Grounding My Root Chakra, Literally

Last night I was invited to participate in a special night of reciting the Sri Guru Gita, composed of verses from Sanskrit scripture. Through its 181 verses, the Sri Guru Gita describes the Guru-disciple relationship and its supreme role in the attainment of Self-realization, in the form of a dialogue between Shiva and his wife Parvati. It's quite beautiful, and you can listen to the full chant here.

Though the Guru Gita is recited every morning in certain ashrams and households, being new to all of this I'd never heard it, and had no idea what to expect from the evening. I was the only newbie/stranger in a group of about 20, and while we were chanting the verses (I believe it took about an hour and a half) both of my legs went completely, absolutely, 100% asleep. This isn't at all unusual when I'm meditating, and I've found ways to deal with the discomfort as part of the experience. Except that last night, at the end of the 181 verses, everyone suddenly stood up. It was time to move to the next part of the ritual, with one participant waving the aarti lamp in front of pictures of the gurus that had been carefully hung on the wall. Caught off guard and somewhat dazed from all the chanting, I didn't want to appear disrespectful and hastily tried to get up on my sleeping legs — and immediately fell back down with a most impressive thud.
Kaboom! The floating cork floor shook. The dimly studio trembled, bringing to mind Wednesday's earthquake — except that I was suddenly its epicenter.

Needless to say, the Sanskrit and aarti waving came to a grinding halt for a moment and everyone switched to repeating, "ohhh!" and "awww!" in my direction instead. Some people assumed that the intensity of the energy in the room had knocked me right over.

That certainly might have accounted for a part of it — but in reality, I'm just a terrible klutz. Perhaps the Guru of Klutz. I'm a terribly earnest klutz, but I'm a klutz nonetheless.

"Sorry!" I whispered (thinking, "Please go back to whatever peaceful trance-like state you were all in before I crashed to the floor") A second hasty attempt to get up (this time with the full attention of everyone in the room) landed me back down, where I stayed, wishing I were dead, until my legs started to tingle their way back to life. Thankfully the aarti waving and chanting resumed without me.

When my legs and the rest of my body had finally reestablished communication with each other I rose shakily to my feet, feeling a lot shorter than I had when the evening began. Though the chanting continued, a cup of cold water was procured from the foyer and brought to me, just in case. We've got a loose wire over here in the front.

Why does my lesson have to involve falling down in public?
Is it to teach me that getting back up is as easy as falling down in the first place? Or that failure - of your legs or anything else - is just a place you sometimes land on your way to success? Is it to reassure me that I won't be stoned or punished for not being perfect? Is it the universe's way of giving me a good laugh that I can share with others when I relate my ungraceful tales of woe?

Afterwards, over cake and fresh berries in the studio foyer, everyone was extremely gracious and reassured me that they understood from personal experience that I'd been caught off-guard with my legs asleep. I was given the copy of the Sri Guru Gita I'd borrowed for the evening, a 1978 softcover from the Gurudev Siddha Peeth ashram in Ganeshpuri India. After everyone else left I was invited to share more cake and a small glass of wine with my teachers, ask questions, listen, walk back outside with them later and admire the full moon hanging above the gracefully swaying trees.

An earthquake — shaking. A full moon — pulling. Falling in the midst of rising. What a week.

“Be strong then and enter into your own body.
There you have a solid place for your feet.
Think about it carefully
Don’t go off somewhere else.
Kabir says this.
just throw away all thoughts of imaginary things.
And stand firm in that which you are.”

— Kabir