Journey toward the Longest Night

Join a tribe of women cultivating virtue on the journey to the Longest Night…

Journey with the Chakras


Join an online gathering of women
on a journey toward the Longest Night

In this online circle of women, you’ll gather with kindred spirits who are drawn to the practice of self-awareness, compassion and consciousness. The yogic virtues will serve as our companion and guide. This seven-week, seven-chakra contemplative writing practice will shape a sangha (a communion) of hearts in a journey of inner preparation for the Longest Night.


Circle opens: The week of October 30 with the dark of the New Moon when the veils between the worlds are thin.

Circle completes: The week of December 18 with the light of the Full Moon as we approach Winter Solstice/Longest Night.


This online circle is open to all women, regardless of age, location or yoga/writing/circle/chakra experience. Reflection, sharing and response will take place on the password protected pages of The Journey with the Chakras web pages…

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after a weekend with tara brach

photo: October 2016, Kelly Salasin

This morning I woke with a dis-armored heart.
Which wasn’t as frightening or as fabulous as it might sound.
Only noticeably different.
A little achy perhaps.
With a burning sensation.

As Monday morning quickly unfolded–with obstacles–I recognized my availability to–what was–without wishing for something different. This lent a sweet softness to a time that is typically tense.

I realized then that my mind had been so clever.
Not only had it protected me from the depth of my pain and losses;
It kept me from the depth of love & greatest longings.

No Virgins

An offering for the Autumnal Equinox…

This Vermont Life

There were 20 minutes when no one was there.
Not on the beach.
Not in the water.
Not across the pond.

But I didn’t know there were 20 minutes then.

I strip down in an instant
and dive into the water
without compassion
and daringly continue out
toward our town
the altar of summer
And lift myself onto the dock
and lie there
under the sun,
one middle-aged breast
deflating to each side
No virgin offering
to this lasting day of summer

And before I hear a car door slam
or the crunch of a stick underfoot,
I slip off the dock
into these September waters
and swim back to the shore
and wrap myself in a towel
and let the sun kiss my face
and turn to commune with the stillness
of water
of Everything
Just as a loon appears
out of the ripples I left behind


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30 Days without Facebook

I love reading that friends are taking Facebook sabbaticals. Their choice reminds me of mine in June, and reminds me of the choice in everything, and the spaciousness too.

This Vermont Life

Observing desire
without acting on it
enlarges our freedom
to choose
we live.

~Tara Brach


We came to Vermont for the clean air, the heightened perspective, the depth of thought and consciousness.

We gave up cable long before we arrived.

Once here, in a town without a traffic light, we learned to live with even less distraction. To embrace silence. Early nights. Slow reads. Pillow talk. Sleep.

Then came the internet.

The web expanded our horizons, enriched our conversations, increased our opportunity, and fractured our attention.

The single screen in the den was replaced by individual screens, of all sizes, in each pair of hands, in every room, at every hour, on workdays and weekends and holidays.

Family time, once incidental, now needed to be scheduled and rescheduled and relinquished in favor of independent pleasures. Moments passing and glancing at each others screens. Morning spaciousness obsolete. Bedtimes later. Pillow…

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Good Things Come…

651d184b026fb7ecd9f9e6575e822f6bI know many an artist (and other women folk) who rise in the wee hours to their craft when they can’t sleep, but not me. The last time I got up from bed to write was on the eve of my 50th birthday, almost three years ago; and now tonight, with the Harvest Moon lighting up the house, and rising inexplicably in me–memories of Steamboat Springs, 1986, when I taught preschoolers to ski.

I looked good on paper, and passed my PT exam with flying colors (because of my meaty thighs), but during the slope side ski school team screening, I took a tumble, so unaccustomed was I to deep powder after years of riding the rocks back east, even though I learned to ski in the Rockies, more than a decade earlier, when binders had cables, and Copper Mountain was a new thing.

Good things come.

That tumble didn’t cost me the position, but it did place me with the bottom group of students through much of that winter.

Each morning, with my education degree and high honors, I’d carefully place those rugrats on the rug in the snow at the bottom of the hill, and soon enough, one would fall, and take down the others, and mittens would come off, and someone would need to pee, and someone wanted his mama, and everyone would cry, including me.

Eventually, after the New Year, I moved up to level B, every once and awhile. To the rope tow.

Do I need to say more than: rope tow?  Remember leather mittens?

