, still (thank God), is young.
What I have proven, through my stint as a Valley Journal reporter, is that I can (Yes, I CAN!) sit through hours and hours of town council meetings, stay awake, take notes and write a summary of the important parts. And I live in town. So, voila! I am a qualified candidate.
Why is it that I, or the many other way-more-qualified-than-me young people of Carbondale, am not running right over to town hall to get the petition and gather the 25 qualified signature to run?
The answer is simple, time.
It takes more than one job and more than one income to afford to live in Carbondale. So, Scott was right when he said affordable housing in some form or another has got to be a high priority for Carbondale and any town like it.
I work (or ski) all the time (yes, teaching yoga is ‘work’). My husband Spencer works (or skis) all the time. We neglect our pets. If we had kids, we would likely neglect them, too. And we neglect each other, rarely spending our "free" time together because we have so much other stuff to do, like clean the house or install a new front door. Woo-hoo! And then, at the end of the season, when we do have time, guess what? Were not going to just hang out in Carbondale (as decidedly hip as it is.) We’re going south, far south, where the politics and mud of small town living and springtime is nothing but a whisper on the wind as we drink ourselves silly, surf, sun, and make up for lost sex.
So, while it is tempting to get involved, especially after a contagious caucus, the reality is, most of the young set wants to be young. We want to party and play when were not working to pay the bills for all these thrills.

But, if I was running for council my campaign would be "Keep Carbondale weird." I would want a slate of candidates so the four of us could ensure the weirdness for the future generations. I already asked my husband if he would run with me, thinking that if we both got elected it would eliminate one of the problems I would face on getting elected on my own and taken away from him on yet another night. But, he declined. "I’m waaaaay too busy," he said. Figures.

If I were to run for town council, which I’m not, I would also make it an absolute priority to finish what we have started. Yeah, yeah, yeah, every candidate says that, I know. It’s almost like Obama getting all this milage out of "change".
Are people really buying that? I sure hope so.
My goal (not that I would come in with an agenda or anything) would be to somehow fix the entrance to Carbondale. When I was working at the Valley Journal, I came across an article from 1982 that was all about how the town had plans to buy the property at the Highway 133/Highway 82 intersection to make an inviting entrance to town. That was 26 years ago and as far as I can tell, the entrance is still pretty uninviting. Then, a few years ago, a citizen group got all excited about building a river park out there including some kayaking features. The town spent almost $100,000 on studying the feasibility of the whitewater features, and even went so far as to draw all these amazing connecting trails and picnic tables and the like, but they forgot one small detail. The town doesn’t own the land. Duh.
So, whoever gets elected to the town council, whether you’re weird or not, rich, white, old or young, please, please, please, do something about the entrance to town. And do something about Highway 133 through town. I want to turn left out of Dos Gringos without my life flashing in front of me. Do it before 2040 when I am rich and retired and thinking it just might be my time to sit on the board. I’m sure by then there will be much bigger issues to deal with, like where are all of us old geezers supposed to live, and who is going to take care of us now that we have no social security.
I guess I better get back to work.

