Vṛścikāsana – The Scorpion

An important question hovers in the air like the tail of a scorpion poised to sting -- why should the yogi become this creature so many of us fear? We would be forced to face the world upside down, learn how to fall from a precarious position and risk injury to our bodies.

The answer is shrouded in myth. While the scorpion's sting is indeed deadly, it is also a perfect example of "sympathetic magic" -- wherever there is poison, there is also potential to heal. Interestingly enough, modern science is experimenting with scorpion poison to cure the body from autoimmune disease (when the body attacks itself) and also from cancer of the brain. Returning to myth, the deadly scorpion's sting also presents occasion for the gods above to show compassion, reminding us to let go of control and trust that by grace and loving kindness we are saved.

Indian lore suggests that if you run from fear of a scorpion, you will soon find yourself being devoured in the jaws of a poisonous snake. In the temple of Isis, the Egyptian goddess who is matron of nature and magic, scorpions littered the floor and yet the temple women became familiar with them and were able to walk barefoot, even sleep on the floor without fear or harm coming to them. Lastly, out of all creatures available to Gaia, goddess of the Earth, she chose the scorpion to protect her beloved children from harm, knowing well of its fierceness and bravery despite its small size.

From the power of myth, the yogi may be enchanted to meditate in the scorpion's pose. Here she may indeed experience the fear of being at the mercy of the scorpion's tail poised to strike, and will be required to learn and trust in her own path. But she will also become the scorpion, guarding what is most precious to her, and thus begins a sacred contemplation of what in her life is most worthy of honoring and protecting. 

Who loves, raves. - Lord Byron

The last little while I have been wearing my long hair down and letting all sorts of beautiful strangers run their fingers through it. Though somehow I'm not feeling their touch or caress while being grinned at with all those teeth. In the city they’re hungry for something more than they know and while I remain unwilling to feed them, I likely don’t have anything to offer either except to bring forth my own longings.

Last night at a party in the industrial district of the city my girlfriend absconded to a dark corner with one of the two most beautiful men in Vancouver, or so I’ve been told. The theme of the night was circus carnival, so those in attendance wore outrageous and glittered costumes or exposed themselves under the paint of bright colors and outlandish designs. The top floor of the building held the dungeon where those who wished could take off what little clothing they wore, if any, to be hog-tied and swung in the air, pleasured with a feather, spanked with a paddle or jolted with an electric prong. I had never been to anything like this before, nor had I ever dressed the part. With every color of feather weaved in my hair, wearing a leopard print dress, black stilettos and mermaid blue glitter all over my eyes, I watched along with the others and swayed atop a table, soaking in the slow luxurious Indian beats of the room. The energy was that of the spectator: carnal, thick, and starving for more.

Throughout the night men and women would call out to me, and I thought to rush over to them, put my lips close to their ears and with an urgency I’ve never known tell them to call me by any other name but my own. For fear I should vanish into nothingness, should Kendra, the idea of my identity show itself in that place, I’d just stand there watching it float beyond my grasp and soon find myself without a body, without the desire to clamber up rocks and trees, to sink toes and fingers into the dirt, to drop little seeds into the earth and watch my own growth. They would be the authors of my disappearance, these strangers who will never know me, never know the depth of my love for lakes, rivers, streams, the vast space of mountains. They parade brightly for all to see, but shroud their hearts and disguise their movements, and I'm afraid when they devour me, I won't just cease to exist, but that I'll become this way.

After the carnival party, I wound down in a hot tub under the cover of night with my best friend and the two most beautiful men in Vancouver. I found myself turning my glistening back to them, thinking more about the sound of rain and the coolness of it, the breeze in the mild air, how I loved its touch against my face and the way it teased the branches and leaves of the overhanging trees.
“How erotic,” one of the men said, “that you two have never been nude in a hot tub before.”
I might have looked at him next to my best friend for a moment and considered his words, how they held no truth for me, how thrilled the two of them looked to have found each other. I went back to gazing at the night because I am the irritable cat who has been petted too much, and it would be uncouth to bite the hand stroking her.

I may live in the city, but it is not my home. My wild self is my best self, and I have yet to meet someone who brings this out in me. So far I am the only one who can, which pleases me in a way. For all the times I withdraw to drive long distances, venture into the cold and snow, climb up valleys of trees, river and rock, I just need to be lost for a while, playing and free. I'll be found some day walking through the woods, swimming in hot springs, perching myself on the top of great heights to watch over the world, humbly and in awe of all there is to see.

In a city of chaos, boiling over with absurdity, it is the only way for me -- to remain unseen. But I know the truth of my nature. I am simple. I long for what is real. All else remains a small matter of curiosity.