I’d place a kid between my meaty thighs and let the rope yank us onto the track and up the hill, and hope that his skis didn’t cross mine and that we didn’t tumble before we made it to the top where we’d just as awkwardly let go of the rope and then hop out of the way before it knocked us over, and then we’d ski, together, like a kangaroo and her joey, down the tiny slope to the pile of whining kids on the rug waiting their turn.

Good things come.

At the tail end of winter, a boy from Texas, who had never seen snow before, liked my class so much, that his parents requested a private–not with a specialist, but with me.

This little four-year old Texan and I spent the day skiing all over the mountain. Like free. We even ate lunch on top of the mountain, in the grown up cafe, a table for two, instead of down bottom, on the cafeteria tables, with snotty-nosed kids and rubbery grilled cheese sandwiches. (I used to eat three of those after skiing with kids between my knees all morning.)

By the end of the week, that boy, who had never seen snow, skied better than me. That’s the way it was with those little fuss pots, once they got over missing their moms and loosing their mittens and needing to pee.

546872_10151458941438746_766586566_nGood things come.

Each morning, I’d roll out of bed, take some Ibuprofen for my hangover, pull on my turtle neck and my ski bibs, and walk down the mountain from the condo that I shared with 4 other beach friends, including the twenty-one year old college drop out who followed me west, and who is still sleeping in my bed tonight.

“Don’t go,” he says, as my rising stirs him from sleep. “Let’s have sex instead.”

Back in the day, in between my day job on the mountain and my night job in the restaurant, I’d skip dinner just to make love, but now this Pisces moon is stirring memories in me so I leave my old lover in our bed and head down the stairs to the moonlight on the floor of the livingroom.

524958_10151458924138746_1209171228_nGood things come.

Just before I’d report to the ski school, I stop at the vending machine in the hallway for my breakfast–a Cherry Cola (for the fruit), and a pack of peanut butter sandwich crackers (for the nuts.) Then I’d check in at the front desk to get my slip for the day.

There would be a list of names on that little green sheet of paper–up to 9–and the letter A, for the rugrats; or B for the rope tow kids; and always more names than you wanted to see on one slip; but one day, unexpectedly, come spring, it said neither A or B; in fact, that day and every day after that, as the sun grew stronger, and the days grew warmer, there would only be a few names on my list–maybe 3, or 4 or 5, but no more, and always the same letter: C.  Sometimes C-1 or C-2, but then later, C-3 and 4s.

Every day in March was sun glasses and mountaintop views and having so much fun that we forgot about parents and who needed mittens as we inched our way from the lift to a beginner or intermediate or expert run, hollering in song…  “Walk like an Egyptian.”

Good things come.

Later, my boss told me that the administration was so impressed with my positive attitude all winter (meaning I hadn’t grumbled like the rest of them when I was  handed sheet after sheet with the letter A or B) that they thought I deserved to coast out the season with C’s.

Good things come.

Paige BradleyI’ve been having this week and particularly today–that good things were coming, even though it was one of my hardest days, with the full moon accentuating all of life’s blessings and challenges.

There’s something promising in this autumn air along with the renewed prana.

The moon has shifted across the sky, and my livingroom is now dark instead of filled with light, and moths keep crashing into my screen.

Good things come.

I’m ready to coast.

Me & my A’s at the bottom of the hill, Steamboat Springs, 1986

Happy Fall

There is a fourth body in the house, with its own nocturnal habits, which leads me to question, at 4 am, the decision to select latch handles instead of boring door knobs all those years ago.

Twenty minutes later, in the dark, I spoke aloud:

“The basil. Did you cover it?”

We had been covering the basil, just in case, every night, this entire month, ever since nightfall began forcing sweatshirts after dinner at the pond.

Just yesterday, I ripped a few pieces for my lunch, thinking how tender the leaves were and how I must get to making more pesto before the frost.

Instead, I went to the pond, and swam nude toward the sparkling sun, and afterward spread my tarot cards on a blanket for an Equinox draw.

The month had been so unusually pleasant that I’d missed my annual nude swim to the dock because the heat had populated the pond even after the children went back to school.

Now the dock is beached so it’s not the same as lying naked in the middle of a mountain range in the middle of the water in the middle of your life, and besides the pond is populated today too.

I did take a moment in the heat, bare breasted, beside the water, before wrapping my wet body in a towel, on this first afternoon of Autumn.

But it’s not just the basil and the summer. My youngest got his drivers permit yesterday. In fact, he showed up at the pond and put it in my face.

At 5 am, I consider that 15 is the Autumn of youth.

Just the other day, I was forced to go down into the cellar, in search of hanging files, where I found, discarded, on what had once been a train table, the remnants of his childhood.