Mayonnaise, oil, lotion, sweat: Life, lubricated

BY: Gina "Greasy-o" Guarascio

Mayonnaise.
It was a creamy white concoction I knew I should stay away from, but the fries glistened with grease and called out for more, so I dipped. Mayonnaise mixed with roasted garlic, rosemary and then some ketchup, it was just about the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Accompanying this marvelous mayo, was a masterpiece of meat (local meat), a yummy soft bun, (no doubt organic), and some kind of fried mushrooms and onions crispy and caramelized on top. Dipped in mayo, this mound of meat was just about the best thing this mouth has ever tasted, compliments of the local kitchen, Restaurant Six89. Talking about "the local kitchen" it has been said that the new restaurant downtown, ella, which calls itself "the local kitchen", has the best burger in town. Now, I have had a chance to sample both (I called it a work assignment, seeing as I decided to write about mayonnaise. Next, I will assign myself the breaking story, "who has the best dessert"), and both are praiseworthy for sure. They are made with locally raised beef, and puffy, fluffy white buns. And, similar to any handsome man with the same qualities (local beef and fluffy buns), they both leave you immensely satisfied, but eventually heavy hearted.
(When one writes about Mayonnaise, it must be noted, that when traveling south of the border, Mayonnaise is the ultimate "go with everything" condiment. Latinos love the mayo so that there is even a song about it, aptly called "La Mayonaisa". When thinking about cultural integration in Carbondale, perhaps we need to look no further than the Miracle Whip.)
Oil.
Acting bitchier than my anxious border collie on the now-anxious mailman, I thought to myself, "I gotta eat!" It had been at least eight hours and four massages (given, not received) since I had ingested calories and I felt I was beginning to cannibalize myself. And I know from past experiences, when you starve yourself, your body doesn’t start by eating up the excess fat in the thighs and tummy, it goes right for the boobs. And that’s something I just can’t afford to lose. So I’m at the Snowmass Mall, about to drive home in a snowstorm, again (Epic!), and my boobs are shrinking. I look left, I look right... Behold! Taste of Philly, Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory and The Daly Bottle Shop (liquor) all within about ten steps. Eureka! Warm-looking foreign people looked at my shallow eyes, my sinking chest, and offer to help me. "I’ll take a Philly cheese steak please... Yes, I want the foot-and-a-half long one," I say. The senor in the back throws some peppers, onions, garlic and meat on the extra long skillet and then pours about a quart of oil out of a pitcher onto the vegetables and meat I will momentarily ingest. OIL, Mmmm. Then off I was to the chocolate factory for a caramel apple imbedded with peanuts like a Bagdad reporter in a tank or the trenches, (going for at least a B-cup in the chest here), and then for a bit of grog to wash it all down just one more short shop away. What a gastrointestinal goldmine up there! I felt like I was on vacation for just a second, smiling at all the tourists with apples stuck in their mouths like pigs ready to roast, browsing the 50% off $50 faux fleece frumpy wear, thinking I might look cool in a "Snowmass Rules, Vail Drools" T-shirt... but then, wistfully, driving away from all that mall magic with only a foot-and-a-half hot steak to keep me warm on that long lonely highway home.
Lotion.
Naked bodies are my business. I’m always ready to spread the love. So far I’ve gone through almost a gallon jug of massage lotion this season. That’s a lot of lubrication. It slides and glides so easily over those worn and torn bodies. They come from all over the world, they absorb my cream as if in a dream, letting go of stress and steam. If only they could add some mayonnaise to their days... there could be nothing better than a rub and some grub. A little motion and some lotion (maybe some mayo) is all it takes to make the world a better place, I’ve found. Food for thought, you don’t have to be a certified massage therapist to give someone a rub. It’s a nice thing to do, just set you intentions straight (what I mean here is, don’t do it just to get laid, guys), get some kind of lotion and give someone you like some love.
Sweat.
It’s a 90 minute beginning Hatha yoga class that I teach or take every day in a room heated to about 105 degrees, humidity lingering around 40%. Everyday, I am surrounded by sweat. It drips on the floor and makes my yoga mat go "squish". If it’s a really good hot class, people fling it on the mirror, inadvertently, as they stretch, equal and simultaneously, in the Triangle or Bow Pulling Pose. Some people say, "Ewww, that’s so gross." I say, "Yes! I love sweat dripping down my nose, into my clothes, and onto the floor all of my days. Hey looky there, I think I see some mayonnaise."

Sometimes words don’t always slide right in to place. Sometimes you eat too much, drive too fast and drip oil on your favorite coat. Sometimes you sweat when you don’t want to. Life is funny that way, but you just keep on sliding by, whether it’s on the road, on the snow, in the classroom, the office or right at home. When life is lubricated, you’ve just got to go with the flow.

