Tree branches cradle me like tangled yarn. I move over, under, & between, my body a human hook, crocheting a slow dance through the Hau. I weave myself through time and forrest, exploring the fabric of the jungle.
Raindrops begin to polkadot the cotton rainbow of my clothing as I spider through the last thicket. Pause to shimmy my spine against rough bark. Yessss. Emerging from the tree maze, I do a handstand (Adho Mukha Vrksasana) otherwise known as Downward Facing Tree, to feel that brief moment of balance at the top.
A split-second splits, and time divides into a thousand nows where I celebrate, surrender to god, and melt into ecstatic gratitude for having a body. Non-dualistic repose. Scrumptious Disollution. Euphoric Valhalla. Suddenly, the equilibrium retreats. Time condenses. I fall back to earth.
Handstanding was my childhood religion.
Someone has painted the big rocks yellow, marking an arbitrary line some property owners decided they wanted no one to cross. Two shades more lemon than a warning color, but still unfriendly, unnatural. It makes the grass below them look a sickly, pale green. I consider how humans evolved from making flower leis at altars to making spray paint, sold in lonely stores with strange lighting and people frowning at numbers all day. “Evolved.”
I dutifully obey the yellow rocks and stay away. I shake the fluorescence from my mind and lean against a mango tree, one leg tucked. Tree Pose (Vrksasana). Trees are my ADULT religion. Eyes closed, my body dissolves into the tree’s body. I travel down through the roots, feel the soil in my gnarled arboreal fingers.
This is how I learned that trees are permanently in handstand. Their mycelial brains and sturdy hands IN and OF the earth. Their toes reaching upward, outward, legs spreading wide to make the sky blush. For them, time is always a thousand nows, celebrating, surrendering to god, melting in ecstatic gratitude for having a body.
In this holy and deliberate state, these bold sculptures grow. A visible transcription of life seeking balance in the face of external weather & influence. Yet, still handstanding in a permanent state of celebration. Next time you sit in a tree, acknowledge the raw and holy position you are likely in: crotch to crotch with a giant creature, in sacred union of the spiritual and physical worlds. I hope you celebrate.
I jump back into my own body and wonder if my own shape has done as well at finding balance or as well at making itself beautiful in its own journey through its time and weather.
I walk to a puddle to check. I see the jabberwocky and lose myself to the strangeness of reflection. It shows my meat face, hair, moles. I wonder if a tree had eyes if it would feel as much dysmorphia as I do. I know my body on the inside better. It is made of cupcakes, confetti and spaghetti, graffiti’d handicapped stickers, memories of cartoons and trauma from ex-lovers. My body feels like swollen tongue, big teeth and chewed fingernails, half-breaths & heartbeats, soft skin and chubby parts, my mother’s crooked smile.
Where did I come from?
My mother’s body was a bit different but I still feel my body as the seeded extrapolation of hers. She was made of bird bones and quickness, a fearful foot that hit the car’s brakes too quickly, too often, and made us nauseous. Hers had agile, crafty fingers and xylophone-perfect toes. My mom’s body was fueled by 6-10 of the latest vitamin fads, estate-sale adrenaline, apples, popcorn, and a fierce determination to learn piano at 40.
I wonder if this mango tree looks anything like its mother, feels anything like it’s mother. I look around to see if I can find her. No luck. Does this tree have a father? Is the sky its father? Does the tree stick its feet up to its father in handstand saying, “Look at me dad!” in hopes that he will be impressed but also catch if it loses its balance? Like I’ve always done with my father?
My father is good at being a sky – holding the space. letting me tip pretty damn far over, almost crashing to see if I will balance on my own, before blowing me back to center at the last minute. Yeah, my Father is a great sky, I mean… a great guy.
I once heard someone say that God’s body is time itself. And if that is true, then perhaps the sky is its lungs? Blue lungs. God breathing right through us.
He exhales like velveteen on my arms, hundreds of invisible bunny ears caressing my skin.
My body is celebration.
I inhale the salted, thick rot of sea air and laugh suddenly. In a banana-split-second my spine tingles up like a sushumna* popsicle. The laugh turns to pop rocks in my mouth, a cackle, a howl, and I hoot back in to the Hau to celebrate the moment, like Ive lost my mind or am on drugs. But I’m not. I’m on Maui, a windy little island where howling at the jungle is just what you do on a Tuesday.
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*sushumna = the main channel of energy situated inside the spinal column. (definition from B.K.S. Iyengar, Light On Pranayama)
Photo by Rahul Sharma on Unsplash
