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| Inspiration This page is dedicated events, writings, and experiences that inspire my yoga practice in hopes that they might also inspire yours. |
| Embracing Transformation June, 2010 The World Has Changed By Alice Walker The world has changed: Wake up and smell The possibility. The world Has changed: It did not Change Without Your prayers Without Your faith Without Your determination To Believe In liberation And Kindness; Without Your Dancing Through the years That Had No Beat. The world has changed: It did not Change Without Your Numbers Your Fierce Love Of self And Cosmos It did not change Without Your strength. The world has Changed: Wake up! Give yourself The gift Of a new Day. The world has changed: This does not mean you were never hurt. The world has changed: Rise! Yes And Shine Resist the siren call Of Disbelief. The world has changed: Don’t let Yourself Remain Asleep to It. From, The World Has Changed: Conversations with Alice Walker, 2010 |
There have been many exciting changes in my life this month. I finished graduate school in May and have moved to a
new home in a new state, and am ready to begin new adventures. I am overwhelmed by the possibility these changes
offer, so reading this poem helps me remember the importance of honoring all of the potential the open space in my life
holds, and the importance of truly celebrating this opportunity. Alice Walker speaks of, “The siren call of disbelief,”
and I recognize this in myself as I have worked hard to create space in my life, and yet sometimes in my new freedom, I
have felt anxious, not knowing who I am without the stress I became so accustomed to during graduate school. This
poem reminds me of the importance of stepping fully into the expansion I worked so hard to create. When I read it, I
hear her say, “Please do not keep struggling just because you are so used to struggling.” Each time I reread her poem
this message sinks into my heart more deeply. Essentially, it feels like permission to be happy. I am surprised that I
need that sort of permission, but I think we all do sometimes. It is a powerful message for anyone who is beginning to
heal. . .
The philosophy of Anusara yoga has taught me how to embody this concept. Anusara reminds me to strive for
balanced action, discipline is paired with celebration. When I step onto my yoga mat, one way I apply this teaching is
through the balance of muscular and organic energy. I focus on muscular energy to bring myself into alignment and
create the structure I need in my body to be safe. Muscular energy is hard work for me, and it takes confidence to
continually embrace myself with this support and affirm that the effort I am using is worth it. Using Alice’s words,
muscular energy is my, “fierce love of self,” it is my “determination to believe in liberation, and kindness.” It is my
strength. My world and my body will not change without it. But as this poem reveals, a practice of only muscular
energy would be incomplete, and would leave me feeling contracted. This is why Anusara teaches organic energy and
reminds us of the importance of expansion and celebration to find balance. When we step into this celebration, we don’
t let go of the hard work, we can honor both. Organic energy is a statement that I have worked hard with muscular
energy, and now it is time to honor my alignment by declaring my presence in this new joyful space. Organic energy
sings, “The world has changed!” I will not transition out of any asana until I have fully expressed my gratitude for the
opportunity to expand and celebrate my body with this principle. Sometimes this takes as much consciousness as
remembering to first pull in, especially in more difficult poses where the “siren call of disbelief,” can be much louder
once we find alignment. The first time we experience a difficult pose without pain or unsteadiness, it can be so
surprising that we contract, rather than extend out and fully embody our new self.
This is how yoga becomes practice for life. We never know when our hard work is going to pay off, so we must
prepare ourselves to embrace transformation beyond our imagination in every moment. Tonight I will practice
acknowledging when my world has changed by being sensitive to my body so that when I detect freedom, I can
celebrate and expand. Off the mat, I will commit myself to honoring Alice’s message by not letting myself remain asleep
to any of the blessings in my life.
new home in a new state, and am ready to begin new adventures. I am overwhelmed by the possibility these changes
offer, so reading this poem helps me remember the importance of honoring all of the potential the open space in my life
holds, and the importance of truly celebrating this opportunity. Alice Walker speaks of, “The siren call of disbelief,”
and I recognize this in myself as I have worked hard to create space in my life, and yet sometimes in my new freedom, I
have felt anxious, not knowing who I am without the stress I became so accustomed to during graduate school. This
poem reminds me of the importance of stepping fully into the expansion I worked so hard to create. When I read it, I
hear her say, “Please do not keep struggling just because you are so used to struggling.” Each time I reread her poem
this message sinks into my heart more deeply. Essentially, it feels like permission to be happy. I am surprised that I
need that sort of permission, but I think we all do sometimes. It is a powerful message for anyone who is beginning to
heal. . .
The philosophy of Anusara yoga has taught me how to embody this concept. Anusara reminds me to strive for
balanced action, discipline is paired with celebration. When I step onto my yoga mat, one way I apply this teaching is
through the balance of muscular and organic energy. I focus on muscular energy to bring myself into alignment and
create the structure I need in my body to be safe. Muscular energy is hard work for me, and it takes confidence to
continually embrace myself with this support and affirm that the effort I am using is worth it. Using Alice’s words,
muscular energy is my, “fierce love of self,” it is my “determination to believe in liberation, and kindness.” It is my
strength. My world and my body will not change without it. But as this poem reveals, a practice of only muscular
energy would be incomplete, and would leave me feeling contracted. This is why Anusara teaches organic energy and
reminds us of the importance of expansion and celebration to find balance. When we step into this celebration, we don’
t let go of the hard work, we can honor both. Organic energy is a statement that I have worked hard with muscular
energy, and now it is time to honor my alignment by declaring my presence in this new joyful space. Organic energy
sings, “The world has changed!” I will not transition out of any asana until I have fully expressed my gratitude for the
opportunity to expand and celebrate my body with this principle. Sometimes this takes as much consciousness as
remembering to first pull in, especially in more difficult poses where the “siren call of disbelief,” can be much louder
once we find alignment. The first time we experience a difficult pose without pain or unsteadiness, it can be so
surprising that we contract, rather than extend out and fully embody our new self.
This is how yoga becomes practice for life. We never know when our hard work is going to pay off, so we must
prepare ourselves to embrace transformation beyond our imagination in every moment. Tonight I will practice
acknowledging when my world has changed by being sensitive to my body so that when I detect freedom, I can
celebrate and expand. Off the mat, I will commit myself to honoring Alice’s message by not letting myself remain asleep
to any of the blessings in my life.
| Practicing Aparigraha August, 2010 Swans By Mary Oliver They appeared over the dunes, they skimmed the trees and hurried on to the sea or some lonely pond or wherever it is that swans go urgent, immaculate the heart of their eyes staring down and then away the thick spans of their wings as bright as the snow, their shoulder power echoing in my own body. How could I help but adore them? How could i help but wish that one of them might drop a white feather that i should have something in my hand to tell me that they were real? Of course this was foolish. What we love, shapely and pure, is not to be held, but to be believed in. And then they vanished, into the unreachable distance. From Evidence, by Mary Oliver, 2010 |
Aparigraha is one of the Yamas of the Yoga Sutras that describes the practice of non-possessiveness,
non-grasping, or non-attachment. I have always understood this concept as it relates to material items, but
when I considered it in my relationships, I felt slightly conflicted. While I do not want to feel possessive of the
people or animals or places I love, the thought of non-attachment seemed cold, lacking humanity even. So
when I read this beautiful poem by Mary Oliver, I felt grateful to her, as I always do, for translating an abstract
concept into a language I can understand on a felt level. Whether she meant to or not, I feel Mary Oliver
inspires the feeling of Aparigraha in this poem by providing me with a visualization of how this ancient Yogic
practice could apply to any moment in my life today. And the essence of the experience is one of gratitude,
and of trust. Whenever we have a moment in our lives where we recognize the abundant blessings
surrounding us, we may feel a compulsion to grasp on to that experience, person, place, or event. This
seems like a natural desire, but one that we recognize as destructive if we are sensitive to our internal
process. In that moment of grasping for more, longing for permanence, we lose the moment we are in. If we
can catch ourselves in this desire, however, it brings us back to the moment, and through the recognition of
the impermanence of our situation, we feel even more gratitude. Gratitude for these moments of divine
awareness, and also gratitude for their departure, which only creates space for more beauty to arise.