Y B NRML, when you can be weird

BY: Gina "Dorkina" Guarascio


She was "that" girl in high school. The one who wore those tall black boots that zipped up the side with heels, short skirts, red lips, charcoal on her eyes - plaid, strips, dots - colors all over, or, completely, totally, black.
Whatever screamed, "Look at me!" she wore.
She was the preachers daughter, no doubt rebelling against the stoic family values her father (who eventually divorced and ran off with the secretary) espoused every Sunday. She had a little VW Rabbit that clipped right along, buzzing through the school parking lot everyday. Her license plate read "Y B NRML". She roared by, a glare glued on her face.
While I kept my distance from "that" girl, like everyone did, I could totally relate. My biggest fear in life, ever since I old enough to contemplate such things, was being "normal". Even more, just being mediocre, average, the same same. So, I could relate to "Y B NRML" and her crazy, freakish ways, even though I was much more of a dork than a freak. For some reason, I didn’t care. Even in my tender teenage years I knew that life was a precious gift and I wasn’t going to just blend in with the wallpaper. I didn’t have to have some terminal illness to realize this, or have my friends die in rivers and on the road to know that one must live for the day.
This day.
Today.
It was easier when I was younger to live like that, without a care, really just taking it one moment at a time. I could let my mind, my body, my spirt, drift, shackled only by the limits of the universe, or more accurately, by my own imagination. It was easier when all my belongings fit in my car and when I didn’t mind sharing the floor with the cockroaches or crabs in some foreign country. It’s harder the older I get, the more stuff I acquire, the more bills I pay... add to the mix a husband, two hounds and a condo and my "Carpe Diem!" looks a lot like everyone elses. But I’m OK with that now. I don’t have to paint my lips red and wear the black zip up boots and proclaim, out loud, for everyone to see, "Look, I am NOT normal. I am NOT like everyone else!"
Just like any teenager with a mohawk, blue hair, piercings _______ (fill in the blank) or a tattoo on the lower back, I’ve screamed out. I’ve demanded to be different by doing dumb things that are really all the same as everyone else who yearns to validate just how special and unique they are. Guess what? We’re all different, we’re all special. So what? Being different isn’t my goal anymore, being better is my goal, being interesting, and interested, being provocative, enlightened, healthy, happy, passionate, out loud, and at times, completely outrageous.
Anything but boring.
Anything but average.
Anything but mediocre.
My guru, Bikram Choudhury often says, "I hate boring people." Yeah, it’s not cool to hate, but the world is full of stuffed suits, stuffing their faces and perpetuating the madness of mediocrity while selling you an image of everything that you are not. I think it’s time we all got naked (figuratively, at least til spring time), and sang songs on the street. Let your light shine.


"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that frightens us. We ask ourselves: Who am I to be, brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually who are you not to be?"
- Marianne Williamson

If George W. Was a Buddhist

(Published in The Valley Journal after I visited the Dalai Lama. What an inspiration!)

