Tantra

"Tantrics, however, are not looking for liberation from the world but enlightenment in the world. In a shaktadvaita classic called the Tripura Rahasya, a prince named Hemachuda achieved the state of kaivalya, establishment of the Self in the Self, the goal of classical yoga. He sat in deep meditative absorption day after day, not wanting to be disturbed. Finally his wife, and advanced tantric adept, interrupted his sadhana teasing, “My darling, you are as far from enlightenment as a reflection of the stars in a pond is from the sky! What kind of liberation is this that dissolves when you open your eyes?” She went on to explain that the true goal of yoga is sahaja samadhi, maintaining awareness of the divine reality while fulfilling one’s responsibilities in the world."

Circles

The moon is most happy
When it is full.

And the sun always looks
Like a perfectly minted gold coin

That was just Polished
And placed in flight
By God's playful Kiss.

And so many varieties of fruit
Hang plump and round

From branches that seem like a Sculptor's hands.

I see the beautiful curve of a pregnant belly
Shaped by a soul within,

And the Earth itself,
And the planets and the Spheres--

I have gotten the hint:

There is something about circles
The Beloved likes.

Hafiz,
Within the Circle of a Perfect One

There is an Infinite Community
Of Light.

Tired of Speaking Sweetly

They say sugar can numb the lasting after-effects of a medicine ceremony, but if there's anything I learned last night, it's that NOW is the time to eat a chocolate-covered strawberry. It's that there are no wrong decisions, that lying down, sitting up, peeing, shitting, puking, and singing, are all the same.

Exactly the same. Every single movement, or lack of movement, is a dance with God. Sometimes an awkward, seventh grade, spend-two-hours-trying-to-build-up-the-nerve-to-ask-her kind of dance, where you bashfully shuffle your feet around the gymnasium floor, avoiding eye contact at all costs. Sometimes a fire dance, an achingly slow poi exploration with nobody watching, the burning Light tracing arcs of heat over your bare shoulders, again and again until the sound goes out, the kerosene is finished, and you are left in darkness, breathing heavy like a pair of lovers, still sweaty, intertwined, and inside one another. And other times an East Coast Lindy Hop, a spinning, turning, kicking ball of laughter, you in suspenders and wingtips and the Beloved, laughing so hard as you flip Her that tears race down Her face and drip onto Her polka-dotted dress, while Duike Ellington faithfully belts out "It Don't Mean a Thing if it Aint Got That Swing."

Everything you do is Sacred. Everything. Every teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy little thing you do, is Sacred. When you realize that Light is everywhere, that everything you touch is overflowing with God's Graceful Giggles, you see that even washing the dishes a kitchen water-fight with the Friend, making the dish suds into big Moses beards and spitting water at each other, not even thinking what Mom's gonna say when she gets home and finds the mess. You see that kissing someone, kissing anyone, is meeting the Beloved's lips. That laying your hand on someone's back as they purge into a bucket in a Tipi Village in Goa is no different from reaching out and taking God's hand, squeezing it, telling Him, "You and me are in this together. What you feel is also mine."

My fingers and my hands
never move through empty space,
for there are
invisible golden lute strings all around,
sending Resplendent Chords
Throughout the Universe.

And Hafiz. Hafiz, the teacher of teachers, the Guide, the Tavern's Barman. All night long, pouring Light into a spoon, and again and again, raising it to nourish my beautiful, parched, holy mouth. Yesterday, it was "The Warrior," describing a hero, sitting in a circle with other men, gathering the strength to unmask himself. And during the night i finally, FINALLY felt what you meant, as I stumbled around celebrating everything I could lay my hands on, I finally felt exactly what you meant when you said that you and God are like two giant fat people, living in a tiny boat.

Bumping into each other, and laughing.

And this morning, as everyone seemed to return to stillness. The cries, the laughter, the sounds of purging and whispering, singing and crying, all faded and I felt like the only one awake on Earth, my fellow warriors finally resting after the night's great Victory. I took The GIft under a palm tree with a lamp underneath, and sank to my knees. No questions this time, just an open attitude, an open ear. I lay my hand on the book's cover, adorned with Sonia's Arabic calligraphy and the oil from countless fingertips. I chose a page, eyes still closed. page 187...