Anusara yoga consistently reminds me of the importance of honoring this sense of awe without clinging to it,
through its first principle, Open to Grace. In our yoga practice, we are offered glimpses of our own beauty,
the swans that fly within our own souls, and we practice appreciation and presence as we learn how to
breathe while containing so much amazement. We learn that there is no need to grasp for feathers of
evidence of our own divinity,or to wish for this awareness in its current form to last forever, because we trust
that the awareness will find us in a new form if we remain open and sensitive. We learn that we simply must
enjoy our experience. So as I unfold my body on my mat tonight, I am prepared to witness moments of beauty
and peace that will make me want to stay there forever, and my work in these moments will be to cultivate as
much appreciation as I can. And when I finish my practice and return to the tasks of the evening, my work will
be to continue to believe in these moments that I love, even as they vanish into the unreachable distance,
and in doing so, I peacefully let them go.
non-grasping, or non-attachment. I have always understood this concept as it relates to material items, but
when I considered it in my relationships, I felt slightly conflicted. While I do not want to feel possessive of the
people or animals or places I love, the thought of non-attachment seemed cold, lacking humanity even. So
when I read this beautiful poem by Mary Oliver, I felt grateful to her, as I always do, for translating an abstract
concept into a language I can understand on a felt level. Whether she meant to or not, I feel Mary Oliver
inspires the feeling of Aparigraha in this poem by providing me with a visualization of how this ancient Yogic
practice could apply to any moment in my life today. And the essence of the experience is one of gratitude,
and of trust. Whenever we have a moment in our lives where we recognize the abundant blessings
surrounding us, we may feel a compulsion to grasp on to that experience, person, place, or event. This
seems like a natural desire, but one that we recognize as destructive if we are sensitive to our internal
process. In that moment of grasping for more, longing for permanence, we lose the moment we are in. If we
can catch ourselves in this desire, however, it brings us back to the moment, and through the recognition of
the impermanence of our situation, we feel even more gratitude. Gratitude for these moments of divine
awareness, and also gratitude for their departure, which only creates space for more beauty to arise.
Anusara yoga consistently reminds me of the importance of honoring this sense of awe without clinging to it,
through its first principle, Open to Grace. In our yoga practice, we are offered glimpses of our own beauty,
the swans that fly within our own souls, and we practice appreciation and presence as we learn how to
breathe while containing so much amazement. We learn that there is no need to grasp for feathers of
evidence of our own divinity,or to wish for this awareness in its current form to last forever, because we trust
that the awareness will find us in a new form if we remain open and sensitive. We learn that we simply must
enjoy our experience. So as I unfold my body on my mat tonight, I am prepared to witness moments of beauty
and peace that will make me want to stay there forever, and my work in these moments will be to cultivate as
much appreciation as I can. And when I finish my practice and return to the tasks of the evening, my work will
be to continue to believe in these moments that I love, even as they vanish into the unreachable distance,
and in doing so, I peacefully let them go.
| Living our Dharma July 2010 Excerpt from Water Drips Through Stone by Andrea Gibson To hear the whole poem, click here. . . .but just then the Goddess cried "No!" the Goddess cried, "NO! Water drips through stone! Now listen close: Your heart is that water your art is that water you are that water now flow! Your heart is that water your art is that water you are that water now flow!" And for the first time in years the woman rose and she rose and she rose 'til her hips stretched the skyline and her lips kissed the stars and her hands held the sun 'til it lit the caverns of her heart and she fell in raindrops down upon the earth she showered the rivers and the oceans her breath was the motion of the tides she purified the soil she birthed the storm that split the dam then sprung a dancing spring that drowned the tanks the machines everything that didn't sing then she swallowed up the lies she vaporized the greed she was the water that sprung the flowers that brought the bombs to their knees she was the wave, the tsunami, that revived the human heart she was the part of us of me of you just now coming true. |
Long before I read the Bhagavad Gita, I heard this spoken word poem by Andrea Gibson and began to
contemplate the meaning of dharma, or spiritual duty. The full poem describes the path of a little girl, born into the
world full of hope, who slowly begins to lose faith as she witnesses the terror and destruction that surround her .
As she becomes a woman, she is crushed beneath the weight of her sadness, feeling hopeless, until one day she
hears the voice of the Goddess whispering, "Water drips through stone." The woman is momentarily revived, but
then feels angry at the Goddess for focusing on this simple miracle when there is so much suffering all around.
She lists all of the terrible things happening in the world, expressing her fear that pain is more powerful than
anything else, and the Goddess only continues with the same response, "Water drips through stone." But the
woman is not convinced, she tells the goddess there is no water, there is no time to wait for water, she asks the
Goddess where the water is when it is needed. Finally, the Goddess responds with a powerful voice, which is the
part of the poem included above: Your heart is that water, your art is that water, you are that water, now flow.
When I read the Bhagavad Gita now, I hear these words echoing in my mind, because they speak to me of
dharma in a similar way to Arjuna's conversation with Krishna. For me, both stories express the amazing power we
each have to contribute to the world, and the fear we often feel about stepping fully into that power. They
emphasize the doubt we might feel that we can make a difference, and the temptation to collapse in the face of the
great battles life presents. As I read Andrea Gibson's poem, I can relate to the woman who wonders where grace is
during times of war and destruction, just as I can relate to Arjuna's questioning of Krishna that he is the warrior who
must fight. In both cases, a higher voice responds to these doubts with a deep and powerful affirmation that yes,
we must rise to our potential in service of spirit, and when we do, our hearts will expand with divine love. These
stories remind us that the universe is good, even when we can't see it, and it is in service of this good that we must
offer our gifts to the world. When we are unsure of what our gifts are, or of how we can possibly face the tasks
before us, both stories remind us to soften, to listen, to wait for the whisper of the Goddess, or for Krishna's
command - to become receptive to our higher selves and the guidance that comes from our hearts.
I can access the experience of becoming receptive to guidance in my yoga practice through the principle of inner
spiral. The vast energy of inner spiral is what is required in order to hear the whisper of the Goddess in our lives.
Once we receive the awareness cultivated through inner spiral, we take action and rise to our potential with the
strength of outer spiral. Outer spiral connects us to the muscles in our core, empowers our legs, and integrates our
pelvis to make us strong enough to embrace the challenge in every asana, setting an example of how it feels to be
strong in the rest of our lives. I especially like to focus on these two principles while practicing inversions or arm
balances, as they provide an opportunity to literally be carried by the balance that is created when we are both
receptive to a greater guidance and willing to take personal action in response to that guidance. Once I
experience this in my body, I can move through the day with more clarity, knowing I will be guided toward service if I
am wiling to be led.
contemplate the meaning of dharma, or spiritual duty. The full poem describes the path of a little girl, born into the
world full of hope, who slowly begins to lose faith as she witnesses the terror and destruction that surround her .
As she becomes a woman, she is crushed beneath the weight of her sadness, feeling hopeless, until one day she
hears the voice of the Goddess whispering, "Water drips through stone." The woman is momentarily revived, but
then feels angry at the Goddess for focusing on this simple miracle when there is so much suffering all around.
She lists all of the terrible things happening in the world, expressing her fear that pain is more powerful than
anything else, and the Goddess only continues with the same response, "Water drips through stone." But the
woman is not convinced, she tells the goddess there is no water, there is no time to wait for water, she asks the
Goddess where the water is when it is needed. Finally, the Goddess responds with a powerful voice, which is the
part of the poem included above: Your heart is that water, your art is that water, you are that water, now flow.
When I read the Bhagavad Gita now, I hear these words echoing in my mind, because they speak to me of
dharma in a similar way to Arjuna's conversation with Krishna. For me, both stories express the amazing power we
each have to contribute to the world, and the fear we often feel about stepping fully into that power. They
emphasize the doubt we might feel that we can make a difference, and the temptation to collapse in the face of the
great battles life presents. As I read Andrea Gibson's poem, I can relate to the woman who wonders where grace is
during times of war and destruction, just as I can relate to Arjuna's questioning of Krishna that he is the warrior who
must fight. In both cases, a higher voice responds to these doubts with a deep and powerful affirmation that yes,
we must rise to our potential in service of spirit, and when we do, our hearts will expand with divine love. These
stories remind us that the universe is good, even when we can't see it, and it is in service of this good that we must
offer our gifts to the world. When we are unsure of what our gifts are, or of how we can possibly face the tasks
before us, both stories remind us to soften, to listen, to wait for the whisper of the Goddess, or for Krishna's
command - to become receptive to our higher selves and the guidance that comes from our hearts.
I can access the experience of becoming receptive to guidance in my yoga practice through the principle of inner
spiral. The vast energy of inner spiral is what is required in order to hear the whisper of the Goddess in our lives.