"My religion is kindness" Dalai Lama

I wish I spent the weekend with George W. Bush. I do.
If Bush would’ve come along with me, he would’ve traveled far from his cozy home in a small economy car burning radiator fluid.
It’s further than you think it’s going to be to the Shambhala Mountain Center outside of Fort Collins, Co, just 20 miles from the Wyoming border.
Bush would’ve seen the Dalai Lama who was to visit the center early Sunday morning to bless the Great Stupa of Dharmakaya, the largest Buddhist shrine in North America.
Bush and I would have camped in the biting cold on Saturday night, not quite asleep, as it was much too cold for that, but soberly looking up at a smear of stars and planets in our solar system of which we are one tiny part of.
We would awake before dawn with the same excitement and anticipation I remember on Christmas eve knowing Santa Claus was coming to bestow gifts upon me which I so righteously deserved.
We would walk somewhat dumbly along the path with the other 2,500 people who had managed to make it high up into the mounting this clear, cold morning.
W. Would’ve been freezing cold down to his pinky toe but he would’ve been smile at all the people he met along the trail. They would have given him hope that there is a chance for a better world. We will evolve.
When the Dalai Lama’s helicopter flew over the Stupa, to land in the field below, Bush might have clasped his hands together in excitement and anticipation as so many others did. Perhaps an elevator of emotion would shoot up from his gut and lodge itself in his throat like it did for me. Maybe his arms would have risen into the air to wave a greeting to this figure so many relate to and hold so dear.
"‘This is the 14th Dalai Lama," he might muse to himself recalling all of the times he’d seen this gentle man’s face on book covers, calendars, newspapers and the like and felt as if he’d known him. But this was the first time to see him up close and personal.
"The Tiger, Lion, Garuda and Dragon have all landed, " announced the MC of the event sending chills up my spine. I would look at G. W. and see a spark.
If George W. spent the weekend with me he would’ve heard Buddhist prayers in Tibetan and English, Queen Noor of Jordan’s prayers in Arabic and English, a Jewish rabbi’s prayers in Hebrew and English and prayers for grandmother earth from Chief Looking Horse in Lakota.
He might have been moved.
"This century should be the century of dialogue," said the Dalai Lama. "The past century somehow became a century of violence, century of bloodshed."
Later the Dalai Lama added, "If we don’t increase kindness, more Bin Ladin types will come."
Could Bush hear this pedestrian wisdom? Would he share it with others in his camp?
"There are no national boundaries. The whole globe is becoming one body," His Holiness said. "In these circumstances, I think war is outdated ... Destruction of your neighbor is actually destruction of yourself."
Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche, one of Tibet’s highest and most respected lamas, said cultivating compassion is the best, most practical way to preserve the world. "Aggression is shortsighted," he said.
Are you listening G.W.?
"Let voices of moderation and reason call out to all religions...all religions are based on respect for freedom, justice and compassion in the name of God," said Queen Noor who continued to say compassion is essential and means opening our hearts to one another and assuming responsibility for the happiness and well being of others.
"Compassion is a practice," she said. "Peace is a practice. It’s not something we achieve, it’s something we do everyday."
What is that you call yourself G.W., a compassionate conservative? Aggressors are not compassionate. Conservatives don’t live off their great grandchildren’s bank accounts.
"Living time should be utilized constructively, so the person feel(s) better at the time of death and remembers those positive deeds," said the Dalai Lama. "The most important thing for a meaningful life, a purposeful life is peace of mind and that comes from compassion, unbiased compassion.
"Everyone has the seed of this compassion, all traditions: Hinduism, Judaism, Islam, Christianity. It is a different philosophy but I think the real message is the same - forgiveness, compassion, tolerance, love... these are common values in all different religions."
What if your gun-toten’, tough-guy Texas Jesus is really fundamentally the same as the Taliban’s scarf headed, robed Messiah? Who ever win’s these wars?
"Our destructive, negative reality is based on false appearances," said the Dalai Lama. "Action is the most important, action is karma, action makes a difference. Brother’s and sister’s; to have a meaningful life action is important. Try to be more compassionate."
After the blessing of the Great Stupa we would walk a mile back to our car, which still had a leak, and drive into the heart of Denver to see the same man address 15,000 people at the Pepsi Center while more than 70,000 exuberant fans cheered loud and clear over at Invesco field for the Broncos. The Broncos won in overtime. The Dalai Lama won our hearts and gave us hope.

The Dalai Lama has lived through 2,500 years of murderous times where people kill to solve perceived problems. He tells us, through his vast experience, that it does not work. I believe him. George W., do you?

Let's go down to the river to play

(This was published in The Valley Journal in June of 2006 after I returned from one wonderful journey down the river)

From the depths of the Grand Canyon

(Editor's note: Valley Journal reporter Gina Guarascio begged and pleaded and basically made it clear that she was going to spend 18 days on the Colorado River. So she went. From May 7-24, while the rest of the VJ staff worked overtime, she was obviously enjoying the trip of a lifetime.)By Gina Guarascio

"Mountains of music swell in the river, hills of music billow in the creeks ... while other melodies are heard in the gorges of the lateral canyons. The Grand Canyon is a land of song."— John Wesley Powell

