Sat, 04 May 2024 04:20:38 -0600WeeblySun, 01 Mar 2020 06:30:00 GMThttp://yogawithrandy.com/stories/vessel-that-holds-joySome time ago there was a king who had his first born.  His joy was immeasurable and he hoped that his joy would never wane or leave so he proclaimed an edict.  “I will award the artisan who can create a vessel that can contain my joy and keep it safe with a permanent title and position as artisan of the kingdom”. 

The word went out to every corner of the kingdom.  Every artisan dreamed of becoming the king’s artisan.  And so they set to work.

In the kingdom there was a poor potter.  Upon hearing the king’s good news and edict he decided to create the most beautiful cup that could hold the king’s joy.  He imagined how the king would drink from the cup whenever he felt his joy diminishing and how he might just gaze at the beautiful cup and find pleasure and joy.

He gathered the last of his best clay and sat at his wheel from morning until evening.  He worked with love in his heart and hope in his mind. His fingers guided the clay into the most fantastic cup.  It looked delicate, but was robust. Happy with his work, he set about stoking the kiln. While the kiln warmed he mixed the last to the best glaze he had and coated the cup.  He placed the work of art into the kiln and went to bed knowing that in the morning his work would be ready.  

He could hardly sleep that night with excitement.  He imagined how the king would be impressed with the cup and what it would be like to be the potter to the king.  When rest came, it shared his dreams only fueling his hopes for the future.

In the morning he pulled the piece from the kiln.  It truly was beautiful. Once it cooled, he filled it with water to test it. To his horror the cup leaked.  There with small fissures and cracks that allowed the water to drip and run down the outside of the cup. There was no way to repair the cup and he no longer had enough good clay or glaze to start over.  He left the cup sitting on a tray on a table in the yard.

For the next few days and weeks, birds would come and drink from the cup.  When it rained, the cup would slowly lose its water, but the birds would peck at the droplets and sit on the tray.  As birds do, they left seeds. Wind and weather brought dust and dirt that settled in the cup and the tray and soon there were sprouts.  Then there were flowers.

The potter soon forgot about the cup and the edict and his dreams.  Meanwhile the king’s joy had turned to bitter pain. His child had passed and his countenance became drawn and tired.  His joy now pain his court reminded him of his edict and responsibility. Soldiers were sent out to collect all of the artisans' work to be displayed and judged by the king.   When they arrived at the potters humble house he was not home. Seeing the cup on the tray they assumed it was his entry and returned to the castle.
The entire kingdom assembled to see the works of art and watch the king.  Even the potter came to see. On the stage were wonderful works of art. When the king appeared there was a cumulative gasp.  He was slight and burdened. They were used to seeing a vibrant man who was full of life.  

He approached the first entry.  It was a beautiful metal box that had been forged by blacksmiths.  It had unbreakable hinges and a meticulous inset lock. The box had been forged with multiple metals and was as ornate as it was strong.

“This box is truly unbreakable and beautiful, if it were full of joy it could never be stolen.  Alas All that I have to put in the box is my sorrow and pain. I wish someone would take it from me instead of preserving it forever”.

The second entry was a gold chalice with inset gems.  It radiated with luminous beauty. Someone had filled the chalice with wine. The king paused to take in the chalice.  He raised it to his lips and tasted the wine.

“This beautiful chalice is itself a joy to behold.  The wine tastes of jubilation and celebration, but I would drink to hide from my pain.  And when the wine wears off, the pain would still be there. If I were to drink again and again, then I would simply stop living.  Stop feeling.

The next entry was a small jeweled box.  The box itself was gorgeous and it was meant to hold momentos as reminders of the king's joy so that every time he gazed upon it, it’s beauty would remind him of the precious treasures it held.  

“What could I possibly put into this box? That would not also remind me of my loss.  This beauty would become a curse to behold. As delicate and precious as it is I do not want it near me.”

And this is how it went with every entry.  Each entry as glowing and amazing as the next to be set aside by the king.  Until he came to a simple glass sitting on a tray with flowers. Someone had filled the glass with water and droplets were forming and running down the side.  Birds would come and peck at the droplets, singing with gratitude. The flowers were simple and blooming from the water. If you looked closely bees occasionally visited.

The king stopped.  He said nothing as he looked on.  He watched the birds and saw the bees.  He turned to the queen and held out his hand.  She joined him. They talked quietly together. A murmur went through the crowd.

“My friends.” the king turned to the crowd.  “My friends, this cup could never hold my joy.  Nor can it hold my sorry. It reminds me that joy must be shared and my cup refilled to share again.  It reminds me that though I am filled with sorrow, that too will pass away and again my cup will be full.  This is what it means to be alive. Joy cannot be contained.”  