TIRED OF SPEAKING SWEETLY

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us.
Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and
Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,
He would just drag you around the room
By your hair,
Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world
That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly
And wants to rip to shreds
All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,
And with others,

Causing the world to weep
On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,
Lock us inside a tiny room with Himself
And practice His dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants
To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down
And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear
He is in such a 'playful drunken mood'

Most everyone I know
Quickly packs their bags and hightails it
Out of town.


Not me, not this time. This time I stayed. I heard a rumor that Grandmother was here, here in one of those moods, and so I got ready to see her again. I changed my diet. I changed my yoga practice. I fasted. I showered, shaved, flossed, and brushed. I trimmed my nails and put on my cleanest clothes. I brought flowers. I welcomed her with Te de Coca, tobacco juice, and Palo Santo. I sat in a circle, framed by a bamboo pyramid, and asked her to teach me about Love. I approached the shaman, knelt before his altar, and listened to him breathe into the Cup.

And I drank.

Kowloon Park

Handstands against the wall in the Prudential Hotel, Kowloon side of Hong Kong. Left hand is still weak, and I can't help but fear the embarrassment of having only made slight progress since I last saw my teacher on Maui.

An eleven year old boy demonstrated one of the most gorgeous Tai Chi forms I've ever seen this morning. Completely focused, moving with grace through his postures, he hardly noticed even the holster-wearing dreadlocked white guy in the crowd.

"How long I play Tai Chi?" he says later. "Oh, ah, one year."

Each morning it seems the vast majority of Hong Kong's 7.5 million residents can be found in the public parks, breathing deep, in strong stances, tracing circles and arcs through the air. There is no shame, no shyness, no nervous glances around to see if anyone is watching. Only a consistent daily practice of moving energy, guiding it and crafting it, sculpting an invisible Light that so many in my country are completely ignorant of.

So when I bring my mat to the park and begin my Surya Namaskar, I only get a few curious glances. Mostly the Chinese just let me be, and we all breathe and move together, a silent reverence for each other's morning routine. If I was back in Chicago's Wicker Park I'd attract more attention. I'd wonder if my wallet would still be next to my mat after Savasana, or if it'd be inappropriate to have breakfast at the Bongo Room without a shower and a change of clothes.

So in a way, I fit in better in a land where I can't read most of the menus. Cantonese is a difficult language. Our client brought us out to dinner last night, and while trying to figure out how to de-shell a sea mantis, I mispronounced the translation for "I dance with fire," and accidentally said something to the effect of, "I'm a fucking dancer."

Not sure if that kind of talk will get us the next gig in Shanghai.

But here I sit in Kowloon Park, watching a man older than my grandfather balance on one leg, the other extended high, spiraling arms through the air before pressing both arms forward, straight towards...me. For a second I think he's looking straight at me, and then I realize, in this moment, he doesn't notice me or anything around us. In this moment, we're the same.

chicago to the playa

anyone got space in their truck/trailer for a treebike? figure its Green Man this year, so it should prolly be there... but i'm out here on the west coast so can't exactly move it too easily.
only thing is, its a little delicate, so i dont wanna jam it on one of the big Chicago to BRC tractor trailors. so anyone have any other options? it packs down quite small...
pretty please?

b

Again?

lost a friend on friday...
Maddi Alvarez, killed by a carbomb in Yemen. This woman is one of the best poi dancers i've ever met. Humble in the utmost, we'd catch her spinning alone in a clearing in Thailand, an unforgettable smile on her lips, exploring this art form to its highest, pouring out grace and control, expression down to her toe-tips. When we spun fire, she'd only watch. When we performed, she volunteered to do safety.
This is the second firefamily member i've lost in the last few years. First Nasu, now Maddi. Extremely different energies. Both highly skilled. Both blindingly bright, both with their own dark spots. What's a freak to think?

