I am Gaia

Tonight I4. Bhakti lay on my yoga mat and cried. Not that unusual in the grand yoga scheme of things, but unusual for me. Some of my friends from yoga cry in most practices. I rarely cry and if I do, it’s usually because of an intense back-bend or Mari D adjustment and is followed by relieved laughter. But tonight I cried for humanity. Like Leeloo in the film ‘The fifth element’ when she reads the encyclopaedia and sees the history of humanity’s war against itself. And she cries and cries for the waste of life and the pain and the suffering, and she feels it like it were being done to her.

My yoga mat is made by Gaiam – or, as I read it – I am Gaia. I am the whole earth and everything on it. Interconnected. One.


But I look at my reminder of our ‘oneness’ every day. What was different today?

I am currently reading ‘A New Earth’ by Eckhart Tolle. Which is helping me to transition from believing in my head that I am one with everything, to knowing in my heart and feeling in my soul that I am one with everything. So there’s a whole lot of heavy philosophy floating around in me.

Possibly the music, I was listening to ‘L’origine nascosta’ by Ludovico Einaudi. There is a bit between 1.15 and1.30 which sounds like a collective sigh, like a sigh of sadness.

Why was I listening to music? Usually Ashtanga is practiced in silence, so you can connect to your breath. Well I was trying to mask the sound of the Mont Blanc Rally, which is starting from outside my window. Really it is. I’ve just made it through a whole yoga practice paying only minor attention to the farting, backfiring exhausts of hundreds of souped-up Porches, Renault Twingos and Peugot 207s, and I finally lay back into Savasana, only for a moment of irritation to creep in. A moment of “oh for pity’s sake, is it really necessary to rev your engine quite so much?” when ‘I am Gaia’ popped up.

I am Gaia. I am the revving engine, the backfiring exhaust and the French Boy-racers (Garcons de courses?) And if I am the harsh angry-sounding cars, then I am also all the other less than pleasant things in the world. The girl who lied to me yesterday and I KNOW she lied. I am that girl, I told that lie. Worse, I am the war, the rape, the murder. I am Syria, I am holocaust, I am apartheid. I am Gaia. I don’t get to pick and choose. I don’t get to be just the flowers and the birds and the butterflies and the sunsets and the moonrise. I have to be all of it. And so I cried, because I am Gaia. For better or worse. In sickness and in health.

And suddenly the storm started, as only they do up here in the mountains where we are closer to God and he hears us more clearly, and the lightening ripped through the sky and the thunder boomed as the air collapsed back in on itself.

And I found myself wishing that the collective human consciousness would hurry up and have it’s thunderstorm. That the weight of the negatively charged particles would cause the light of awareness to rip through each individual mind, restoring the equilibrium of nature. Restoring harmony to humanity, the way lightening restores balance to the sky.

Yes thunderstorms are violent and scary and powerful, but they are also necessary. And after the wind dies down, the air feels fresh and clear, and the sun comes out and dries up the soaked ground and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow has his predictions realised.

“Be still sad heart, and cease repining. Behind the clouds is the sun, still shining. Thy fate is the common fate of all, into each life some rain must fall.”



One thought on “I am Gaia

  1. Jen, this is lovely. At times, I also feel the weight and hopelessness of the world weigh down on me. If you think too hard, the darkness is unbearable. I have a friend here from Syria, I barely know how to speak to her sometimes.

    I come at this from a slightly different angle than you, but surprisingly close. It’s interesting what you wrote about being closer to God in the mountains – I feel exactly the same way. I feel God’s presence in the mountains more than anywhere else. Part of the reason I keep skiing when I kind of hate it.

    Longfellow was a wise man – he wrote some verses that I hold dear too.

    And in despair I bowed my head;
    “There is no peace on earth,” I said;
    “For hate is strong,
    And mocks the song
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

    Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
    “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
    The Wrong shall fail,
    The Right prevail,
    With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

    I cling to those verses when the darkness closes in.

    PS..I did some yoga this week. I am abysmal at it 🙂

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