returning home spew…

sung the hanuman chalisa six times today.  boy, it’s hard.  yet even on the second go around, i felt it more, could sing it easier.  now on the sixth, it’s starting to make sense.  must perfect it.  must.  must.  this is still all i know.  nothing else, but love.  show up to yoga.  the seventy five minute class.  surrender into it.  heavy body like lead.  sweat pouring from my head.  pants freeze on the walk home from being wet in the cold.  shut all the blinds to keep the heat in.  it’s a cold cave i live in.  as i type now i can see my breath, and the heat’s been on an hour.  at work i felt so tired.  raw.  the chalisa, on day one, is stripping me down.  it’s not that i was unfriendly or flat effect, just felt like i was vibrating at the frequency of a rock.  things felt a bit confusing.  but i got through it.  got home.  now writing after singing.  there’s a lonely feeling in my heart.  an ache.  no words to it.  need to wear vanilla again.  vanilla, jasmine, orange, rose, on the wrist.  bits of conversation with customers about past lives, reptilians, colorado, la, new york, being here now, having faith, knowing we are meant to be here, and there’s no escape.  how we all relate.  doing the window with white cobra.  red and purple.  cause it was so busy, she started it off, and i finished it.  not as fun as when we can decorate the window together, cause it’s like building an alter.  but today’s way of doing it, one of us at a time, makes sense to how it feels right now.  that it’s time to go within and feel the solitude.  even though at the same time, i also call to warm golden cinnamon love to wrap his arms around me.  both.  it’s always both.  wore the ruby ziosite today.  all heart.  looking at baba in a picture and noticing his arms are long like a monkey.  all the city grit.  so sensitive to it. walking home, as usual, as the random crazies yell loud and scary.  my heart hurts for the homeless on this cold night.  armed robberies keep happening.  the hill is like sesame street on a concoction of drugs, strewn with lit up boxes filled with patrons.  the hill is so many things.  i think of the cafe owner’s hill, how he was raised here, and how he brings the hill beauty and love.  i think about the taxi driver from uganda who radiated warmth and humble intelligence.  i think of ruby who makes the temple stay alive with her lakshmi light.  we are beacons, right?  giving it all our might.  and me, somehow continually wafting due to this impulse i cannot control.  feeling myself surrender into a life of love, into the larger mystery living as me, through me…and me being more of a witness.  the weird thing is…this surrender is exactly the same as choosing and becoming something…same as expressing the distinction (like all poems do.)  surrender and free will, oneness and the individual, look at themselves in the mirror, knowing they are the same…