Paramedic's Prayer to the Yoga Teacher Within

[That’s Teacher with a big “T” like the big “L” in Love…]

Please help me remember I am a creator of worlds.

But one of the many creators of worlds, that more important than creators or worlds are the interactions between.

Please help me understand how Divinity is expressed in worlds I can’t even want to understand how anyone would allow themselves to create.

Please help me understand how there isn’t someone who oversees this whole interaction, I mean really… isn’t that sort of important? Are we really going to let the children play like this?

And please help me remember I’m one of the children.

Just help me remember, remember whatever it is I forgot. Please help me stay conscious in my indigation, my anger, to stay connected to my own limitations, to the freedom of others. Please help me find the frame that will let me let go.

Crying as Pranayama

OK, so it wasn’t the first thing I came upon.

First, I slept ’til noon. (While I endorse indulgence, it’s not so much as it might seem. In fact I figured out – genius! – that I should do so more often, because my working plan has been to try to make myself sleep til noon days I work, and force myself out of bed early days I don’t so I “get more done.” What a doofhead.)

Then, I sat in my pajamas, ate chocolate chip cookies and watched soap operas. Followed by Law & Order & Crossing Jordan. While doing Sudoku. For reasons I find embarrassingly obvious I find the order exhibited by cop shows and number puzzles comforting.

Then I looked up job coaching on the web. And employment ads. Then I googled “I need a new job.” (Even funnier results: “I hate my f***ing job.”)

Then I put Baroque music on Itunes streaming from the computer, took my latest installation of Tantric teaching to the bath….

And then I finally started to deal.

Pranayam is consciously relating to breath. Crying is breathing with a vengeance.  Consciously Breathing With A Vengeance, now that’s yoga.


You’ve got to be frigging kidding me.

 Two women, two different calls. Both, both apoligized to me. For taking my time, for being a bother, for needing something. Really? This is the way our world works? This is the way my world works? You’ve got to be kidding me.

You’ve got to be kidding. One was raped in front of a group of other people. One was coming off a bender, in her own apartment, not admirable, not proud, but in need and not having harmed another being.

Both of these women wept, averted their gazes, showed angst, shame, and at the end…

Apologized for needing help, thanked me profusely, surprisedly, for being nice to them.

Really? This is how our world works? People who are at their lowest, most hurt and wounded, people who have hurt no one are surprised by humanity. And the rapist, the derider and the just plain skater, they act as if my attention, your kindness and our resources are their due.

Really? Is this what we’ve meant to do? Is it? Really?

Not me.

Perhaps there's a limit.

My husband boxed in his younger days; he tells me there’s a myth that each boxer has a limited number of matches in him, and then it’s done. Even the boxer himself doesn’t know when it’ll be up, until it is. Then he knows, and it is.

Perhaps paramedics have a set number of rapes or murders or child batterings they can run. Each one is tough, each one shouldn’t happen. But you pick yourself up, you run your next call. Or a hundred.

But one day, you run the one. The last. And then you know.

 Maybe. Maybe I’ve found mine.