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Home is the love you make

It is the breath in a yoga asana. It is the sugar in the cake. It is in the memory of a friend. It is in the surrender of a lover. It is in the head bowed in prayer. It is in the rage of the writer. It is in the writings of the scripture. Home is the love you make.

While teaching pigeon pose, I tell my students that the awareness of their hips in space is like a homing device by which they understand who they are. It is natural for us to identify with one or the other, but what if we could hold both like the lotus flower blooming from and in the mud, the mud of all that we have witnessed that isnt who we are.

The disconnect between body and mind, like the battle of the sexes or the age old axe to grind, is like shakti without shiva and shiva without shakti. You can hear her restless rattle as the stock brokers scream and shout and scramble for an avalanche of pennies and you can hear his swan song in every untouched being.

When I look into the world, I see the seduction of power and the power of seduction, but where is the meeting place of the beloved? It is not in the ivory tower where though the intellect labors, it remains joyless, and it is not in the capitol, which though it exudes

importance, it feels insufficient, and it is not in the babble, which though it hypnotizes, is tangled in slumber.

Energy remains a phenomenon that few sense much less become fluent in. This language articulates all, and yet, we, who are spoken can we hear the truth?

It is the choice of the individual & the karma of the collective do we elect marvel or cling to the mundane? Words stop short; they can only gleefully or, with despondence, hint to the obvious.

Home is the love you make. It is in the nest of a bird. It is in the genius of thought. It is in the ticking of the clock. It is in the essence of the timeless. It is in the creativity of destruction and the destruction of the unreal.

By Sofiya Hyder

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