YOKED

So I’ve been thinking a lot about the purposes of art lately, considering what it can and cannot do. For years I have gravitated towards creative writing, theatre, film, dance, and a variety of artistic enterprises in much the same way that ivy crawls across a wall. The connection to art comes so natural, that I respond almost unthinkingly, presupposing its intrinsic richness and worth. Reflection upon the subject has taught me that we are inevitably a story-telling people, who seek meaning in the creative and perpetual re-telling of our lives. And for those who have suffered inexplicable tragedy or the hidden burdens of mental illness, art is the most obvious consoler. It may not resolve the riddle of suffering, but it does speak to the heart of it; art names the complexities of human experience with the exquisite stroke of a brush, the rhyme of a verse, or the arc of a body in full expression. It does not answer every question, and therefore avoids the false trappi...

In the ancient Vedantic texts of Hindu philosophy there is reference to the physical body and the subtle body. The physical body is comprised of cells, tissues, muscles, organs—all things visible to the naked or microscopic eye. And yet, this subtle body is difficult to pin down. No x-ray, scan or biopsy can capture its existence. However, for centuries people have been engaging in physical disciplines in attempt to properly channel the energy of the subtle body along seven chakras, or energy vortices, that run the length of the spine, from the bottom of the sacrum to the crown of the head. The chakras are imagined as wheels that whirl powerful life energy upward through the invisible channels collectively known as the subtle body. This imagined spiritual body figures in the practice of Yoga, Tai-Chi, and many Eastern styles of meditation. I let these ideas about the subtle body, and its fanning petals of light, occupy my imagination when I am in the most diffic...

Licking the corners of my mouth, I retrieve the creamy remnants of a chocolate éclair. It is everything that the North End promises in authentic, overstuffed Italian pastries. With the taste of heaven still on my lips, and a sip of tea soon to follow, it occurs to me that Café Vittoria might be something of a training ground for spiritual formation. I know what you’re thinking. Here she goes turning secular decadence into religious blasphemy again . But hear me out. One of the most popular expressions at divinity school is the term spiritual agility . It is used to describe the ability of the minister to attend to different people and circumstances with considerable flexibility. A spiritually agile individual will not only read the pulse of a room, but remains nimble enough to respond appropriately. And as a virtuoso of the soul, who seeks to bring out the best notes in others, she is constantly retuning her own instrument in search of the divine pitch. In short, ...

The Dance Complex is an establishment in Cambridge, operating for decades with six floors of dance studios and the most eclectic variety of classes you could possibly imagine. They have everything from break dancing to salsa to organic ballet, which must entail hemp leotards, right? And with a cheap drop-in, pay as you go option, it’s the perfect excuse to experiment with one of the many dancing hybridizations they offer. So experiment I did—with a course in tribal belly dancing. The Harvard Gazette recently published an article on staying sane, in which Laura Kubzansky, HSPH associate professor of society, human development, and health, wrote, “Everyone needs to find a way be in the moment, to find a restorative state that allows them to put down their burdens.” Dance is one of those exceptional activities that transfixes my mind long enough to forget itself. Sometimes I am completely suspended by the challenge of learning a new move, captivated by a new pattern of subtl...

I embarked upon my trip to Boston or the New World, as it were, in search of a great adventure. I dreamed of old buildings, laced in ivy and finding three Irish pubs in one square block. I dreamed of autumn colors, charming footbridges and the glow of the city on the bay. And all of this has come true. But nowhere in my great adventure did I map out, in much detail, the part about it being 29 icy degrees with a wind chill and ever shortening days. “Isn’t that part of your adventure?” my mom asks from cushy California. “Well,” I reply, “I suppose I better relocate my notion of an adventure.” Navigating the Venetian canals with a bottle of vino? Adventure. Trekking the snow-encrusted gorges of Mt. Everest? Not so much. Bundling up with warm woolen-mittens and a cute periwinkle knit beanie? Adventure. Wearing a “gator neck” that covers my face like a bandit or a burka? A new, but necessary fashion low for me. I am sure that many of the thick-blooded New Englander...

The morning light licks the corners of my face, repeatedly, until I consent to opening my eyes. She makes her gradual way across the bed, nudging her most promising sign of hope unto the tossled ivory. The sun is far more gentle than any alarm clock I’ve ever fought, though no less insistent. In such radiant self-giving, how many times can I roll over? So we strike a compromise: I will flip my pillow and “rest” my head, but promise to keep my eyes a flutter, little windows parted slightly for the streams of her still light. Sometimes I up the bargain, telling her that there is really no better way to receive her glory, no greater praise of her warmth, than to surrender consciousness upon her lap, just a little. She will often reply by shedding new light upon the floor, warming a most suggestive path out into the kitchen. My stomach grumbles. Are you sure you don’t want to try freezing time again? I ask. You, me and the sheets, forever curled in our secret morning splendor...

She was entering her senior year, at “the college,” shorthand for Harvard University’s undergraduate school. But already she was planning to take her postgraduate career across the country to golden California. This much I overheard from a stranger, riding on the “T.” With one hand gripping a side rail and two feet spread upon the shifting floor, I stood, balancing the East Coast ride as if I were surfing the Pacific ocean. I laughed to myself about the irony of the ride and the Harvard student’s remarks: my home state was becoming her adventure destination, just as Boston has become mine. As I listened to her muse about the unique California culture and its endless sunshine, everything about her dreaming was immediately familiar. The wonder, the excitement, the stereotypical assumptions-all that goes along with moving into the unknown, it was all there, but written in the opposite direction of my own great move. California is as exotic to her, I thought, as Boston...