The Four Stages of Yoga by Nischala Cryer

Author:Nischala Cryer
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781565895690
Publisher: Crystal Clarity Publishers

CHAPTER 16

The Veil

IT WAS ONE OF those late afternoons when pale blue skies turn shades of rose petal. We boarded our car, bumped down the steep access from the Meditation Retreat, maneuvered through dirt and gravel, the road still littered with pine needles and broken limbs from a rousing storm.

We passed the ’Inimim, an old growth forest our neighbors were helping to preserve. Earlier in the year, we worked together to remove underbrush from the big trees protected there. The result has been happier neighbors and healthier lives. Today, as we drove through the forest, something dark moved above and before us.

“There he is,” my husband sang, “Nevermore, nevermore!” Our eyes looked up. The raven, symbol of magic and messenger between worlds, darted high in front of the car, as he often did, piloting us through the forest. We live where the Nisenan roamed hundreds of years before; I feel their hand whenever these birds fly into our lives. Poe’s Raven sang to us. Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore can we keep the love of mortals; life will always give us gains and losses.

As we continued, the late afternoon light made the corridor seem murky and closed-in; the Manzanita reached for our car; the pines held a steep salute; the trees weave a story. We traveled the Trail of the Blissful Burro, renamed for its predecessor, Jackass Flats. Then down through another forest corridor opening to a wide and barren landscape. Early days of gold mining had left remnants, ravaged piles of falling topsoil, stunted trees. Water cannons had divided the earth in search for gold. A moonscape remained.

Greed had inspired the destruction, wiping out Nisenan trails, building a new history. I tried to imagine the Nisenan living simply, the land their own mother. When we reached the pavement our old car sighed. Now we sped through taller forests, up and down a rollercoaster, the road sleek, scenic, carrying us faster. Another raven wove out in front, flying faster to keep in front of us. My husband remarked that it must be his spirit guide.

We made the turn into Ananda Village, moved through the valley, then up the long hill to one of the highest points on the land. I remembered my first coming here when all the roads were dirt. During the rains the dust and orange clay would turn to peanut-butter consistency, cars would sink in the mud. Pavement became our desire. We descended quickly towards our destination: an abrupt ledge overlooking steep canyons. Below, the Middle Fork of the Yuba River was hiding, crawling.

Hand-in-hand we continued in silence towards the meeting. The carved wooden gates opened softly. We floated onto a scenic verandah with statues, chimes, a Mediterranean-style building that welcomed us. Other couples gathered. We descended farther down steps, riding the crest from above.

To our left a pool bubbled before a resilient Quan Yin, her eyes downcast, fingers holding skirts in a modest bow, elegantly androgynous. She seemed transported from another world to greet the yogi couples.

Halfway down the steep stairs we were forced to pause, stepping out onto a lush terrace bordered by shrubbery.

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