sankofa
“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”
Dear Anias,
I met my parents last night. Not the physical entities of my parents. I met their essence or the elemental qualities of their being.
Identity is what we clothe ourselves by. It is the temple we construct around ourselves. It is what we give our person to call home.
We choose how we look. We choose who we belong to. We choose our parents in this life, according to the Buddhists. We don't have control over anything, yet we choose everything. Karma is constructed based on our past lives, and we choose our current life based on our Karma to reconcile our past and liberate ourselves. To live out our Dhamra. Therefore, everything we have chosen will grant us the lessons we've yet to learn and allow us to discover our gift and live by our Dharma.
Karma is the life path and Dharmha is the life duty. My Dharma is to write and tell stories. My Karma is unclear.
I had a call with Georgina and told her how I was musing over the occurrence of my being a woman.
Why do I look this way? Why do I have a vulva? Why am I white with blue eyes? I've never considered myself as a person in this way before.
Georgina said that I needed to go back even further. Before reflecting on why I am what I am, I must inquire into why I chose my parents.
This concept was brought to me six years ago in Clara’s 300-hour yoga teacher training program in Kona, Hawaii.
It was the final module of the three 10-day sessions. I did not attend the first two. The final module is on philosophy; it was the only one I wanted to attend. Clara allows anyone to come to the final module, though I completed the first two years later. The first two modules are more practical.
We’d sat in a circle in the hut where we practiced yoga each morning. It was dark and cold when we started at 6am, and we were treated to the sunrise as we moved and stretched together. After practice, we had breakfast and an hour to shower and reset before coming together for the midday lessons and lectures.
The book for that day was The Myth of Freedom by Chogyam Trungpa. He was Buddhist. He also drank a lot. I liked him immediately. I love paradox and the inherent set of polarities in him is honest and reassuring. He is human and also divine. He is flawed and also embodies mysticism. He was a man of faith. Clara said he used to stay up all night drinking and then roll in to lecture thousands of people on no sleep, still drunk. He is an inspiration. He is a little bit mad.
One of the girls in the study was upset about the idea of each of us choosing our parents because children are born into terrible circumstances. Poverty. Human trafficking. Abuse of all physical and emotional forms. Neglect. Would you rather be ignored or beaten every day? I think it would depend on the circumstances. Do I have food? Water? A place to shit? I think I’d rather be punched than lacking a toilet for any sort of duration.
Instructions to receive the essence of my parents:
Remove personal attachments and ideas.
Do each parent separately, then envision them together.
Watch for light - observe the colors.
Listen for sounds, colours, and textures.
Open to symbolic interpretation, move away from words.
That was all that Georgina provided me with. It was enough.
I wish I could say that I cleared a space to sit in meditation. I wish I could say I lit incense and wrapped myself in my thick blanket scarf. I didn’t do any ceremonious action to prepare for this event. I sometimes lit a wand; other times, I don’t. I don’t need ornate rituals to drop in. I used to. I don’t anymore.
It was a simple process of setting my hands down against my belly and chest and breathing. I abdomen and breast. I felt my heart pulse at my sternum and navel. Two palms filled with life. I breathed up and down my spine until the tension left my body and I felt like floating.
I sat with my mother in my heart first. I breathed the idea of my mother in and exhaled to release her physical form. I did not use her name. I did not picture her in any sort of timeline. Snapshots came to me. Her blond hair. Her bright blue eyes. Her laugh. The way she used to decorate our tresses for wacky hair day, she’d use pipe cleaners to tie Barbie dolls and teacups into our plaits. The way she’d pull us in the red wagon. The way she let us have cinnamon buns for dinner. The way she sits at the long wooden table and paints her nails in varying shades of pastel pink and yellow. The way she sits in the living room and draws in her books with ink pens. The way she sips her coffee and reheats it half a dozen times. I let go of the images. I cried as I released them. Silent and soft.
A light appeared. A dark pink bulb that glowed darker at its center. It moved gently. Swaying from side to side. As it moved in wider circles, the link dulled and became lighter and lighter until the orb was white with a sparkling pink halo. It was side and fluttered like moth wings or rose petals. White and soft. I wanted to cup it by my palms and gold it at my chest. Close to my heart. I wanted to protect it. I wanted to whisper secrets to it. I wanted to hum it a little tune and watch it lift higher and higher!
It was so soft, delicate, vulnerable, and alone! This little light. It moved languidly. Like a da Dillon puff carried by the wind. Like a seed waiting to burst.
I left my mother to invite my father in.
My father took a while longer to come to me. He was inky purple and black and moved slowly in a line. The shape was porous and pulling inward. As the shape moved closer, I saw that it was black in the center and bled purple light outwards like a watercolor picture. The halo was a lovely purple, like a dragon's eye. It was strong and felt purposeful. It was contained and smooth in its movements. It had a deliberate arc and attitude where my mother was effervescent and wandering.
My father did not need images to appear. He simply arrived. No visualization was necessary. The light was grounding; I sat with it, mesmerized for some time before remembering my mother and the task.
I brought the two lights together and the dark light stayed in the same place, moving in a diamond shape. The purple patterns on the outside fanned out like little flames in the space around it— feeding the black inside. The inner space of the light swirled like dark smoke.
The light of my mother danced around the wide edges of my father. Flitting and floating, aimless and yet orbiting in a wide circle around the center orb. Together they created a mandala moving in two opposite directions- my father clockwise. My mother counterclockwise. They did not touch though I felt their essence intermingling in the space between them- the middle ring created by the two lights.
That was all I received yesterday.
Tonight I will sit and see what I am meant to receive.
There is a pause as the two energies meet. The pause was the moment I decided to enter the gate into this world through the portal of my parents. I chose this passage as my father's sperm fertilized the egg.
What was I saying yes to?
That is the single question for my reflection this evening. What did I say yes to?
Photo source.
