Chakras, The Lumbar Spine, and French Fries

Imagine me, in typical bag-lady fashion, plopping down on my white leather sectional in my gorgeous Cambridge loft apartment, peeling off layers of sweaty spandex, and flipping furiously through my training notebook for the page with my notes on chakras, so that I can show my loving and saintly boyfriend what I've deduced is the next step for me on my path of spiritual evolution, and what his chakras mean. When I try to explain that I think he's aligned overall, with his spiritual upper chakras: his strong intution, deep compassion, ability to wrap his head around the big-picture, just as activated as his lower chakras: his groundedness, will, and stability. Whereas I live in the upper chakras, floating above the daily grind, giggling at the notion of trying to fit my round-booty-peg in the square holes all around me. As one of my fellow teacher trainees said (quoting Joan Rivers) "Just because it zips, honey, doesn't mean it fits." Just picture me jumping up and down, laying on the floor, trying to zip up and into the prescribed "right" course of action. Not a pretty sight.

So there we sat, him slowly understanding and maybe even accepting, my realization, that I could do with some grounding, but that I should never give up the amazing gift of my spirituality and ethereal mindset. Thank goodness the three upper and lower chakras are connected by the fourth, the heart. His and mine are both open, we become flooded with compassion and, in turn, humbled by loving kindness.

It kind of makes sense that the neurotic cerebral long island yoga loving surf haired flower child would meet the golf playing number crunching incense burning ohio hippy college grad and fall in love.

Which brings me to the lumbar spine...I kid! I just love when the most warm, sweet, gaga loving, guided meditation guru of a yoga instructor, Alex, comes at us with his model pelvis and talks about our vertebra like points in a game of battleship. My faves are L4 and L5...susceptible to injury and easily protected by proper alignment.

So really the functional anatomy and spiritual skeleton I'm developing through my 24 hour per weekend intensives have led me to conclude I should eat more salt. Salt comes from the earth and I was told by a reiki master I need grounding. More french fries. Sounds like a good plan to me.

Dating Myself

In New York City it feels natural to venture out and explore by oneself. New York itself is probably the best companion a person could ask for. There is that churning, musical, warm, burnt chestnuts and garbage and hot dogs and break dancing and jangling bangle bracelets and fast walkers and babies and tourists energy that you can roll around in until it absorbs. And before you know it you're so completely full of the companionship of the city that you laugh to yourself. You've found the antidote for a lonely heart.

Knowing how beautiful a solitary day in New York can be, I may have entered into the process a bit jaded when I attempted to date myself in Boston.

First of all, with the devastation going on in Haiti right now and the abject status of my checking account, I have no capability of donating money to _____ charity. When you're walking alone in Harvard Square or on Newbury Street it seems that you are metaphorically re-painting your forehead with a huge red bulls-eye. I dodged and ducked and rolled and ninja back flipped my way around the cobble stone streets desperately avoiding the pleading voices of the bright blue vested task force of solicitors. I am sorry, but I just donated to St. Jude's and the Red Cross and I really...have... to go now I pleaded internally. I really needed something uplifting to happen to convince me that dating myself in this city could actually happen and it wouldn't lead to my feeling vulnerable and helpless.

I walked towards the first parish church with few expectations, but great hopes.

The line spilled out the door. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes (and a few wonderfully supportive husbands) eagerly awaited entry. There was a buzz of lightness and hope that transported me back to my city of birth. There was an energy I do not often feel in Boston that made this venue itself into a living breathing being, a perfect companion for the night.

We were all awaiting entry into a room where soon Elizabeth Gilbert, best-selling author and one of Time magazine's 100 most influential people in the world would soon stand. She worte Eat. Pray. Love. A book that has touched me in ways that words will not do justice. During the question and answer section last night, after Liz, with her radiance, and her statuesque Nordic presence, and her soothing controlled voice, and her razor sharp wit, read to us from her new novel Committed, which I will be purchasing as soon as my stafford loan refund check gets deposited into my account (scornfully laughing over here), one of her readers made the comment we all wanted to, allowing everyone in the church to exhale with satisfaction.

He said, "A few years ago I was exiled to Panama and was in a very dark place. I was told by good friends that I needed to read a book that healed and they told me about your book. Your book, your words, healed. So thank you." The audience erupted in applause because many of us, myself included, who had just broken up with a great love, and desperately wanted to find herself again, agreed. He then said, "And my question is...How do you know when you're healed?"

The audience erupted in laughter. As did Ms. Gilbert. Who responded, with the eloquence and grace of a figure skater, knowingly positioning herself for a triple axle, "I don't know if being healed is a reasonable end goal for any of us. Being good enough might be a bit more doable. And I think I knew I was getting there when I stopped waking up at four in the morning sobbing every day. I was like someone walking away from a firing squad, amazed that I still had all my limbs in tact."

That was a paraphrase. But you get the message.

Last night I experienced an hour of highly concentrated love. I was in the presence of a magical woman who has touched the 7 million readers of her memoir and the many people those 7 million people shared their purchased copies with.

By the time I had inched my way up to the book signing desk and handed her my worn and dog-eared copy, I knew not what to say to this marvelous creature who has made it her life's mission to express her truth from start to finish, through written word. I wanted to tell her how she made me stare my sadness in the face and conquer it. I wanted to tell her what a blessing she has been to my life. Or about my desires to write and my fears and preoccupations. But it all seemed so inadequate compared to a sincere smile. When we faced each other, I put my hand to my heart and softly said "Thank you for writing." and she replied "Thank you for reading." And swirled the pen over the title page.

I walked out of the church feeling light and full of love. Maybe Boston will be a better companion than I had anticipated.

On The Cusp

Hey there cyberspace. Morgan here. I'm smack in the middle of my winter break, my twenties, and grad school for that matter; so I figure why not start blogging.

And here we are.

So let me begin by saying I love quotes and hate beginnings. That being said... this is a quote that I often reference with the students I counsel, dear friends, and on first dates (ladies, take note)

"It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning."

That, my friends, is Rainer Maria Rilke. His quotes have this way of grabbing my heart and inspiring me to act. In this case, let's skip the intro, the background info, and the emo b.s. and move onto the topic of the day:

Being a cuspian.

I am a cuspian. What does this mean? Well, in lay terms, it means that I was born in the last three days of the astrological sign "cancer" and have many of the hallmark qualities found in a "leo" though that is technically not my sign. Thus, I am referred to by some as a "cancer-leo," which has tremendous implications for my livelihood.

Essentially, astrological signs fall into categories. Cancer is fundamentally a female, lunar, and water sign. While Leo is a male, solar, and fire sign. When I first realized I was on the cusp I had an "aha!" moment.

That must be why I am at the same time magnetic and shy. A loner, but also an attention seeker. A giver, but very much a taker. I am ruled by opposites.

Ultimately, because I am a female I think I probably have more characteristics of a cancer; I ooze femininity and relish in taking care of a home, my friends and family, and my lover. However, I always wondered why I was so much more bold and fiery than my three closest girlfriends, who are all cancers.

Now that I've put together yet another piece of the Morgie-puzzle, I am left with a few other questions. How does compatibility get impacted by being on the cusp? Do I have my dueling traits in-check or, despite my efforts to achieve grace through yogic practice and living in the now, am I nothin but a "nutmuffin" (as my boss fondly refers to people that are endearingly cracked)?

My hunger for self-knowledge is unrelenting.

And so is my fixation on reality television. But more on that next time. Until then...

Au Revoir Mon Ames!