Once we receive the awareness cultivated through inner spiral, we take action and rise to our potential with the
strength of outer spiral. Outer spiral connects us to the muscles in our core, empowers our legs, and integrates our
pelvis to make us strong enough to embrace the challenge in every asana, setting an example of how it feels to be
strong in the rest of our lives. I especially like to focus on these two principles while practicing inversions or arm
balances, as they provide an opportunity to literally be carried by the balance that is created when we are both
receptive to a greater guidance and willing to take personal action in response to that guidance. Once I
experience this in my body, I can move through the day with more clarity, knowing I will be guided toward service if I
am wiling to be led.
A New Rhythm September, 2010 For a New Beginning, A Blessing By John O'Donohue In out-of-the-way places of the heart, Where your thoughts never think to wander, This beginning has been quietly forming, Waiting until you were ready to emerge. For a long time it has watched your desire, Feeling the emptiness grow inside you, Noticing how you willed yourself on, Still unable to leave what you had outgrown. It watched you play with the seduction of safety And the grey promises that sameness whispered, Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent, Wondered would you always live like this. Then the delight, when your courage kindled, And out you stepped onto new ground, Your eyes young again with energy and dream, A path of plentitude opening before you. Though your destination is not clear You can trust the promise of this opening; Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning That is at one with your life’s desire. Awaken your spirit to adventure; Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk; Soon you will be home in a new rhythm For your soul senses the world that awaits you. |
When I received a copy of this poem from a friend at my yoga teacher
training in March, I hoped its message would be true for me. I was about to
face the transition of finishing graduate school, and I had several hopes for
what would follow, but also felt nervous and doubtful of what I was wishing
for. I felt frustrated with myself because I was supposed to be focusing on
finishing my final project , and all I was doing was daydreaming about
moving to Colorado for the summer, followed by moving to a bigger city in
the Fall. These ideas didn't seem too unattainable, but I also couldn't quite
imagine how I would make them happen, and felt nervous about the
changes that would occur in my life if they did.
Now, as September begins, I am preparing to leave my summer in
Colorado behind and move to Washington D.C. Although it's only been a
short time since these plans began to form in March, I can't express how
many more times I have doubted them, or myself, throughout the transition.
Even when I arrived in Colorado, I immediately clung to the possibility of
staying longer than a summer, and started to arrange for that, but as soon
as I got comfortable, began to play with the seduction of safety, a path of
plenitude opened itself to me in Washington DC, so I am preparing to move
again.
When I read this blessing by John O'Donohue, what comforts me most is
the idea that even when we are afraid of our dreams, even when we don't
think we can change, there is a greater energy moving us toward our
deepest intentions if they are in alignment with our heart's purpose. This is
the meaning I take from his suggestion that our souls sense the world that
awaits us. Something in us will keep working when we feel we have given
up, and when we think we are content or settled, a greater energy will move
us toward our next opportunity for growth when the time is right.
I experience this concept in my yoga practice when I focus on the kidney
and shoulder loops in a back bending practice. Kidney loop is like settling
into the out-of-the-way places of the heart. When I exaggerate kidney loop,
I feel like I'm hiding a little, softening, waiting until I'm ready to emerge. And
what I discover is that if I honor this alignment, this waiting, before I lengthen
the sides of my body, move the heads of my arm bones back, curl the tips of
my shoulder blades toward my heart, and expand, I can open much more
fully than if I attempt to rush this process. I also discover that even without
the intention of creating shoulder loop, when I soften into kidney loop, a
natural lift arises from the back of my body toward my heart, demonstrating
that just as this poem suggests, our courage will kindle and our bodies will
unfurl into back bends just as our lives will unfurl into adventure.
As I continue into another month filled with dramatic changes, I will stay
centered by remembering that there is a beginning quietly forming, waiting
until I am ready to emerge, and by trusting that the new rhythm I come home
to will continue to expand my heart.
training in March, I hoped its message would be true for me. I was about to
face the transition of finishing graduate school, and I had several hopes for
what would follow, but also felt nervous and doubtful of what I was wishing
for. I felt frustrated with myself because I was supposed to be focusing on
finishing my final project , and all I was doing was daydreaming about
moving to Colorado for the summer, followed by moving to a bigger city in
the Fall. These ideas didn't seem too unattainable, but I also couldn't quite
imagine how I would make them happen, and felt nervous about the
changes that would occur in my life if they did.
Now, as September begins, I am preparing to leave my summer in
Colorado behind and move to Washington D.C. Although it's only been a
short time since these plans began to form in March, I can't express how
many more times I have doubted them, or myself, throughout the transition.
Even when I arrived in Colorado, I immediately clung to the possibility of
staying longer than a summer, and started to arrange for that, but as soon
as I got comfortable, began to play with the seduction of safety, a path of
plenitude opened itself to me in Washington DC, so I am preparing to move
again.
When I read this blessing by John O'Donohue, what comforts me most is
the idea that even when we are afraid of our dreams, even when we don't
think we can change, there is a greater energy moving us toward our
deepest intentions if they are in alignment with our heart's purpose. This is
the meaning I take from his suggestion that our souls sense the world that
awaits us. Something in us will keep working when we feel we have given
up, and when we think we are content or settled, a greater energy will move
us toward our next opportunity for growth when the time is right.
I experience this concept in my yoga practice when I focus on the kidney
and shoulder loops in a back bending practice. Kidney loop is like settling
into the out-of-the-way places of the heart. When I exaggerate kidney loop,
I feel like I'm hiding a little, softening, waiting until I'm ready to emerge. And
what I discover is that if I honor this alignment, this waiting, before I lengthen
the sides of my body, move the heads of my arm bones back, curl the tips of
my shoulder blades toward my heart, and expand, I can open much more
fully than if I attempt to rush this process. I also discover that even without
the intention of creating shoulder loop, when I soften into kidney loop, a
natural lift arises from the back of my body toward my heart, demonstrating
that just as this poem suggests, our courage will kindle and our bodies will
unfurl into back bends just as our lives will unfurl into adventure.
As I continue into another month filled with dramatic changes, I will stay
centered by remembering that there is a beginning quietly forming, waiting
until I am ready to emerge, and by trusting that the new rhythm I come home
to will continue to expand my heart.
| Invite the Opening November 2010 "Being loving does not mean we will not be betrayed. Love helps us face betrayal without losing heart, and it renews our spirit so we can love again." - bell hooks All About Love |
I first read this statement about love by bell hooks during a difficult time when I was hearing too many stories about
betrayal and violence while volunteering for a victim assistance crisis line and domestic violence shelter. The pain I
was witnessing on a regular basis tempted me to shut my heart down completely, and when I read this statement, it
struck me deeply enough to bring tears to my eyes. Knowing about the horrors of the world, I still wanted to believe in
love, and by the definition bell hooks offered, I knew I could.
The quote came to my mind again recently during a conversation with friends about relationships. Removed from
the realm of violence, love can still be difficult to believe in, relationships can still be difficult to trust, and pain can still
invade our most intimate experiences. As I listen to people reflect on this reality, the conclusion I often hear is a
determination that it must have been a mistake in the first place to have loved, followed by a resolution never to do so
again. They lose heart. We often believe we did something wrong if a relationship did not last as long as we intended
it to, if partners act in ways we did not expect them to, or when we are surprised by the pain of a loved one's
departure from our lives. I believe this sense of failure is a reflection of confusion about what love's purpose in our
lives is. As bell hooks explains, love does not shelter us from the intensity of life, it carries us through it. It is the grace
that holds us in our darkest moments, renews us when it is time to heal, and connects us to our deepest joy.
Most of us can relate to the experience of closing our hearts after being hurt, and it is difficult to imagine how to
begin the opening again. We wish for some guarantee that if we do return to love, we will not be hurt. We sometimes
wish we had never opened up at all. When I began practicing Anusara yoga and the teachers spoke of the first
principle of alignment as being, "Open to Grace," my cynical mind thought such a pleasant command lacked depth.
But as I move more deeply into my practice, and into my life, I recognize instead that this instruction requires more
courage than any other element of our practice, just as opening to the potential of love returning to our lives is
perhaps the most courageous part of starting a new relationship. Without honoring the first principle, a practice of
even the most advanced asana can create a disconnect with our bodies, and does not require bravery at all, just as
moving through relationships without opening our hearts keeps us invulnerable and disconnected from those who love
us.