Burn one for her. Light something, a candle, a pair of poi, a fear you want to release, even a pile of leaves. just burn something, as people all over the world are doing for her right now. ok?

And now a request...Maddi wrote me a note last year, as others did when we part ways. She wrote it in Basque, her native tongue, so that i could enjoy the message later, when i learned to translate it. Now of course this message is more valuable to me, and i'd love to find someone who could help me read it. So anyone out there have any friends from the old northern territory of Spain, who speaks this language and can help?

biglove,
b

Things that make me feel at home include:

- bicycling--fast--down Milwaukee Ave.
- eating out of my favorite cereal bowl(it's a gorgeous wine red, with deep, steep sides...)
- bike messengers--everywhere
- squeezing each of my old friends...and not letting go.
- wine with Laura
- falafel from Sultan's Market(Sorry, Ali Baba!)
- waiting for the Green Line while half a dozen Ravenswood trains pass by...
- hearing my mom tell me I'm too skinny
- Jim's and Mark's yoga classes
- Elana and Levi curling up on my bed (yes, MY bed! I actually HAVE one!) for Hafiz's bedtime stories
- corn on the cob in Grant Park, listening to James Cotton on the harmonica at Bluesfest
- street musicians--mad props to the bucket percussionist above...

Thanks to all those who have welcomed me back here. Thanks to all those who came and lightened my burden, helping me empty my last apartment. Special thanks to Elana and Levi for clearing out their spare room(no simple task!) so i'd have a room of my very own for the first time in, well, lets just say a long time. Thanks to the fire community and the fullmoon gatherings at Foster Ave. Beach, which seem to consistently swell and mutate and evolve everytime i take a peek! Thanks to the yoga community here, with its open, inviting arms, talented and inspiring teachers, and dedicated, open students. Chicago has always felt like home, and although it looks like i'll only be here a few weeks this year, i'm ever-so-grateful for everyone i encounter in this town. It's real, real and pure and honest in the best of ways. Thank you.

Who wants my STUFF?

that's right people...
I'm emptying a whole apartment full of goodies, because, quite simply, i don't need it. You ever see a tree right before harvest? All that fruit weighing it down? That's how i feel these days. So come by my old place and take whatever you like. Help me unload, and help me reach higher.

Just a peek at things you might walk away with:
Futon w/ frame
Couch
TV
coffee table
Technics speakers
miniDV videocamera
Four foam Incredible Hulk gloves
4-500 CDs
Assorted altar goodies (we'll just be callin those AAG's for short)
used-but-still-usable fire equipment
clothes
art supplies of all kinds
jewelry
and, um... a few really neat-looking pieces of wood.

that's just the start! who knows what's underneath the playa-covered tupperwares...

I haven't exactly been "home" for a while, so for those that have forgotten, its 2453 W. Walton, apartment 3. I should be home most all days and evenings before the 1st. Or find me at Elana and Levi's place up the street. And i don't have a phone at the moment, so just come on by or write me here. Besides, i haven't seen a lot of my Chicago family for WAY too long....

3,2,1...
Come and get it!

Firedancing Show this Sunday at Union Square, SF

hey family,
who's in the bay this weekend? Come and check out some seriously hi-quality firefreaks from around the country. we's gonna burn somethin fierce for National Dance Week, so it'd be good to get some tribe out there to show some love. So whaddaya say? see you there?
b



Date & Time: Sunday, April 29, 2007
7:45 PM
What: Temple of Poi Fire Dancing Expo
Details: www.templeofpoi.com/events/expo07.php
Where: Union Square (Geary and Post)
When: April 29, 2007 at 7:50 pm
Cost: Free!!

Bring a chair and a blanket and join us April 29, 2007 at 7:50 pm for our
free fire dancing show in San Francisco's legendary Union Square (Geary and
Post) for the second annual Temple of Poi Fire Dancing Expo. In addition to
some amazing student performances, this show features world-renowned
performers from around the US as well as some of the best artists around the
Bay Area in a 2 hour show hosted by a Chicago based comedian.

