The Mystery of the Ryans

Ryans, Ryans, everywhere Ryans. They all came flooding in at once: heart-chakra Ryan of the infinite sparkle and the bubbling boogie-down dance happy her energy; fifth-chakra Ryan of the every which way expressive "all art, all the time" oomph, and of the awesome-est ever choreography that rocks my world twice weekly; second chakra Ryan of unforseen chemistry, those killer, killer hugs and the royal jelly hook-up; unchakra Ryan of Justin's meteor shower adventures and vague conversational mentions; and shamanic, mystical every chakra Ryan of sacred tingly stuff and heart and magic and now and yes.

Drenched in this onslaught of raining Ryan energy, I wracked the cavernous corners of my monkey mind: What's with the Ryans? What does it all mean?

I pored over the specifics with my favorite mystic, Justin, to no avail. I had a handful of Ryans, and no idea why.

I (sort of) surrendered to the mystery, (kind of) ditched the impetus to over-analyze, and headed up to Ojai with the Queen of the Tantric Sex Fairies, Jara, for some full moon hot springs action.

And it was there, immersed boobie-deep in sacred, sulphur-y water, beneath a blanket of moonlit star-stuff that Jara solved the mystery of the Ryans.

Of course! It's not only my favorite, synchronicity-laden, everything in it's right place constellation, but (AND) I'm reading The Keys of Enoch on Peter the sex shaman's orders AND the magical, mystical, secret mojo of Orion is all over that freakin' book, like Black Holes on the Alchemy Conference.

Mystery solved. Jara rules. Ryans rock.



While my neighbors reveled in various states of masked and inebriated Halloween folly, I sat in mediation for four straight hours, three of which I endured without shifting my position, straddling alternating bouts of excruciating agony and ecstatic bliss. When I emerged, knees throbbing, heart soaring, head tingling, all I craved was a loving hug. I limped my way into the bathtub, allowing the hot, salty, lavender-laced water to envelope me it's own warm, wet version of the embrace I craved.

And so, I found it fitting to be learning a routine to General Public's "Tenderness" in Ryan Heffington's Sweaty Sundays dance class the next day, receiving just the sort of energies I'd been craving by way of the boogie, and the tune we were jazz-squaring to.

While my right leg and foot were still numb from the evening's four-hour purification sit, my body was thrilled to be moving. We split into groups and spread out to rock the moves. Midway through the routine, I felt a sudden burst of sensation on the bottom of my foot. And suddenly, "tenderness" took on another meaning, entirely.

raw foot flesh against the backdrop of the day's Osho spread
oh, the graceful, delicate beauty of dancer's feet.