But, what does it mean, the Art of Yoga? Well, BKS Iyengar wrote a book about it. A good title for a book and as subject matter on a creative website, but let’s unpack a little.

From decades of attempting to understand a body and mind that could be thrown into auto-immunity at any time, the nuances of yoga created a place in my practice.  The subtleties of movement and awareness grew to cultivate a place of ‘unknowing’, a simply being.  A co-existence of the physical, the subtleties and the visual in the putting together of yoga asanas provided space, and this, in my mind, is the Art of Yoga. Further, in creativity, when I am being moved by the act of making, painting, writing, a similar  experience of ‘unknowing’ arises, some refer to it as ‘being in the zone’. In ‘the zone’, subtle and profound shifts in perception are occurring, influencing the way we see ourselves, how we see others and how we form clear judgements about the world we exist in. Establishing sadhana, regular daily rituals, beside an asana practice, gives a steady intelligent awareness of our existence and maintaining an open-hearted enquiry serves to deepen those roots.

Above all, the Art of Yoga keeps us on the mat!

She crouched in the grasslands adjacent to the steep slope. A carpet of brown toned to soft reds against sharpish blue.  Trumpeting and snorting, the snake wove itself.  The din of horse hoof pounded the dirt. A Woman among Riders.

I had joined the farmers and their Icelandic horses. Ergo, a Viking import, is the purest in the world, permitted so by isolation, an assured exclusivity. No diseases, no predators. If she leaves, she is not allowed back. She is free to roam and forage. Her wild sure-footedness and quick thinking survive a harsh climate. I asked about breed and purity and acknowledged this was a rare thing. Farmers might frolic with four-handed creatures, sometimes even two! Ergo pointed out the five gaits. It is the Tölt and the Flying Pace that set an Icelandic horse apart from other breeds. Tölting involves a brisk walk, delicately clicking into a four-beat dance step, one foot touching the ground, a spill-free kind of bounce.  A flying gait is two beats, hooves on one side simultaneously touching the ground. Hundreds of these free spirited horses canter down from their summer pastures to be reclaimed. Well, that is once upon a time. I witness a re-enactment for romantic traditionalists. Fog dispersed into the blue of the day and wet baubles on grasses dried. Turps swilled. Hearts swelled. I felt a surge of gathering folk, a bubble in my own chest. I was close to the heart of this land.

Artists dispersed to nocturnal treats. Body fell into rhythm with elemental forces. I canter steadily.  A puppet of the wind, propelled forward with a gait that defined a practice. I was drunk with fistfuls of surrealist wilderness, my bones frozen to my skin. Limbless, I hailed a ride in a red van for the last stretch and sat down to a brew of hot cranberry tea.

Cool to touch, sharp and eroded, I felt each rock story, like the bones that crystallise our thinking.  In Iceland, I attuned to their inherent language and they became part of my art practice.  Each prepared ground of tissue invited colour, the felt experience of rock vibrancy, each rock I found was alight, carrying a story of northern light.  I became lit by rock, my inner ecosystem stirred.  I felt the land underneath and overhead; mountain water, sided by rocks, tumbled minerals, quivering and gushing, with a sulphuric undertone. Rocks are potent, holding a silent resolute authority in their luminosity. Volcanic and plutonic, they are the elemental underworld.  It is all in the magma.

In Australia, I am in relationship with rocks, yet the contrast with the vitality of the Icelandic experience, Australian rocks seem ancient and more dead than alive.

An encounter with a field of mushrooms occupied a fair chunk of mind when I walked the Camino de Santiago, because I was reading a book at the time about their potent nature and curious about the lengths humans go to to stay living. Surely, living is about having two feet on the ground, so to speak. According to mushroom literature, apparently not. Delving into my imagination, which I really enjoy sometimes, these friendly fellows came up. As you can see, they are minding their own business, nestled in among the grasses and being gently caressed by the wind with that wonderful sense of mysterious spore migration going on, which, thankfully, us humans cannot intercept, however hard we might try.

I thought about all the hype given to special mushrooms and their potential to transcend special humans and how we wrap ourselves up in things and ideas. And, really, what it all boiled down to was the human need to go for a good long walk.

It is a hope that a chance to be elemental is on the cards by tramping in your finest gear to my little exhibition by the sea. It could be a real possibility, because it is coming up soon at Earlyworks, South Fremantle, on Thursday 7 October at 6.30pm.

And, some say, it is one not to miss.

And I thought about how thankful I am to be still in this body. A body that has taught me patience, kindness, humility and gratitude. Thankful for all of the pain, the despair and the fears, the deep loneliness and isolation, because I keep learning to find myself. I am also pretty thankful for the anger and rage – oh yeah – it humbles me. For the guilt, the shame, because I will stand for what is true. Thankful fOr the gift of wild nature and a clean life (almost); the opportunity to travel to be with many; the art and the music and to all who touch my old heart with kindness, care and generosity. It gives me hope. Thank you for the fierce courage, for taking everything away because I learn to be with what I have.

AYURVEDIC PROVERB

Being prudent is an artform.