The creation of this event – selected as one of Bay Area Dance week’s
Cornerstone events – is a tremendous leap in the efforts to legitimize fire
dancing as an art form by taking it out of parking lots and putting it on
landmark stages like Union Square. The Expo celebrates safe, legally
permitted, public fire dancing performance in honor of National Dance Week,
an annual 10-day week of free public dance events in the Bay Area designed
to showcase the dynamic diversity and critically acclaimed quality of Bay
Area dance.

Temple of Poi supports this vision by creating an unprecedented opportunity
to celebrate fire dancing at no cost to the artists or audience. This event
is a not for profit event created with the intention of:

- offering more performance opportunities for fire dancers
- giving novice artists who might otherwise not have an opportunity to
perform in a public setting an opportunity where they can invite friends and
family to see them express their art
- increased exposure to the flow fire art forms by creating a legally
permitted public event at a San Francisco landmark location
- raise the awareness of fire dancing as a prestigious dance form by holding
this event on the opening night of National Dance Week

Our Mistress of Ceremonies for the evening is the lovely and talented Miss
Tamale (misstamale.com) -- a former Temple of Poi student, fire
dancer and comedian who flew out from Chicago to help celebrate this event.

Be dazzled by expert professional and semi professional artists: Prism,
Solar Flare, LumenAscent, Order of the Phoenix, Flowtoys, Jamie/Vikki,
Cooper Lantern, and A Different Spin. Enjoy solo performances by
world-renowned professional performers ICoN, Banyan, Shredder and Temple of
Poi Founder and visionary, GlitterGirl. And enjoy the opening act where
several dozen students show off what they have been working on in the past 6
months as you watch, Firefly Conspiracy (Glen, Marla, Sandy, Melissa,
Tiffany; Principals Rising (Lara, Melinda, Brenda F., Michelle, Anne, Jim,
Glen, Beth, Jen, Brenda L., Elyse, Milla, Waldemar); Two Sexy Girls (Devon,
Sarah); Delicious (Elyse, Jen, Brenda L., Gen, Dani); Natural Fire (Lauren,
Janett, Susan, Waldemar); NightVeil (Lara, Cathy, Jodi, Susan, Danielle,
Kris, Rachael, Elyse, Stella, Becky, Sarah, Erin, GlitterGirl); Tango Sexy
(Anne, Jim) and Invisible Best Friend (Melinda, Brenda, Becky, Sarah, Cathy,
Lara (and Michael playing the Invisible Best Friend)).

While you join us at the show, register for our drawing where you can win
free classes from Temple of Poi; fire poi from Flamma Aeterna
(flammaaeterna.com) ; light tools from Flowtoys
(flowtoys.com); SmartPower drinks (smartpowerdrinks.com) from
Smart Energy Enterprises Inc., SEE-Inc. A Beautiful Future Now!; and more!
While you hand in your drawing entry, help support the costs of this event
by purchasing a copy of the Temple of Poi 2006 Fire Dancing Expo DVD for a
one day only sale price of $15 in honor of National Dance Week, so bring
your cash!

Directly following the event (10 PM) come and meet the artists who performed
in the Expo at Otis located at 25 Maiden Lane @ Kearny. This is a private
club and has no signs, so please remember the address.

This $4000 event is being financed by Temple of Poi with special assistance
from Flowtoys -- makers of innovative illuminated equipment and
entertainment (the best darn light-toys around); SmartPower "smart" energy
drinks -- energy that fires you up without burning you out; Flamma Aeterna,
a premier provider of fire and flow arts performance equipment; and
PoiGeek.com -- bringing instruction from anywhere to anyone in the palm of
their hand. Special thanks to Beth Morgan for her generous donations to our
cause. Help support the event and make a donation now or purchase a copy of
the Temple of Poi 2006 Fire Dancing Expo DVD, on sale at the event at a
reduced rate of $15 that day only -- bring cash!

If you're moved by our cause to legitimize flow and fire arts, donate money
now to help pay the costs of the event which include permits ($500 for the
city, $56 for sound, $180 for open flame) and required personnel ($380 for
fire watch and nearly $500 for security, janitorial and on site management
from the owners of Union Square).

