Parinama

The beloved yoga retreat Windhorse is closing. Created and taught by Peentz Dubble for over 20 years, Windhorse was a sanctuary for hundreds of yoga students who traveled up to Vermont each summer for Peentz's three, four, or six day immersions into yogasana, pranayama, and philosophy discussion.  In between there was swimming at the lake, feasts of pot luck dinners, deepening of friendships, and napping in the hammock. Over thirty of us will gather in August to celebrate all that Windhorse and Peentz has given to us over these many years. I wrote this to share at the celebration.     I first heard about Windhorse (and Peentz) unexpectedly. It was the spring of 2010 and I was longing to go deeper in my yoga practice.   I wanted to go on a yoga retreat but didn’t know where to go or whom to study with.   Two women from the studio where I was taking classes told me, “Go to Windhorse!”   I was afraid that I would not have the strength for...

I am not a monk, but I am intrigued by those who choose this kind of life.   Right now, I am especially interested by the life of Thomas Merton, a monk who spent almost thirty years at the Trappist Monastery of Gethsemane near Louisville Kentucky.   After his death, Merton’s journals were published leaving an intimate and unique chance to peak into the day-to-day life of a contemporary monk who lived in cloistered silence apart from the world. He also self-recorded many hours of talks that as novice director he gave to the novices at Gethsemane. The combination of the journals and the talks – along with the many books and articles on topics of not only faith and contemplation but literature, philosophy, social justice, and interfaith dialogue - gives us a multilayered and rich access to this monk’s path in life. “What is the purpose of our lives here in the monastery?” is something Merton asked himself and his novices again and again.   Merton’s an...

  There is something strange I am noticing about time which is that it really doesn’t exist.   What I mean by this is that time is just a construct that doesn’t have any meaning outside of the meaning we impose on it.   When I tell someone about something I did ten, twenty, forty years ago, the number of years has no heft of meaning to me.   Something that happened 50 years ago can feel more clear and full and real to me than something that happened 5 years ago or even a day ago.   Time passing does not make my memory of an event fuzzier. At least this is how it feels to me in the recollecting.   This hits home to me strongly when I see a parent with a small child like I did today at the lake.   As I stood in the lake, ankle deep, taking in the fragrance in the late afternoon wind, a little one  wobbled by, his fathers following closely behind.   When he felt unsteady, he would reach out a chubby little hand completely ...