“Like this cup, I am a broken man,” those near him could see his tears.  “I am a broken king who will again be full and will, like this cup, bring life to those around me.”
]]>Sat, 01 Feb 2020 07:00:00 GMThttp://yogawithrandy.com/stories/twitchTwitch    
At the house we have wonderful deck.  In warm weather I head out to the deck with a yoga mat and practice some yoga.  After yoga, I'll sit down for some quiet meditation in the morning warmth. The squirrels in the yard have become quite used to us out on the deck and will often visit.  One squirrel, we call him Twitch, has taken to visiting and accepting peanuts. He sits with us, awaiting peanuts, while we chat or decompress after a long day.
One morning after my yoga, I sat for some quiet time.  To my surprise a squirrel, Twitch, crawled into my lap and settled.  Amused, I settled into deep meditation. The shackles of the mundane fell away and my awareness became alive.  The sound of the breeze in the pines took on a new timber. The feel of the sun on my skin and the warmth of a nestled visitor brought a sense of gratitude and ease.  Images began to filter into my mind with a new vibrancy.
I found myself experiencing the climbing of trees and delighting in the discovery of an uncracked nut.  I felt the thrill of the game of chase with another squirrel and the freedom of leaping from branch to branch and tree to tree.  I was exhilarated.
When it was time, I began the process of re-entering waking life.  My friend too began to stir. No sooner than my eyes opened, Twitch leapt up and looked me straight in the face.  “Motorcycle,” he said.  
“Motorcycle?” I inquired.
“Motorcycle!” he said again.
We ran into the garage and he pointed to my bike. “Motorcycle,” he said again.  So I strapped on my boots and grabbed my helmet. I wheeled out the garage door, my new friend jumped straight onto the gas tank.  We were off.
Here in Colorado we have scenic highway that winds through majestic mountains.  The roads swerve and weave. And at midday in the middle of the week there is no traffic to inhibit the experience.  Twitch loved it. I picked up the pace and leaned into the curves. He fearlessly moved between the headlamp my shoulder and the tank.  As the bike moved, so did Twitch.
I didn’t notice a drone showed up and followed us.  
By the time we arrived back at the house video footage of us cruising through the mountains had been posted.  My phone began to ring off the hook. It seems that Twitch had become a star of the internet.  
It wasn’t long until requests for appearances and product endorsement deals started rolling in.  Harley Davidson sent us a tiny HD helmet for Twitch to wear. Nut companies couldn’t get enough of Twitch.  He had his own line of leather pet wear and signature luggage.
I drove him to the airport as he embarked on a world tour of motorcycle shows.  I was able to follow his progress on Instagram and YouTube. It seems there wasn’t a country or show or fair that didn’t want him to come and ride a bike. He even appeared in Paris to model his line of motorcycle inspired pet ware.  
At first  he would call or email every day or so.  Then his contacts dropped off. He would occasionally but dial me and I could hear raging parties in the background.  I got used to a drunk phone call from him now and then.  
Until one night he called.  “I can’t do this anymore.” I could hear in his voice something had broken.  “What am I going to do?”
“Come home” I said.  
“Can’t” he said.
“Come home” I said again.
“I don’t remember what home is.”
I picked up one strung out squirrel at the airport.  He had accumulated quite a bit of luggage, and baggage, on his travels.  I had to wrestle the cigarette out of his little hands when he tried to light up in the car.  When we got home, he stumbled up to the guest bedroom and didn’t show until the next morning.
When he got up he needed coffee.  Our regular coffee didn’t cut it. I had to run to the store for the fancy kind.  Back at home, coffee brewing, I found him checking social media from the sofa. I asked if he wanted to go outside.  He stared with disbelief. “Motorcycle ride?” I asked and got an eye roll.
I headed out to the deck for some Yoga.  He watched in a bathrobe and slippers. His impatience showed when I came in from my meditation.  He was ready for breakfast and his first martini. “This sucks,” he said.
“You want to feel better?” I asked.  I think the question shocked him. “Lets loose the cigarettes and booze.”  He was visibly shaking. “Yoga in the morning and no social media after 3 pm.”
“Coffee at least” he said.  I agreed. His coffee was pretty damn good.
The first week was tough.  I think he was sneaking Jack Daniels from the blue jays.  And he may have bribed the raccoon to bring him butts from the neighbors trash.  Even so, we started a routine. He would tell me stories about bike trips in the Alps or the Himalayas.  He’s met celebrities and stayed in swanky places I couldn’t even imagine.
I kept our yoga practice outside and on the deck.  At first he resisted and quit early. As the fog cleared he seemed to enjoy the moving meditation.  He would sip his coffee during my meditation. Then one day he wandered into the grass. I saw his nose catch the scent of the pine trees.  He found a nut, came back to the deck and crawled into my lap.  
Things really began to change after that.  Other squirrels would come and sit with us.  Soon he was chasing them and chattering. He relocated back to his old nest and we kept his memorabilia in a case in the guest room.
He lost his phone one day and remembered it again a week later.  It was okay being lost.

