my doorways
This is what I used to think spirituality looked like. Formal. Renunciate. In a temple of grandeur. Choose your lineage. Your one way. Devote your life to it.
And the thing I’ve learned about myself is that this is not my way. What I’ve learned about myself is the more casual, the better. The more patchworked and piecemealed together, the better. The more embodied and grounded, the better.
I spent years reading spiritual texts, engaged in seated meditation, trying to get at spirit through my head. It almost always left me feeling more empty, more confused, and more disconnected.
My doorway is my body. A physical embodied yoga practice. I have met myself, the truest part of me on the mat. I have found trust and faith and the wisdom of the universe here too. And it’s true, yoga, the physical postures, were initially designed to prepare the body for seated meditation. And if that works for you, I am legitimately stoked for you. But for me it’s in the movement, the moving of the body and the energy.
My doorway is nature. Not transcending her, but noticing her. Studying her patterns and rhythms, her cycles and her seasons. Aligning my own energy with hers. Not withdrawing my senses, but leaning fully into them.
My doorway is community. Not one where men dictate a complicated and problematic set of rules. But circles of women engaged with the world, their own self study and growth, and their creative life force, sharing with, supporting, and witnessing one another.
My doorway is many ways. Going wide instead of deep in often criticized. But the more I went deep with any one lineage, the more I found the same patriarchal bullshit. Now I unabashedly cherry pick the best stuff from several lineages.
My doorway is quiet, solitary practice. Journaling my desires. Moon baths. A card pull now and again. Saying prayers. Lighting candles. Burning sage. Small acts that make the everyday sacred.
These are the seeds that were planted in me in India, strangely. There were plenty of elaborate and formal practices. This photo was taken there at the Sarnath Buddhist Temple. But so too were there the quiet moments of remembering. Little moments intermingled with daily life.
And the thing I’ve learned about myself is that this is not my way. What I’ve learned about myself is the more casual, the better. The more patchworked and piecemealed together, the better. The more embodied and grounded, the better.
I spent years reading spiritual texts, engaged in seated meditation, trying to get at spirit through my head. It almost always left me feeling more empty, more confused, and more disconnected.
My doorway is my body. A physical embodied yoga practice. I have met myself, the truest part of me on the mat. I have found trust and faith and the wisdom of the universe here too. And it’s true, yoga, the physical postures, were initially designed to prepare the body for seated meditation. And if that works for you, I am legitimately stoked for you. But for me it’s in the movement, the moving of the body and the energy.
My doorway is nature. Not transcending her, but noticing her. Studying her patterns and rhythms, her cycles and her seasons. Aligning my own energy with hers. Not withdrawing my senses, but leaning fully into them.
My doorway is community. Not one where men dictate a complicated and problematic set of rules. But circles of women engaged with the world, their own self study and growth, and their creative life force, sharing with, supporting, and witnessing one another.
My doorway is many ways. Going wide instead of deep in often criticized. But the more I went deep with any one lineage, the more I found the same patriarchal bullshit. Now I unabashedly cherry pick the best stuff from several lineages.
My doorway is quiet, solitary practice. Journaling my desires. Moon baths. A card pull now and again. Saying prayers. Lighting candles. Burning sage. Small acts that make the everyday sacred.
These are the seeds that were planted in me in India, strangely. There were plenty of elaborate and formal practices. This photo was taken there at the Sarnath Buddhist Temple. But so too were there the quiet moments of remembering. Little moments intermingled with daily life.