As the year draws to a close, it seems that so many of us- intentionally or not- move into reflective practices. This can be a potent energy to ride as the majority of our society gathers collectively at the precipice of transition. It is a sacred space- much like sunrise or sunset- where we are not defined by day or night. It’s a space where we linger in-between definitions of what seems so concretely real and entertain the possibilities of that reality being altered. It is a void which invites possibility.
And as many renew their intentions- attempts to catalyze alterations in reality- I wonder why it is that many of us struggle to see this change through. As with most philosophical questions and cerebral musings, I turn to the body- to my physical practice- to guide me toward truth. After all, the body never lies.
Kevin Yee-ChanManifest: make less change, make more space.
At yet another point of transition- as summer draws to a close and fall waits to descend in the northern hemisphere- I look back at the stories I have collected; I look back at all of the events that have transpired to bring me where I am in this very moment. These cycles let me rediscover tales of my childhood, those of my parents, their parents, and theirs before them. I revisit the stories of my teachers and attempt to trace them back to where they came from: a never ending journey into time immortal.
As days continue to roll by, this question gets increasingly complicated to answer. Cultures mix, breeds cross, it becomes decreasingly likely to find a person with a single genealogical line.
Often in yoga, we are asked to follow a lineage- a genealogical line of its own sort. And as people and tastes continually diversify, there arises a discord between stepping into a lineage (guru complex, anyone?) versus stepping into one’s own power. One can be laced with submission and the other with ego. But what if they were the same thing?