One morning after yoga he crawled into my lap again during meditation.  Images of squirrel life and the joy of being alive arose within me. He was alive again.

You can come home.
]]>Fri, 17 Jan 2020 18:57:51 GMThttp://yogawithrandy.com/stories/hearts-target​A young child was born to a very influential family.  At a young age he showed a propensity for archery.  He wielded a bow like it was simply an extension of his body.  At dinner parties he would be paraded into the spacious front room and he would target balloons set free by the guests.  Teachers and coaches became staples of his young life.  Christmas and birthdays brought new bows and new arrows to keep up with improving technology and blossoming skills.

The den became the trophy room, first filled with ribbons and later trophies.  The balloons at dinner parties became tossed tennis balls and later golf balls that were skewered with precision by titanium tipped laser sharpened arrows.  Family vacations were planned around guest appearances at international events demonstrating his mastery of the bow.

Soon there wasn’t a competition he hadn’t mastered.  There wasn’t another archer who would volunteer to shoot against him.

His father scoured the world for a worthy opponent.   Lucrative endorsement deals demanded exposure.  Adoration and recognition required bigger and better victories.

Rumors of a priest in an obscure land who never missed his target began to surface.  Speculation and curiosity drove an intensive search.  Emissaries were sent, venues scouted and finally he was found.  It was agreed that any proceeds would benefit those less fortunate and he acquiesced.
The day was clear with the slightest breeze.  There was a slight chill in the air making conditions perfect.  A target was placed and line set.  The young man with the latest compound bow, laser sight, carbon arrows with titanium tips walked to the line.  He lifted a hand to the on looking crowd and paused to have is image recorded by the hordes of photographers at the event.  As he turned to the target a hush came over the crowd.  He adjusted his sights and drew back the string.  The arrow flew straight and true to the target.

Just to the left of dead center it landed with a familiar “whack”.  He smiled, it was a beautiful shot.  The crowd erupted with a cheer.

The old priest appeared from behind the grand stands.  He walked slowly and deliberately towards the line.  He looked back at the grandstands with a look of wonder and curiosity.  Without much more of an acknowledgement he tested the string on his simple bow.  His arrow was a simple stick that had been whittled more or less straight.  Likewise the feathers were obviously from an old hen and the point simply made with a pencil sharpener.

When he lifted the bow, the crowd quieted, muffled laughter erupted.  He looked to the target and with the ease and grace the arrow flew.  The flight swam and floated on the breeze before it too hit the target.  Just inside the young man’s mark and closer to the center.  Neither arrow had hit dead center, a condition required to win the contest.

A second target was prepared.  The old priest asked that it be moved further away and the young man agreed.

Again at the line, the young man looked to the grasses willowing in the breeze and made adjustments.  He gazed through the magnified sight and practiced the easy breathing he’d been taught.  The draw and release were seamless and the arrow flew straight and fast, but missed the target sliding through the grass just beside.

The priest stood again at the line.  He looked toward the target, feeling the breeze blow his wisps of hair from his face.  As he raised his bow, his eyes closed.  Without a pause or adjustment the arrow flew.  Just as before its flight wandered and swam through the air before landing dead center in the target.

The young man was dumbfounded.  He looked to the grandstands to see awe and shock in the crowd.  He searched the crowd to see his father on the phone, unfazed by his first loss.
“How is this possible” he approached the priest.  “How could I miss and you find the target with just a stick?”  His eyes fixed on his opponent.  Their eyes met. 

“What is it that your heart truly desires?”  He asked.  The young man’s face scrunches up in anger and disbelief. 

“What do you mean, my heart’s desire?” incredulous and now shaking.

“The heart always finds its target.  The heart never fails.” His eyes unwavering he continues, “I love the arrow, its heart’s desire to be united with the target.  My heart, its heart sing together a love song to the target.  The heart never misses.”
​
The young man pauses.  A tear wells.  He looks to the crowd now in shock and muttering to see a man, a father on the phone.  “To be seen and loved.” The words trip from quivering lips.
“You are.”  He pauses, “and your heart’s desire has found its mark.”
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