"Let's go down to the river to play, paddling the waves ev-ery-day, oh river, show me the way." That's the song we sang every day, for 18 days, as we strapped on our kayaks and ventured out to journey down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. Kim, Sonja and I, three kayakers known affectionately as the "Tupperware," sang it to the tune of "I go down to the river to pray," from Oh Brother Where Art Thou. It's a catchy tune.
This is how I pray
Praying for me means being baffled with wonder, filled with ghosts of thoughts from times so far before I ever existed. Before anything but single-celled anaerobic bits existed. The river carved this canyon 40 million years ago. The rocks that it sculpted were created billions of years ago. I am struck with awe, dumb with wonder every time I look up, and up and up. Instead of living a mile high, I am a bottom dweller looking up. Kayakers, as many people know, are at the very bottom — a very, very good place to be.
Friends in low places
I found the best friends I have on the river. It is a time to meet a gaggle of people who act strange and awkward one day and are laughing till it hurts the next. Why? It's because you are so small — especially in the Grand Canyon — connecting with others feels like strength. We're all in this together. And there were no Republicans on our trip. That was good.
The Grand Canyon from Lee's Ferry to Diamond Creek is 226 miles. The water is incarcerated by Glen Canyon Dam with measured releases by the Bureau of Reclamation depending on who's using their air conditioner or eating at an all night buffet in Las Vegas. It wasn't always like that, but that's how it is these days.
Young, naked and looking up
This trip really started in April when the storied river runner Katie Lee came to Carbondale to talk about experiential education at CRMS. She is one of very few people who floated through Glen Canyon before it was drowned, and down the Grand Canyon when the water was warm, rich with nutrients and colored red — like it's name. Now the water is green, clear and a frigid 59 degrees coming out of the bottom of the dam. Katie is an elderly woman, her skin worn and wrinkled like a button-up shirt stuffed in a suitcase, but she is radiant. Her knuckle bones are large and swollen. However, she is still holding her guitar and singing her folk songs of life before that damn dam. She showed pictures of a place we'll never know. Glen Canyon was a magical place.We bought a poster of her. She is naked. Her slim tanned body, taut muscles and blond bob were somewhere inside of the wrinkled exterior that was entertaining us that day. She must have been around 29 years old in the photo, the same age as I am now, looking up between two thighs of smooth carved rock staring up with wonder and awe at a miraculous side canyon. I thought that if I had an opportunity to go to a place like that, to be young and beautiful and free, I should go.
The Canyon is serum, a life-giving potion that renews the soul, fans the flames of love, and builds friendships that last forever. It is the place. It is the people. A package that I am always so grateful to receive.
Back in 2006
This tale would be better 10 or 20 years from now, when I could begin with the unimaginative hook, "back in 2006." Most any good river story starts with the words "back in ____". Our trip leader, Marcia, was fond of river stories that started with "back in '83." So forgive me as this story hasn't marinated for the proper length of time to become a river tale, or river lore. What happens on the river stays on the river. More often deep satisfying love is discovered than lost, unless you're the one stuck on the rim. Then the person you waved goodbye to so many days ago could very well be lost to you. If you did not come on the trip, you are a different species. The people who travel this stretch are invariably "different" once they dry off at the takeout. It's hard not to smile and stare into your comrades' eyes knowing this collage of special secrets. The stories of glory or uncontrollable, unbelievable laughter never translate outside of the big ditch; at least not for about 10 years when they can be rightfully embellished to entertain and the truth be sacrificed to that pursuit. Just like Hollywood.
The ancient ones
I hope I am a Hopi, even though I'm pretty sure I'm only Italian. But, if I were a Hopi, then the feelings that overcame my body and soul at the Little Colorado River would be warranted. Cold, green, big Colorado water merges with the warm Caribbean turquoise water of the Little Colorado and we paddle our boats right up inside. I felt as if I was invited and I was so comfortable that I shed my clothes, donned an inflatable froggy and floated in a desert paradise so idyllic it would impress even the most over-indulged teenager. For the Hopi, the Grand Canyon symbolizes the Sipapu. According to legends, the ancestral Hopi passed through a succession of worlds within the interior of the earth, emerging onto the surface through the Sipapu, a travertine spring in the Little Colorado Canyon.*I feel I am reborn in this tranquil aqua blue canal. As a woman, this myth suits me much more than its Christian creationist counterpart. Created from the rib of a man (albeit a righteous dude), or emerged into paradise from after traveling through other worlds. I am a swimmer. I am an athlete and schemer, a lover and a dreamer ... and I'm not the only one.
Moonbeams
