Voguing As A Spiritual Practice

Welcome to Athena Graceland.  Close your eyes and imagine vivacious, sprawling terrains saturated of inky, pinks.  Inhale and smell watermelon and pheromones and pine sap and sunlight making out with mountain earth.  Feel the sensuous tickle of finger tips dancing gracefully about the wilderness of your open skin like an olympic figure skater on holiday in the Swiss alps.  Yes, it’s a heavenly slice of nowness in here today!

But I thought I’d start this blog with a confession… you know, just to reveal my humanity and draw you in.  Left to my own devices, sometimes I like to appear to have it all together.  At least on the dance floor… Grin.  But the truth is, I feel like a massive DORK when it comes to the art of voguing.  I flail myself into wilting frozen poses who lack sass and precision.  Frown.  Maybe I just need to practice in the mirror at home.  Voguing as a spiritual practice.  But isn’t it true that ANYTHING can be a spiritual practice if you engage in it with repetitive, devoted totality?  I’m gonna vote affirmative on that hypothesis.

Are you like me in that you take pleasure in the most fractional and mundane crumbs of existence?  I just smelled my own hair and went on a whole inclusive, romantic inner journey as a result of the spontaneous synthesis of heat and scent and silken texture.  And my big, strong body guard spilled our popcorn at the movies last night (which tickled me in itself… a shower of crunchy, savory clouds plummeting to dark earth in waterfall fashion…) and as we were leaving, I made sure to step right into the heart of this snack-a-delic cloud puddle and savor the lively, sonic deflation underfoot.  Now I am snuggled up at a communal table in the Lakeview library, and WHOMP!, it really does have a lake view… I see a man out the window doing star-jumps (formerly known as jumping jacks) and some sporty girls clad in tight, athletic gear flailing their legs in the air in the name of fitness.  LIFE!  It’s really happening!   It’s never not really happening… except when I close my eyes… 😉

This is my first blog of twenty thirteen!  Even just typing that, I feel my body reverberate with prismatic, rapturous echo.  Call me a New Age Space Muffin, but I must assert that the world truly DID end a few fridays ago.  This world IS new.  To the clothed eye, it may seem the same… but come on… don’t be shy!  Strip those eyes naked and now take leisurely, luxurious peep.  It only appears to be “the same as always” to those who are lazy and unimaginative.  In truth, this world is a head-on collision of myth and magic and a homeopathic dose of mundane.  Think about it– how many times a day do you gasp or scream or wiggle as a result of the beauty and wonder in which we steep?  See?  At least affinity, right?…

In one of the classic tales of the life of Lord Krishna, he opens his mouth and his mother peers in and sees the ENTIRE UNIVERSE inside… but how is this different than looking into the eyes of the one who is next to you right now?  Don’t be afraid to really look!  …Or be afraid and do it anyway.  Honestly, sometimes I get frightened by the intimacy of such presence.  When this happens, I remember a course in miracles and I actively seek out my own innocence in the vulnerable, luminous depths of the other.  I always find it.  It’s just a matter of remembering to look.

God, maybe I should write a whole book about the contemporary practical application of mythology!  I have a world to say on this topic… How bout I toss you a bite sized sample?  (that reminds me of shopping at the Woodland Market in Kentfield with my mom when I was just a Thumblina sized rendition of myself, and the butcher would always give me a baby hotdog as a treat.  He was my best friend.  I lived those tiny weenies…)  But I digress.  Once upon a time in shimmy pop class…

My outrageously shakti teacher, Samar was riffin on how amazing Marilyn Monroe was.  Samar said the woman was a genius.  Bludgeoned by my own boundless curiosity, I asked her how she knew this.   Samar replied that the hollywood starlet had a massive IQ, for starters.  And, she added, just watch her act!  It’s obvious.  As Samar gushed with admiration for this timeless, iconic goddess, her own brilliance swelled to blinding, like aflame devouring oxygen molecules.  That’s when an older woman who had been in class chimed in.  I bet she was in her late fifties… She disagreed, arguing that Marilyn Monroe was a bimbo who was victim-ishly confined to the strangling cage of an unapologetic man’s world.  She started to dribble on and on about the travesty of this predicament and I empathically tasted the internally imposed repression of her own archaic mind and strangled spirit.

Meanwhile, up in Athena Graceland, I was marveling at the stark juxtaposition of these two projections.  One woman, clutching stubbornly to her own sweetly familiar image of victimhood, and the other, awed by her own intricately fractaling dazzle and genius…

And naturally, this caused me to consider mythology.  Perhaps the indelible spray of familiar, iconic faces of a myriad pantheons are just that- holographic paper dolls, whom we artistically dress in our ancient memories, desperate hopes, deliciously scented wishes… Time-defying idols, serving as generous respites between the perpetual gap between language and silent inner knowing…

Twenty thirteen.  It’s now time to dress our archetypes in chic, racy, inspired threads of heaven…

Live,

A

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Geoffrey
    Jan 03, 2013 @ 14:12:13

    go, go Athena 🙂

    Reply

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