When I stay fully present in my yoga practice, it does not remove the difficulty of the asana, and maintaining the
intention to love in relationships does not mean they will be easy. But the willingness to try anyway is what, "open to
grace," means to me now. It means, "LOVE AGAIN." I cannot learn to do this without practicing, so I start on my mat,
breathing, listening, trusting. As I feel the steadiness of my body returning to movement and discovering joy even
after experiencing the injuries, tightness, and stress of life, I find faith that my heart is steadier than I realize, too. I
don't need to protect so much. My spirit can be renewed. I can love again.
betrayal and violence while volunteering for a victim assistance crisis line and domestic violence shelter. The pain I
was witnessing on a regular basis tempted me to shut my heart down completely, and when I read this statement, it
struck me deeply enough to bring tears to my eyes. Knowing about the horrors of the world, I still wanted to believe in
love, and by the definition bell hooks offered, I knew I could.
The quote came to my mind again recently during a conversation with friends about relationships. Removed from
the realm of violence, love can still be difficult to believe in, relationships can still be difficult to trust, and pain can still
invade our most intimate experiences. As I listen to people reflect on this reality, the conclusion I often hear is a
determination that it must have been a mistake in the first place to have loved, followed by a resolution never to do so
again. They lose heart. We often believe we did something wrong if a relationship did not last as long as we intended
it to, if partners act in ways we did not expect them to, or when we are surprised by the pain of a loved one's
departure from our lives. I believe this sense of failure is a reflection of confusion about what love's purpose in our
lives is. As bell hooks explains, love does not shelter us from the intensity of life, it carries us through it. It is the grace
that holds us in our darkest moments, renews us when it is time to heal, and connects us to our deepest joy.
Most of us can relate to the experience of closing our hearts after being hurt, and it is difficult to imagine how to
begin the opening again. We wish for some guarantee that if we do return to love, we will not be hurt. We sometimes
wish we had never opened up at all. When I began practicing Anusara yoga and the teachers spoke of the first
principle of alignment as being, "Open to Grace," my cynical mind thought such a pleasant command lacked depth.
But as I move more deeply into my practice, and into my life, I recognize instead that this instruction requires more
courage than any other element of our practice, just as opening to the potential of love returning to our lives is
perhaps the most courageous part of starting a new relationship. Without honoring the first principle, a practice of
even the most advanced asana can create a disconnect with our bodies, and does not require bravery at all, just as
moving through relationships without opening our hearts keeps us invulnerable and disconnected from those who love
us.
When I stay fully present in my yoga practice, it does not remove the difficulty of the asana, and maintaining the
intention to love in relationships does not mean they will be easy. But the willingness to try anyway is what, "open to
grace," means to me now. It means, "LOVE AGAIN." I cannot learn to do this without practicing, so I start on my mat,
breathing, listening, trusting. As I feel the steadiness of my body returning to movement and discovering joy even
after experiencing the injuries, tightness, and stress of life, I find faith that my heart is steadier than I realize, too. I
don't need to protect so much. My spirit can be renewed. I can love again.
| Staying Present with the Past October 2010 “I no longer believe that we can keep silent. We never really do, mind you. In one way or another we articulate what has happened to us through the kind of people we become.” -Azar Nafisi Things I’ve Been Silent About |
This week my grandma turned eighty, and my family gathered to celebrate. History is always
present when families come together, and at my grandma's birthday, I couldn't help but reflect on
her past, and the influence the events of her life have had on each member of our family. I
recognized what a miracle it was for her to be smiling brightly, adorned in her brightest jewels, and
laughing with close friends and family on this day. My grandma has been through a lot of pain in
her life, certainly there were many times she would never have imagined living to eighty, especially
with so many relationships intact. Recognizing this miracle by acknowledging the past helped me to
appreciate the present moment even more fully.
In yoga, there is an emphasis on staying focused on the present moment; this is part of any
mindful practice. So sometimes it can become confusing when energy and emotions from the past
start to surface in our practice. I have noticed this confusion in myself and in other yoga students,
and have heard it expressed by counseling clients who have a mindfulness practice as well.
Sometimes we wonder if we are failing at our ability to be in the "Now," when memories and feelings
come up from the past. This assumption leads many people to dismiss their experiences, or even
refuse to acknowledge or discuss them out of concern that to do so would negate their goal of
living in the present. If i had chosen to do this at my grandma's birthday by ignoring my family's
history, I would have denied myself the opportunity of truly appreciating the growth that has
occurred, and would likely have felt some sense of discomfort in my body that always comes with
denial of truth. The neurobiologist Daniel Siegel highlights this concept in his book, The Mindful
Therapist (2010), and explains that being mindful involves, "being present with all streams of
awareness in one's life'" (p.112) so that we can integrate all of our experiences. Otherwise, he
adds, meditation, yoga, and other mindfulness practices can become a "spiritual bypass," where
we are hiding from the pain of the past, which hinders our ability to grow or be of service to others.
I can feel the truth of this lesson in my body whenever I focus on the back of my body during an
asana, meditation or pranayama practice. Anusara philosophy has taught me that my back body
represents universal energy, it is my connection to source. If we understand universal energy and
source to mean not only a spirit outside of ourselves, but to the spirit that has always been present
within us, the spirit that comes from our families, from our histories, from all of the moments of our
lives, we can start to feel how being rooted in a clear understanding of our past enhances our
potential to fully experience the present.
As I sit on my mat and breathe deeply into the back of my body, I feel a sense of support that
invites the muscles around my chest to soften, I settle into sense of heaviness in my hips that
lightens the weight of my shoulders and feel my spine lengthen in response. I know that when I
move from the back of my body, my balance will be stronger and my flexibility will be fuller, and I
know that if I live my life from a place of peace with my past, I will be able to choose the kind of
person I become.
present when families come together, and at my grandma's birthday, I couldn't help but reflect on
her past, and the influence the events of her life have had on each member of our family. I
recognized what a miracle it was for her to be smiling brightly, adorned in her brightest jewels, and
laughing with close friends and family on this day. My grandma has been through a lot of pain in
her life, certainly there were many times she would never have imagined living to eighty, especially
with so many relationships intact. Recognizing this miracle by acknowledging the past helped me to
appreciate the present moment even more fully.
In yoga, there is an emphasis on staying focused on the present moment; this is part of any
mindful practice. So sometimes it can become confusing when energy and emotions from the past
start to surface in our practice. I have noticed this confusion in myself and in other yoga students,
and have heard it expressed by counseling clients who have a mindfulness practice as well.
Sometimes we wonder if we are failing at our ability to be in the "Now," when memories and feelings
come up from the past. This assumption leads many people to dismiss their experiences, or even
refuse to acknowledge or discuss them out of concern that to do so would negate their goal of
living in the present. If i had chosen to do this at my grandma's birthday by ignoring my family's
history, I would have denied myself the opportunity of truly appreciating the growth that has
occurred, and would likely have felt some sense of discomfort in my body that always comes with
denial of truth. The neurobiologist Daniel Siegel highlights this concept in his book, The Mindful
Therapist (2010), and explains that being mindful involves, "being present with all streams of
awareness in one's life'" (p.112) so that we can integrate all of our experiences. Otherwise, he
adds, meditation, yoga, and other mindfulness practices can become a "spiritual bypass," where
we are hiding from the pain of the past, which hinders our ability to grow or be of service to others.
I can feel the truth of this lesson in my body whenever I focus on the back of my body during an
asana, meditation or pranayama practice. Anusara philosophy has taught me that my back body
represents universal energy, it is my connection to source. If we understand universal energy and
source to mean not only a spirit outside of ourselves, but to the spirit that has always been present
within us, the spirit that comes from our families, from our histories, from all of the moments of our
lives, we can start to feel how being rooted in a clear understanding of our past enhances our
potential to fully experience the present.
As I sit on my mat and breathe deeply into the back of my body, I feel a sense of support that
invites the muscles around my chest to soften, I settle into sense of heaviness in my hips that
lightens the weight of my shoulders and feel my spine lengthen in response. I know that when I
move from the back of my body, my balance will be stronger and my flexibility will be fuller, and I
know that if I live my life from a place of peace with my past, I will be able to choose the kind of
person I become.
| "Go in and in. Become the space between two cells, the vast resounding silence in which the spirit dwells. Go in and in. And turn away from nothing that you find. -Danna Faulds Go In and In: Poems From the Heart of Yoga |
Today I gave a massage to a woman who was the embodiment of a Goddess. She is
nine months pregnant, due to give birth to her third son next week, and through working
with her, I was reminded of how miraculous our bodies are. Every day that I work as a
massage therapist I feel so grateful to have a career that enables me to literally worship
bodies. When I feel the energy and experience of so many different bodies of all ages,
shapes, genders, races, abilities, and witness the capacity we contain to heal and to
experience connection, I am inspired to celebrate my body as a miracle. It becomes
impossible to deny anyone’s humanity when I am grounded in the reality of embodiment,
and impossible to disconnect from the greater body that holds us all, the Earth, when I
am aware of all of the bodies – plants, animals, people – that surround me.