We pass by Vishnu Temple, standing nobly above the layers after Tanner Rapid. We have sailed by the Unkar Delta, which was quite a metropolis for the Indians who cultivated corn, beans and squash. The moon emerges from behind a thick dark silhouette. The shadow rolls up the canyon wall like a manual window cranked slowly by a spaced-out child. I'm as free as a bird now. The water laps at the shore, corrosive and stubborn, light and playful, or tormenting and violent. It depends how much you tip the kettle. The Colorado River drops 1,900 feet from Lee's Ferry to Lake Mead. Half of the drop occurs in the 160 rapids. These rapids only account for 9 percent of the total distance. There is a lot of flat water.
The Grand Canyon is my secret pleasure. We are invited to come along. It all becomes a blur of breakfast, lunch and dinner, in between is a haze of colors, textures, thrills and noise — always noise — the kind that gels with the 70 percent of you that is what you float on. Water flows through canyons like blood pulsing through our veins. The small portion that is the brain, the driver, succumbs. I let go.
Peaceful, easy feeling
At Grapevine camp (mile 81.5), we throw a Pirate Party. It is my husband Spencer's 36th birthday and he is having the time of his life (evidenced by the perma-grin) singing songs like, "If I were a pirate and you were my matie, I'd bend you over and make you my lady." Argg! Tequila seeps into my tired dehydrated muscles and that peaceful easy feeling travels from my toes to my nose as we slow dance to that love song nestled in each other's necks, tasting salt and crunching on specks of dirt. We elope hand and hand into the darkness to enjoy each other's company.
The Inner Gorge
The river narrows to 76 feet at mile 135. Just upstream and downstream of this choke is the inner gorge, a cathedral of some of the world's oldest rock. Riding on currents of water through sculpted granite, gneiss and schist that is injected with pink and red Zoroaster granite is unlike anything. Every nook requires a careful look. The Tupperware are always lagging behind, screeching and chanting and experiencing multiple eye-gasms. The inner gorge is a sanctuary that passes by so quickly I am assured I am having a very good time. The weight and the depth and the age of the rock settles in like the crystalline seeps of the weeping rocks.
You're always above Lava
We are at mile 96 and a half, after Phantom Ranch through Horn Creek and Granite and the world has settled in on me. It might just be the perfect combinations of Weeds, Whites and Wine, but I feel a sign. It is so familiar and so, so good. It brings me back to other times and other places that I swore I'd never forget. It all settles in sitting on this rock by this river. Then we are flying through the current like bugs on a windy day using our paddles as wings to guide us through the swirling waters. Sometimes it's more fun not to use the paddle at all, just the hips to absorb the waters whims. Waltzing with the water, an excellent dance partner. Waltenburg Canyon is like a rare gem store on steroids. Every rock holds glittered faces or splatter-painted masterpieces. It is the official Grand Canyon modern art museum.
It's the stillest night in the canyon yet. Looking up, puffs of white decorate a stale blue sky. It is completely still. I am vacant like an ancient clay vessel taking in all of this grandeur. Every day, every second, is a shocking new miracle of this creation, this earth that we all live and breath on every day. It is easy to take it for granted, to forget that there is mystery and magic and that you are blessed to own it right here and now. We are surrounded on all sides by words and feelings and beliefs and ideals, and they were all born from this rock. The rock of ages. The timetable of the planet. The stillness is like an envelope sealing in memories of the last two weeks. Little bits of video play though my mind reminding me of the best of times that made me laugh so freely or think so deeply. I miss it, but then again you're always above Lava (a common saying by river runners, eternal optimists, who think they will be running this river again and again therefore always above the biggest and most feared rapid).
Just stop
It is day 16. We arrive at Pumpkin Springs and stay a while under the shade of a tamarisk. We visit the Space Hole upstream, a perfect straw of carved stone that is taller than me with my hands above my head. I take the slide and my body is deposited on a flat shelf above the river. We jump off completely naked to swim a quarter mile to the beach catching eddies with our toes and finger tips. The Tupperware are not ready to leave this alcove. We explore countless Nome Homes and Troll Holes as if we are the creatures they were made for by the majesty herself. After several long minutes of deep contemplation we struggle with neck gaskets and neoprene skirts and head downstream, paddling to catch up.We are distracted by the Tapeats sandstone that looks like giant bookshelves after an earthquake. I am involved in a meditative paddle session, dipping one blade into the soup after another, when Kim says, "Let's just stop."We are in no hurry to get to the end. As a matter of fact, the thought of the takeout gives me a powerful urge to paddle back upstream and live out my days in one of those rock holes we discovered. We stop. It is silent, except for the occasional descending whistle of the Canyon Wren and the movement of the water against the rocks. We three lay there in silence for once with our backs arched and our heads resting on the back of our kayaks. I am floating through space. I am completely, utterly absorbed in this scene, spinning in the boil lines that are gentler down here. The ancient canyon walls loom above us, towering, yet benign. The smell of blooming mesquite hovers in the air, the ocotillo cactus are waving their flailing arms, families of barrel cactus perched on tiny rock ledges watch over with care. Bees gorge on their nectar.
It is spring time in the canyon.