You can view the entire press release here:
www.templeofpoi.com/press/expo070429.php

Mumtaz Mahal

I've decided the women in India are invisible. Out of a billion people, half of them seem to be hidden, behind closed doors and iron-guarded windows. The men drive the buses, they run the restaurants and hotels, they fix shoes, they sew clothing, they cook, they clean
the guesthouse rooms and mop the floors. I find myself wondering where the other 500 MILLION inhabitants of this land are, and what they're doing.

On a good day, i'll hear them, the soft jingling of ankle bells and handflowers, chiming down the halls. But the moment i look up they're already gone, out of sight like a shooting star your friend sees over your shoulder.
On a very good day I'll actually see one, impeccably clean and perfumed, in a gorgeous ochre saree, with almost as much jewelry as my bellydancing friends back "home". If I'm lucky she'll smile, parting thin dark lips to reveal amazing teeth that sparkle nearly as much as
her golden nose ring. She'll blush and look down when I say Namaskar.

But most days I'm not so lucky. I know they're here somewhere, but when i ask the man of the house if I can borrow some scissors, he nods and goes to the other room. I hear him talking, I hear the ankle bells, and then there he is again, scissors in hand. I hold the
scissors and look at them a moment, thinking, THESE came from a WOMAN, while he reminds me to bring them back to him when i'm finished sewing.

I ask people when I can, I ask the boys in the alleys of Varanasi why there are no women dancing with them in the rickshaw-pulled dance parties in the street, and they laugh at the absurdity of my inquiry. "Dancing is not for women, sir," they say with all graveness.
I laugh out loud, thinking, if only they could see the Chicago girls when Random Rab is playing.

So I stop in Agra to see the Taj Mahal, one of the Architectural Wonders of the World. Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan commissioned it as a tomb for his wife, Mumtaz Mahal. Yes, his wife. A woman. A gorgeous
crown of 100 percent white marble, sloping curves, domed roofs, and towering minerets. Inlaid semi-precious stones. Perfectly symmetrical in design. So I'm WONDERing, as you do around the Wonders, am I still in India? In a land where public affection is almost
nonexistent, in a land where women, especially Muslim women, are kept almost completely and literally under wraps, the most magnificent structure is a monument to love.

The Taj warms me tonight, as I sit on a breezy rooftop with cold feet, belly full of malai kofta and chapati. I look out past the ornate South Gate and feel the Feminine standing proud but quiet, the Goddess, strong and
silent. Fog comes in and slowly makes her harder to see in the distance, and I remember one man telling me that where he comes from women are NEVER outside after six PM.

The fog grows thicker and the Taj is a faint silhouette as i climb a few steps to the smaller upper roof. The full moon, a feminine presence in every culture's cosmogany, hangs bright in the sky. The moon FEELS so much a woman, her soft light much more soothing and gentle than that of the glaring, aggressive sun.

I squat down and light my staves.

The bells from a bicycle rickshaw chime down the street, and I smile and close my eyes. I think of all the women in my life, all of the women who have shaped me, taught me, comforted me, and, well, fed me.
I think of my mother, panicking on the other side of the globe at my lack of health insurance. I think of my sister, my first creative inspiration. I think of Krist Sebestyn, of Angela Asley, of KC, of Amelie, of Liz, of Elana, of Muzhat Mahal, of Rebekah, of Kai. I think of Anais Ninn, of Ani Difranco. I think of lovers, and sisters, and friends, and yogis. I think of the women who have trusted me. The women who have told me what IT is like. The women who have led me. The ones who have opened me. I think of Nicki Doane. I think of Aurora. My hands are getting hot as the flames grow larger, licking the backs of my knuckles and singeing the hair there once more. I take a deep breath and hold the staves overhead, opening my eyes to see the Taj through the smoke.

I begin to thank every woman I've ever known, and all those I've never met, thanking them one by one and all together, honoring them in the only way I know how.

With fire.