I felt aware very early in my life of a sense of hatred many women directed toward their
bodies, and have always felt a deep determination to resist this pervasive act of violence
that is so normalized in our culture. Witnessing alarming numbers of women I loved
struggle with all extremes of abuse of their bodies was part of my path into pursuing a
counseling degree, and as a counseling intern, I certainly heard even more stories of
body loathing from the women I worked with. I began to notice that men were also
expressing aggression toward their bodies much of the time, it just came in slightly
different forms than in the ways women described. It seemed clear that the dishonoring
of the physical in our society was related to something greater than just our relationships
with our bodies, that it was a symptom of a greater disrespect for the creative feminine
force from which we materialize.
Through its reverence for the divine feminine, the Tantric philosophy of Anusara yoga
has deepened my ability to honor the physical as sacred, rather than as less than the
spiritual. When practiced this way, yoga becomes a “religion based on the body,” a
practice of pleasure and celebration. From this place, we can heal. As I step on my mat
tonight, I will stay open to the grace that is my own Goddess essence; and engage my
strength with commitment to my connection to this essence. I will expand receptively,
and contract powerfully, feeling the full range of feminine energies accessible in my
cells. And as I extend in full expression of each asana, I will experience my body as a
miraculous creation, with all its strengths and weaknesses. I will experience my body as
the body of a Goddess; because it is.
nine months pregnant, due to give birth to her third son next week, and through working
with her, I was reminded of how miraculous our bodies are. Every day that I work as a
massage therapist I feel so grateful to have a career that enables me to literally worship
bodies. When I feel the energy and experience of so many different bodies of all ages,
shapes, genders, races, abilities, and witness the capacity we contain to heal and to
experience connection, I am inspired to celebrate my body as a miracle. It becomes
impossible to deny anyone’s humanity when I am grounded in the reality of embodiment,
and impossible to disconnect from the greater body that holds us all, the Earth, when I
am aware of all of the bodies – plants, animals, people – that surround me.
I felt aware very early in my life of a sense of hatred many women directed toward their
bodies, and have always felt a deep determination to resist this pervasive act of violence
that is so normalized in our culture. Witnessing alarming numbers of women I loved
struggle with all extremes of abuse of their bodies was part of my path into pursuing a
counseling degree, and as a counseling intern, I certainly heard even more stories of
body loathing from the women I worked with. I began to notice that men were also
expressing aggression toward their bodies much of the time, it just came in slightly
different forms than in the ways women described. It seemed clear that the dishonoring
of the physical in our society was related to something greater than just our relationships
with our bodies, that it was a symptom of a greater disrespect for the creative feminine
force from which we materialize.
Through its reverence for the divine feminine, the Tantric philosophy of Anusara yoga
has deepened my ability to honor the physical as sacred, rather than as less than the
spiritual. When practiced this way, yoga becomes a “religion based on the body,” a
practice of pleasure and celebration. From this place, we can heal. As I step on my mat
tonight, I will stay open to the grace that is my own Goddess essence; and engage my
strength with commitment to my connection to this essence. I will expand receptively,
and contract powerfully, feeling the full range of feminine energies accessible in my
cells. And as I extend in full expression of each asana, I will experience my body as a
miraculous creation, with all its strengths and weaknesses. I will experience my body as
the body of a Goddess; because it is.
| The Body of a Goddess December, 2010 “At its best, [Goddess worship] does not just substitute Goddess for God. Instead, it explores the possibilities of religion based on the body. For while a God must create the world out of pure thought, a Goddess will do so in the way that women have always done, through giving birth out of Her abundant womb. This simple fact allows a religion to emerge that accepts nature and our own bodies as they really are, not as enemies, or prisons of the soul, or temptations of evil, but as miraculous creations, with all their strengths and weaknesses.” From The Body of The Goddess, by Rachel Pollack |
While reading The Birth of Pleasure by Carol Gilligan this month, I have
recognized the power of the pleasure my yoga practice provides. Pleasure
heals us, connects us to our highest selves, and awakens us to spirit. As
Carol Gilligan expresses, it connects us to our deepest knowing, our strongest
truth. So often, pleasure holds a negative connotation in our society, it
becomes tied to guilt, shame, and secrecy. Yoga provides us with an
opportunity to redefine our experience of pleasure, and redefine its role in our
lives and society. If we know how to access our own experience of pleasure,
we can heal from anything. I witness this frequently in massage, as people
who have been in chronic pain begin to reconnect with pleasurable sensations
in their bodies, they can begin to relax and to heal. Having a consistent yoga
practice allows us to do this for ourselves when the stress of life pulls us out of
our core. Yoga reconnects us to our breath, and by doing so provides us with
a map of pleasure that leads us to an integrated experience no matter far
outside of our truth we have strayed. In this way, pleasure is as important as
discipline, it is as necessary as restraint. Whenever we experience pleasure,
we experience health. There have been times when I thought of healing as a
serious or difficult process. I now understand that while we may experience
challenges on our journeys to healing, we cannot divorce health from
pleasure, they are simply different words to describe the same experience.
My yoga practice holds a new energy when I cultivate a deep sensitivity to
every joyful sensation that travels through my body and imprint it on my
energetic map. With each practice, I become more familiar with the deep
knowing within myself this delight leads me to, and I gain deepening trust in its
wisdom. My skin softens, my inner body brightens, and from here my practice
begins. . .
recognized the power of the pleasure my yoga practice provides. Pleasure
heals us, connects us to our highest selves, and awakens us to spirit. As
Carol Gilligan expresses, it connects us to our deepest knowing, our strongest
truth. So often, pleasure holds a negative connotation in our society, it
becomes tied to guilt, shame, and secrecy. Yoga provides us with an
opportunity to redefine our experience of pleasure, and redefine its role in our
lives and society. If we know how to access our own experience of pleasure,
we can heal from anything. I witness this frequently in massage, as people
who have been in chronic pain begin to reconnect with pleasurable sensations
in their bodies, they can begin to relax and to heal. Having a consistent yoga
practice allows us to do this for ourselves when the stress of life pulls us out of
our core. Yoga reconnects us to our breath, and by doing so provides us with
a map of pleasure that leads us to an integrated experience no matter far
outside of our truth we have strayed. In this way, pleasure is as important as
discipline, it is as necessary as restraint. Whenever we experience pleasure,
we experience health. There have been times when I thought of healing as a
serious or difficult process. I now understand that while we may experience
challenges on our journeys to healing, we cannot divorce health from
pleasure, they are simply different words to describe the same experience.
My yoga practice holds a new energy when I cultivate a deep sensitivity to
every joyful sensation that travels through my body and imprint it on my
energetic map. With each practice, I become more familiar with the deep
knowing within myself this delight leads me to, and I gain deepening trust in its
wisdom. My skin softens, my inner body brightens, and from here my practice
begins. . .
| My Pleasure Map February, 2011 “Pleasure is a sensation. It is written into our bodies; it is our experience of delight, of joy. The English word “pleasure” is a sensual word, the z of the “s” and the sound of the “u” coming from deep within our own bodies, tapping the wellspring of desire and curiosity, a knowing that resides within ourselves… this knowing becomes a taproot, anchoring the psyche in the body, in relationship, in language, and culture. Pleasure will become a marker, a compass pointing to emotional true north.” From, The Birth of Pleasure: A New Map of Love , by Carol Gilligan |
I am grateful to have begun the New Year immersed in the wise words of Jack
Kornfield’s book, After the Ecstasy, The Laundry. As reflected in my previous
writings, 2010 was a year of many changes. So as the New Year approached, I
was surprised by the lack of my usual excitement and ambition toward change
and resolution that this transition often inspires. The contrast to last year felt
extreme. On the first day of 2010, I taught a free yoga workshop in my
hometown, and spent New Year’s Day practicing yoga, teaching, and reflecting
on my goals for the year. In contrast, 2011 began with a lazy morning and a big
mug of coffee, no goals in place for the day, let alone the year. I felt that I had
burned myself out on transformation, and because I had spent the last year so
strongly orienting my yoga practice toward an intention of transformation, I was
struggling to get on my mat as well. My connection to yoga was suffocating
under the pressure to serve the magical purpose in my life of constant
revelation and inspiration.