"Such things ... as the grasp of a child's hand in your own, the flavor of an apple, the embrace of a friend or a lover, the silk of a girl's thigh, the sunlight on rock and leaves, the feel of music, the bark of a tree, the abrasion of granite and sand, the plunge of clear water into a pool, the face of the wind — what else is there? What else do we need?"— Edward Abbey

Fragile: handle with care

I awoke this morning feeling like a glass bulb,
a christmas ornament
wrapped tightly in tissue paper
put away for the season
in a box
I was not meant to move
if I did
I would break.
My bones felt like pretzel sticks
with the little salt specks
grinding in the joints
if I were to touch something
like the corner of a table
or the wall
on accident
I would surely
disinigrate
into a fine pretzel dust.
It is a worthless feeling to embody pretzels and glass
It is a feeling I have already begun to forget
as I feel my strength building again
so soon
rightious
I look outside at a foot of fresh snow
so, I won't be raging down the hill today
but there will be other days
when my spine feels like a snake rather than a piece of bamboo
for now I am happy to be making fresh tracks walking in the yard
the sun is already setting
the day has slipped away
and I didn't break
or disinigrate.

Still dreaming

Well, it looks as though I'm still dreaming
my life is still floating on that great blue ocean
(could it be?)
when really
really
REALLY,
now
it's below zero
steadily snowing
again
and I've got some cold creep invading my bones.
Damn him
or it
or whatever it is that makes me think
over and over
today
that I ought to live in a more temperate climate
one where alien invaders frequent less
and the skin tans more.
The dogs are becoming quite restless now
Zorro is punching at the keys with his fat little paws
he writes
"I want out! Now."
(I've corrected his spelling)
So out we go
into the cold
the snow
saving the dreams
tucking them all away again
hoping
maybe
they won't come back.

Bikram says...

"You haven't even started living yet!"
"You cannot bring the light when you're living in the dark."
"You should be ashamed of yourself acting like an average person."
"When you come out of here (teacher training) you will have a million mile gap between you and everyone else you know."
"If someone can steal your peace from you, you're the loser."
"One life is not enough."
"Take it easy, honey."
"Having means nothing if you don't know how to use it."
"You can't have a sick body and a screw loose brain."
"Eat shit and die."
"Welcome to the torture chamber."
"Excuse me for living."
"Confess the truth. Follow the truth."
"Just think of it!"
"The easiest thing in the world is quitting."
"I hate boring people!"
"The saddest thing in my lifeis that nobody understands me."
"lock the knee lock the knee lock the knee..."
"Poison kills the poison. Pain kills the pain."
"The blind cannot lead the blind."
"Yoga is your gas station."
"Yoga makes you bulletproof, windproof, waterproof, stressproof, sexproof, moneyproof, fireproof..."
"99% right is still 100% wrong."
"If you try the right way you get 100% benefit."
"Have the guts to confess the truth."
"Hell is the only way to get to heaven."
"You only have to travel six inches in your life. That is the distance from your mind to your heart."
"Yoga is everything."
"An empty barn is better than one full of naughty cows."

Alien invader

No, it does not come in peace
it comes quietly at first
just a tickle or a scratch is all you notice
then it doesn't leave
such an unwelcome guest
stealing my joy
making me feel as if
I was made of glass
so fragile
I scuffle bout the house in slippers
afraid I might break
trying to avoid the dogs insistent stares
"why are we NOT going outside"
they seem to say again and again and again
I am on a different planet than everyone else
medicated
lightheaded
humorless, for just a second
then I hear about my friend
who almost died skiing yesterday
and doesn't get to ski for the rest of the season
and I think
maybe I just need to slow down a bit
chill-ax
and spend hours upon hours in bed
some people would dream of this
those who are so stressed out
overworked
overcommitted
stretched too thin
here I am
laying in bed
allowed to think even though my brain feels like miso soup
when I really needed chicken noodle
this is the time I want my mommy
nothing else will do
in her absence
I'll just lay here carefully
and try not to break