It is about a way of eating that is of benefit to most people most of the time. And followed routinely will result in being well. A long-term prudent diet is applicable to all, but personal idiosyncrasy must always take precedence.

I am in food territory. There is no such thing as a good or a bad food.  But there are foods which are better at a certain time and in a certain quantity for certain individuals. These are principles rich in the texts of Ayurveda.

In the big affluent universe of over choice and over thinking about choice, what is too much, what is too little, there are proponents of diet and regime. I am one of these. However, within the parameters of food choice there is the changing face of nature to consider, the laws of yin and yang, because that which helps one may harm another. And nature can be wild and wilful in all of her beauty. Ayurveda is about taking responsibility for how, when, why and what is put into the body. It is about self-nurture and parenting the Self.

With a student or client, I look at who presents, who that person wants to be. I look at their ability to take responsibility for their choice of food. Ayurveda teaches diet therapy. It looks to balance the physical part of the psyche. Diet is closely associated with self-worth and the wish to stay healthy and alive. It can be used diagnostically and predictively. Yet, there is no truth. No definitive answer. There is simple subjective interpretation of biased fluctuating data. A mere interpretation of what is felt and seen.

No practitioner or scientist can have a mortgage on the truth.

In holistic health management, the client accepts the interpretation that suits him at the time of consultation. It will most probably be the one that is most comfortable or least fearful. Later, with sincere preparation, there may be more risk and ability to tap into discomfort to fulfil a task or a dream.  At that moment a fresh practitioner may be called upon. If the client is not ready to take responsibility, attachment to a particular way may follow. A new gospel to adhere to. Rather, use process to keep clarifying your own belief system.

As an Ayurvedic practitioner, I assist with process. I observe body language, ways of relating and use of language.  I make no investment in a client’s condition, as this stands in the way of resolving the health difficulty that presents. Experience is our own. Medicine based on hypotheses is just that, valid in one year and disproven the next. Accepted for a small window by science they appear the only truth, maintained if need be by deposing the alternatives. Working from internal needs, another discovers something truer, as his predecessor did from his experience in relation to another. And so it goes.

It would seem that the more strident the beliefs are, the more likely that fear is in the house. Current medical practice relies on this fear of self-exposure and alternative view. Little concern for theories and practices that could keep most people free of physical and mental disease. Change and flexibility is human, yet dismissed in favour of throwing money at a flawed system of cure. One which briefly allays fear of impotence in those that claim responsibility for the health of others. When they are no longer funded by fear, they fail to survive.

The alternative is self-responsibility.

I do not write to seek approval. I yearn to advise, to care, yet somewhat perturbed by my need to care. As a mother and earth dweller, I care for others greatly. From the paradox of my feelings and the honing of my perceptions and interpretations in childhood, comes my therapy. Here, I address my self-responsibility. I cannot tell you your own truth. I can advise you on what I have found in living my life up to this point in time. I am subjective, innate to maternal femininity, and my conclusions constantly change. Therein lies their value. A value that may be useful at this time. Yet, ultimately to be discarded in favour of your own immediate truth.

I believe that those who intend in becoming well must decide for themselves. And this is a bitter pill to swallow. I have and you will writhe and moan to avoid that realisation, searching for something or someone. A hope to avoid responsibility, a fear of unworthiness from not attracting perfect love and caring hoped for as a child.

Diet is choice to take responsibility for all that you present. I give consultations in a prudent diet, how to regulate a life, how to self-correct occurring disease patterns.

I assist in tweaking personal idiosyncrasies that result in illness. I can suggest a programme of health and discovery. I am not able to say, how, when or where you do it. Ultimately, your universe is beyond me.

‘Health involves a willingness

to take responsibility for the decision to be ill.’

I join the farmers and their Icelandic horses. Ergo, a Viking import, is pure, permitted so by isolation. She puffs her chest with assured exclusivity. No diseases. No predators. If she leaves, there is no going back. I puzzled. Freedom to roam. A forager. She whinnies gently, her beautiful eyes dig deep. I see her. A wild sure-footedness and quick thinking lets Ergo survive a harsh climate. I smiled as she spoke of the land she loved. I asked about breed and purity. I acknowledged this was a rare thing. Farmers frolic with four-handed creatures, sometimes two legged ones. Ergo shrugged. She said it is all in the five gaits. In the Tölt and the Flying Pace. Tölting is a brisk walk, delicately clicking into a a four-beat dance step, one foot touching the ground, a spill-free kind of bounce. A flying gait is two beats, hooves on one side simultaneously touching the ground. A hundred or so free spirited horses dance down from summer pasture to be rounded up.  Once upon a time, that is. I witness a re-enactment for romantic traditionalists.  Fog disperses into blue, wet baubles on grasses dry. The swilling of turps, the swelling of hearts. I felt a surge of gathering folk. I was close to the heart of this land.

Artists disperse to nocturnal treats. Body falls into rhythm with elemental forces. I canter steadily. A puppet of the wind, propelled forward with a gait that defines a practice, drunk with fistfuls of surrealist wilderness. Bones freeze to skin. Limbless, I hail to hitch a red van, the last stretch, for a full cup of hot cranberry tea.