As I read Jack Kornfield’s insights, I recognized that rather than searching for
wild inspiration for my practice or from my practice, what my heart was missing
was a deep appreciation for the process of my practice, and patience with the
less than ecstatic moments that are sometimes part of that process. I
recognized that ambition had become a significant element in my practice, and
while that is not necessarily a problem, I had made it a problem by drowning my
appreciation for simplicity with my anticipation for something more exciting. I
have learned this lesson before, and as Jack Kornfield carefully emphasizes in
his book, this is a common experience for people with a spiritual practice; not
one to judge or criticize, but rather another opportunity for us to get back to our
mats and return to a practice of appreciation for what is. It is through this
appreciation that my practice, and my life, grows.
In Anusara yoga, we focus on what are known as the “3 A’s,” in our practice:
Attitude, Action, and Alignment. My experience at the beginning of this month
was a reminder of the importance of and open and humble attitude in my
practice, and confirmation that in its absence, a practice (or a life) with perfect
alignment and steady action are not enough and can leave me feeling empty. It
is a blessing to learn this lesson over and over again, each time on a deeper
level, each time helping me express the awakening of my practice more carefully
in my life.
Kornfield’s book, After the Ecstasy, The Laundry. As reflected in my previous
writings, 2010 was a year of many changes. So as the New Year approached, I
was surprised by the lack of my usual excitement and ambition toward change
and resolution that this transition often inspires. The contrast to last year felt
extreme. On the first day of 2010, I taught a free yoga workshop in my
hometown, and spent New Year’s Day practicing yoga, teaching, and reflecting
on my goals for the year. In contrast, 2011 began with a lazy morning and a big
mug of coffee, no goals in place for the day, let alone the year. I felt that I had
burned myself out on transformation, and because I had spent the last year so
strongly orienting my yoga practice toward an intention of transformation, I was
struggling to get on my mat as well. My connection to yoga was suffocating
under the pressure to serve the magical purpose in my life of constant
revelation and inspiration.
As I read Jack Kornfield’s insights, I recognized that rather than searching for
wild inspiration for my practice or from my practice, what my heart was missing
was a deep appreciation for the process of my practice, and patience with the
less than ecstatic moments that are sometimes part of that process. I
recognized that ambition had become a significant element in my practice, and
while that is not necessarily a problem, I had made it a problem by drowning my
appreciation for simplicity with my anticipation for something more exciting. I
have learned this lesson before, and as Jack Kornfield carefully emphasizes in
his book, this is a common experience for people with a spiritual practice; not
one to judge or criticize, but rather another opportunity for us to get back to our
mats and return to a practice of appreciation for what is. It is through this
appreciation that my practice, and my life, grows.
In Anusara yoga, we focus on what are known as the “3 A’s,” in our practice:
Attitude, Action, and Alignment. My experience at the beginning of this month
was a reminder of the importance of and open and humble attitude in my
practice, and confirmation that in its absence, a practice (or a life) with perfect
alignment and steady action are not enough and can leave me feeling empty. It
is a blessing to learn this lesson over and over again, each time on a deeper
level, each time helping me express the awakening of my practice more carefully
in my life.
| New Year, New Laundry Jan 2011 “With spiritual maturity the basis for these practices shifts away from ambition, idealism, and desire for self-transformation. . .We are no longer striving after a spiritual destination, grasping for another world different from the one we have. We are home. And being home, we sweep the floor, make nourishing meals, and care for our guests. When we have realized the everlasting truths of life, what else is there to do but continue our practice? . . .Our continuing practices cleanse us, steady us, remind us of what is true. Our daily practices help us stay balanced, attend to our body, keep our heart open, strengthen our ability to offer clear love. Our practice becomes like cleaning house. We do not just clean the house once and forget it. It is a regular task, and a pleasure to live in a clean house, to honor all who enter. But the house is not who we are, and no amount of ambitious cleaning will change the nature of our life. We practice to express our awakening, not to attain it. “ From After the Ecstasy, The Laundry. By Jack Kornfield, 2000, p.290 |
Lately I have been enjoying the writing of Thomas Moore. What I appreciate
most about his writing is his deep appreciation for mystery, complexity, and
paradox. This month I have been especially contemplating his definitions of Soul
and Spirit, and connecting these ideas t to the concept of Spanda – divine pulsation.
This contemplation provides me with a deep sense of peace.
In Anusara yoga, we honor a universal pulsation, Spanda, which governs the
rhythm of our lives. Spanda is a dance of expansion and contraction, steadiness and
fluidity, darkness and light, Shiva and Shakti. . . The universal principles of
alignment reflect Spanda’s rhythm through the expansion of opening to Grace, the
contraction of muscular energy, the expansion of inner spiral, the contraction of outer
spiral, and the ultimate expansion of organic energy. When we are healthy, we are
connected to the rhythm of Spanda in our bodies, and in our lives.
I interpret Thomas Moore’s definition of Soul as my contractive, steady, Shiva
element, while his description of Spirit makes me think of my vibrant, expansive,
Shakti energy. Through his emphasis on the importance of balance between these
two forces, Thomas Moore teaches an important yogic practice. While Soul longs for
comfort, stability, home, and consistency, he explains that Spirit yearns for
adventure, change, independence, and excitement. Sometimes I feel as though I
need to choose between these two elements of myself. “Am I a traveler or a
homebody?” My limited mind will ask. “Do I seek a consistent partner and
relationship, or do I want to be single and free?” The dichotomies I feel tempted to
torture myself with can become endless, and without my yoga practice, I might have
boxed myself in to becoming a certain “type” of person by now.
Thomas Moore reminds me that in order to be whole, both my Soul and Spirit need
to flourish, just as Anusara yoga philosophy teaches that our practice is a process of
syncing up with both the expanding and contracting pulsations of the universe, one is
not valued over the other. The concept of Spanda also reminds me that there will be
times when my Spirit pulls me into adventure, and times when my Soul’s longing for
comfort and connection will keep me contently cuddled with a book at home. One
does not negate the other, rather, these contrasting energies empower each other.
This morning as I begin my practice, I am aware of several different energies
existing within me at once, and I do not feel intimidated by this complexity. I take a
deep inhale, feeling my Spirit rise with energy through my spine, and a full exhale,
inviting my Soul to ground me through the settling of my hips. I begin to attune to
the rhythm created in my body through contrasting pulsation, and I feel how this
empowers me physically. Soul and Spirit are dancing within me.
most about his writing is his deep appreciation for mystery, complexity, and
paradox. This month I have been especially contemplating his definitions of Soul
and Spirit, and connecting these ideas t to the concept of Spanda – divine pulsation.
This contemplation provides me with a deep sense of peace.
In Anusara yoga, we honor a universal pulsation, Spanda, which governs the
rhythm of our lives. Spanda is a dance of expansion and contraction, steadiness and
fluidity, darkness and light, Shiva and Shakti. . . The universal principles of
alignment reflect Spanda’s rhythm through the expansion of opening to Grace, the
contraction of muscular energy, the expansion of inner spiral, the contraction of outer
spiral, and the ultimate expansion of organic energy. When we are healthy, we are
connected to the rhythm of Spanda in our bodies, and in our lives.
I interpret Thomas Moore’s definition of Soul as my contractive, steady, Shiva
element, while his description of Spirit makes me think of my vibrant, expansive,
Shakti energy. Through his emphasis on the importance of balance between these
two forces, Thomas Moore teaches an important yogic practice. While Soul longs for
comfort, stability, home, and consistency, he explains that Spirit yearns for
adventure, change, independence, and excitement. Sometimes I feel as though I
need to choose between these two elements of myself. “Am I a traveler or a
homebody?” My limited mind will ask. “Do I seek a consistent partner and
relationship, or do I want to be single and free?” The dichotomies I feel tempted to
torture myself with can become endless, and without my yoga practice, I might have
boxed myself in to becoming a certain “type” of person by now.
Thomas Moore reminds me that in order to be whole, both my Soul and Spirit need
to flourish, just as Anusara yoga philosophy teaches that our practice is a process of
syncing up with both the expanding and contracting pulsations of the universe, one is
not valued over the other. The concept of Spanda also reminds me that there will be
times when my Spirit pulls me into adventure, and times when my Soul’s longing for
comfort and connection will keep me contently cuddled with a book at home. One
does not negate the other, rather, these contrasting energies empower each other.
This morning as I begin my practice, I am aware of several different energies
existing within me at once, and I do not feel intimidated by this complexity. I take a
deep inhale, feeling my Spirit rise with energy through my spine, and a full exhale,
inviting my Soul to ground me through the settling of my hips. I begin to attune to
the rhythm created in my body through contrasting pulsation, and I feel how this
empowers me physically. Soul and Spirit are dancing within me.
| What Matters April, 2011 “There is no ‘supposed to be’ in bodies. The question is not size of shape or years of age, or even having two of everything, for some do not. But the wild issue is, does this body feel, does it have right connection to pleasure, to heart, to soul, to the wild? Does it have happiness, joy? Can it in its own way move, dance, jiggle, sway, thrust? Nothing else matters.” Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run with the Wolves, p.211 |
Reading the “Joyous Body” chapter in Clarisa Pinkola Estes’ Women Who Run with
the Wolves, last night, I remembered the liberation I experienced in my first yoga classes
as a teenage athlete. Having grown accustomed to experiencing my body as either an
instrument for competition, or an object for others’ admiration, the philosophy presented
in these early yoga classes was radical. My teachers of varying ages, body shapes, and
sizes, spoke firmly of yoga as a practice of self acceptance, rather than improvement,
and I felt from them a deep confidence in the beauty of their bodies just as they were
that came from honoring the sensations and experiences their bodies allowed them to
feel. I was reminded continually to feel from within, and cautioned of the loss I could
incur if I twisted my body in service of performance.
These lessons are not necessarily different from what I would hear attending a yoga
class today, but as I read through this chapter last night, I felt aware that since those
early years, the “feeling focus” of my yoga practice has been challenged by images I hold
about how my practice should shape my body, contribute to my health, or enhance my
energy. Some of these ideas have been of my own creation, some have steeped into my
consciousness through marketing and advertising, and some of these ideas have been
taught to me by teachers I trust. I recognized last night that all of these influences hold
more power in my practice than I want them to, and if I intend to reclaim the healing
effects of my yoga practice on my relationship with my body, I will need to take
responsibility to maintain this, and I will need to identify when I am being bombarded
with negative ideas about my body, cleverly disguised in the presentation of spiritual
practice or health enhancement plans.
Of course physical beauty and health are exciting, and I am certainly not opposed to
experiencing these qualities in my life. When I practice yoga, however, it is more
exciting for me to experience sensation, to focus on my sensitivity, to cultivate my
breath, and to respect my spirit. I know it is difficult for me to give my attention to
these elements when I am thinking about “detoxing,” or becoming more flexible, or
getting stronger, or any number of other self- improvement schemes my mind will
create or cling to if they are presented to me. Each person likely has his or her tricky
methods for using yoga as another way to manipulate the body. Thankfully, the
mindfulness of our practice will help reveal how and when we are doing this, and
provide us with the opportunity to shift these patterns through practice if we hold the
intention to do so patiently.
This morning I will carry Clarissa’s wisdom with me onto my mat, and especially as I
move into more advanced asanas, I will continue to ask, “Does this body feel? Does it
have right connection to pleasure? To heart? To soul? To the wild? Does it have
happiness? Joy?” This effort reflects the sequential nature of Anusara yoga’s principles
of alignment. The principles unfold as a continuous spiral, not as linear steps to be
marked off in a check list. The first principle of opening to grace, which translates into
staying connected to my breath, staying grounded in my intention, must be maintained
in order for the following principles to be practiced in alignment. This means that before
I move my body at all, I will become sensitive to all that my body can feel, to all it can
teach me, to all of the connections it maintains. It means that no matter how many
messages I might receive about the ways I should enhance my body, improve it, change
it, I will come back to the remembrance of its grace, and will remind myself firmly that
nothing else matters than this.
the Wolves, last night, I remembered the liberation I experienced in my first yoga classes
as a teenage athlete. Having grown accustomed to experiencing my body as either an
instrument for competition, or an object for others’ admiration, the philosophy presented
in these early yoga classes was radical. My teachers of varying ages, body shapes, and
sizes, spoke firmly of yoga as a practice of self acceptance, rather than improvement,
and I felt from them a deep confidence in the beauty of their bodies just as they were
that came from honoring the sensations and experiences their bodies allowed them to
feel. I was reminded continually to feel from within, and cautioned of the loss I could
incur if I twisted my body in service of performance.
These lessons are not necessarily different from what I would hear attending a yoga
class today, but as I read through this chapter last night, I felt aware that since those
early years, the “feeling focus” of my yoga practice has been challenged by images I hold
about how my practice should shape my body, contribute to my health, or enhance my
energy. Some of these ideas have been of my own creation, some have steeped into my
consciousness through marketing and advertising, and some of these ideas have been
taught to me by teachers I trust. I recognized last night that all of these influences hold
more power in my practice than I want them to, and if I intend to reclaim the healing
effects of my yoga practice on my relationship with my body, I will need to take
responsibility to maintain this, and I will need to identify when I am being bombarded
with negative ideas about my body, cleverly disguised in the presentation of spiritual
practice or health enhancement plans.
Of course physical beauty and health are exciting, and I am certainly not opposed to
experiencing these qualities in my life. When I practice yoga, however, it is more
exciting for me to experience sensation, to focus on my sensitivity, to cultivate my
breath, and to respect my spirit. I know it is difficult for me to give my attention to
these elements when I am thinking about “detoxing,” or becoming more flexible, or
getting stronger, or any number of other self- improvement schemes my mind will
create or cling to if they are presented to me. Each person likely has his or her tricky
methods for using yoga as another way to manipulate the body. Thankfully, the
mindfulness of our practice will help reveal how and when we are doing this, and
provide us with the opportunity to shift these patterns through practice if we hold the
intention to do so patiently.
This morning I will carry Clarissa’s wisdom with me onto my mat, and especially as I
move into more advanced asanas, I will continue to ask, “Does this body feel? Does it
have right connection to pleasure? To heart? To soul? To the wild? Does it have
happiness? Joy?” This effort reflects the sequential nature of Anusara yoga’s principles
of alignment. The principles unfold as a continuous spiral, not as linear steps to be
marked off in a check list. The first principle of opening to grace, which translates into
staying connected to my breath, staying grounded in my intention, must be maintained
in order for the following principles to be practiced in alignment. This means that before
I move my body at all, I will become sensitive to all that my body can feel, to all it can
teach me, to all of the connections it maintains. It means that no matter how many
messages I might receive about the ways I should enhance my body, improve it, change
it, I will come back to the remembrance of its grace, and will remind myself firmly that
nothing else matters than this.
| Soul, Spirit, Spanda March, 2011 "In its deepest nature,for example, the soul involves itself in the stuff of the world, both people and objects. It loves attachments of all kinds. . .Yet even though the soul sinks luxuriantly into its attachments, something in it also moves in a different direction. Something valid and necessary takes flight when it senses deep attachment, and this flight also seems so deeply rooted as to be an honest expression of soul. Our ultimate goal is to find ways to embrace both attachment and resistance to attachment, and the only way to that reconciliation of opposites is to dig deeply into the the nature of each. As with all matters of soul, it is in honoring its impulses that we find our way best into its mysteries." Thomas Moore, Soul Mates, p.3 |
This month I feel a new appreciation for the significance of the heart Focal Point in handstand. In his teacher training
manual, John Friend writes, “The Focal Point is the key place of power in the body within a given asana. It is the place in the
body into which Muscular Energy collects and pools, and from which Organic Energy extends out. You can visualize the Focal
Point as a small orb of energy the size of a golf ball.” The focal point in handstand, and other arm balances, is at the bottom
of the heart, on top of the diaphragm in the core of the chest. The practice of drawing in and extending out from this place is
a practice of harnessing the energy of that focal point, so while I used to think of handstands and arm balances as expressions
of physical strength and discipline, I am embracing them now as poses that also reveal the fire of our hearts. This shift
changes my practice, and has inspired me to question, “What is the energy of my heart?” because while the concept of
“harnessing heart energy” abstractly sounds beautiful, I have to feel it physically if I want to apply it to my practice or my life.
Recent opportunities to study with my yoga teacher, Ross Rayburn, have guided me in this contemplation. Ross often uses
the word, “heavy,” in his teaching, and his use of this simple descriptor always provides me with a deeply grounding practice.
I have attended several trainings with Ross, but it was only this month that I directly connected his description of heaviness to
my heart. Feeling “heavy hearted,” is a sensation I am familiar with, and one I have generally not appreciated in myself. I
associate this state with depression and sadness. It is a phrase that conjures memories of being told to, “lighten up,” or
wishing myself to feel more lighthearted. So the idea of harnessing the energy of my heart by first drawing in and fully
inhabiting this focal point for the purpose of intentionally making it heavier is a radical concept.
What I have discovered in my practice is that it works. Being present in my heart, with all of the experiences and intensity it
holds, works in the sense that when I do it, I can find steadiness in a handstand. More importantly, it works by giving me a
physical experiment to demonstrate an abstract idea: When we use the experiences in our lives that have been difficult, painful
even, to bring us more deeply into our awareness of our hearts, it creates a power so mighty it will carry us where we did not
think we could go. This is the alchemy of yoga, to use what is heavy as fuel for the light. This process is deeply integrative,
and in that way it is healing.
In her new book, Meditation for the Love of It, Sally Kempton explains Tantra, the philosophical system of Anusara Yoga, in
a way that helped me absorb this idea even more fully, “The core Tantric strategy is to harness and channel all our energies,
including the apparently distracting or obstructive ones, rather than trying to suppress or eliminate them. When we do that,
the energy within thoughts, within emotions, in our moods and even in intense feelings like anger or terror or desire, can
expand and reveal the ground that underlies everything, the pure creative potential of consciousness itself.” (p. xvi)
After applying this contemplation to my yoga practice for a while, someone reflected to me that they felt I was, “steady of
heart,” and a student approached me after a yoga class to express that she felt my presence was, “unshakably steady.” I felt
these reflections were direct feedback toward the efficacy of the practice Ross has taught me, because if I can be comfortable
with the heaviness of my heart, I will always remain steady of heart. What else tempts us to abandon our connection to our
hearts more than our fear of all it feels?
Tonight as I step on my mat, I feel a deep appreciation for all of the experiences and emotions that have shaped the heart I
have, and for the teachers who have explored the depth of their own hearts enough to guide me in the same direction. As I
draw in to the center of my chest and prepare to stand in its strength, I am aware of my own power. In any moment that I
feel tempted to pull out of my experience, I recall Ross’s guidance to get heavier instead. I can’t help but feel a deep faith in
what is possible for humanity as we discover the fire of our heavy hearts, while my feet float confidently above my hands.
manual, John Friend writes, “The Focal Point is the key place of power in the body within a given asana. It is the place in the
body into which Muscular Energy collects and pools, and from which Organic Energy extends out. You can visualize the Focal
Point as a small orb of energy the size of a golf ball.” The focal point in handstand, and other arm balances, is at the bottom
of the heart, on top of the diaphragm in the core of the chest. The practice of drawing in and extending out from this place is
a practice of harnessing the energy of that focal point, so while I used to think of handstands and arm balances as expressions
of physical strength and discipline, I am embracing them now as poses that also reveal the fire of our hearts. This shift
changes my practice, and has inspired me to question, “What is the energy of my heart?” because while the concept of
“harnessing heart energy” abstractly sounds beautiful, I have to feel it physically if I want to apply it to my practice or my life.
Recent opportunities to study with my yoga teacher, Ross Rayburn, have guided me in this contemplation. Ross often uses
the word, “heavy,” in his teaching, and his use of this simple descriptor always provides me with a deeply grounding practice.
I have attended several trainings with Ross, but it was only this month that I directly connected his description of heaviness to
my heart. Feeling “heavy hearted,” is a sensation I am familiar with, and one I have generally not appreciated in myself. I
associate this state with depression and sadness. It is a phrase that conjures memories of being told to, “lighten up,” or
wishing myself to feel more lighthearted. So the idea of harnessing the energy of my heart by first drawing in and fully
inhabiting this focal point for the purpose of intentionally making it heavier is a radical concept.
What I have discovered in my practice is that it works. Being present in my heart, with all of the experiences and intensity it
holds, works in the sense that when I do it, I can find steadiness in a handstand. More importantly, it works by giving me a
physical experiment to demonstrate an abstract idea: When we use the experiences in our lives that have been difficult, painful
even, to bring us more deeply into our awareness of our hearts, it creates a power so mighty it will carry us where we did not
think we could go. This is the alchemy of yoga, to use what is heavy as fuel for the light. This process is deeply integrative,
and in that way it is healing.
In her new book, Meditation for the Love of It, Sally Kempton explains Tantra, the philosophical system of Anusara Yoga, in
a way that helped me absorb this idea even more fully, “The core Tantric strategy is to harness and channel all our energies,
including the apparently distracting or obstructive ones, rather than trying to suppress or eliminate them. When we do that,
the energy within thoughts, within emotions, in our moods and even in intense feelings like anger or terror or desire, can
expand and reveal the ground that underlies everything, the pure creative potential of consciousness itself.” (p. xvi)
After applying this contemplation to my yoga practice for a while, someone reflected to me that they felt I was, “steady of
heart,” and a student approached me after a yoga class to express that she felt my presence was, “unshakably steady.” I felt
these reflections were direct feedback toward the efficacy of the practice Ross has taught me, because if I can be comfortable
with the heaviness of my heart, I will always remain steady of heart. What else tempts us to abandon our connection to our
hearts more than our fear of all it feels?
Tonight as I step on my mat, I feel a deep appreciation for all of the experiences and emotions that have shaped the heart I
have, and for the teachers who have explored the depth of their own hearts enough to guide me in the same direction. As I
draw in to the center of my chest and prepare to stand in its strength, I am aware of my own power. In any moment that I
feel tempted to pull out of my experience, I recall Ross’s guidance to get heavier instead. I can’t help but feel a deep faith in
what is possible for humanity as we discover the fire of our heavy hearts, while my feet float confidently above my hands.
| Heart Fire May 2011 "Someday, after we have mastered the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness for God the energies of love. Then for the second time in the history of the world, we will have discovered fire." Pierre Teilhard de Chardin |
| photo of Gordana Vjranjes, www.yoga-dinamico.com |
"The pearl is in the oyster. And the oyster is at the bottom of the sea. Dive deep." -Kabir |
In graduate school, most of my counseling work was with teens who never hesitated to challenge
me on why we were bothering with the process. With raised eyebrows and skeptical grins, they
would ask, "Why are we talking about this?" Or some would be more forward, "I don't want to
think about this, it makes me mad, it's stupid to think about." Whatever the variation of language,
their message was clear: I would rather do anything other than think about who I am, or how I
feel, or what I want, or what has happened in my life so far.
For many of the teens I worked with, the reasons for this resistance were obvious, histories of
abuse and neglect, exposure to violence and poverty, and experiences of trauma and betrayal were
all readily available memories when they looked to the past, realities when they focused on the
present, and fears when they looked to the future. I couldn't help but empathize with their
resistance to counseling, and I also knew that without some capacity for introspection and
integration, it would be difficult for healing to occur.
Without extreme experiences like those of the clients I worked with, most of us have a similar
feeling of resistance as we sink in to a spiritual practice that encourages a similar capacity for
introspection and self awareness as an experience like counseling does. In each professional
position I have held, as a counselor, massage therapist, or yoga teacher, students and clients have
expressed to me the internal struggle they feel around turning their awareness inside, "Are you
sure that's really necessary?" their hesitation seems to ask.
While reading The Upanishads this month, I resonated with Eknath Easwaran's statement that,
"This spiritual ascent is so fraught with challenges that we can see why the sages took their
students young. Exploring the unconscious requires the daring of the years between twelve and
twenty." (p. 32) The journey inside requires as much courage as any other devoted endeavor, and
without adequate motivation to continue in this direction, it is sometimes difficult to stay
committed.
When I attended John Friend's part 1 immersion last year, he emphasised the two reasons for
practicing yoga according to Anusara's Tantric Philosophy, and reminded us that these were the
same as the purpose for life: 1. To experience insight. 2. For the pleasure of it.
Staying anchored in this purpose is what helps me continue on my journey, and what I try to
remind others as their resistance builds. It is surprisingly easy to get distracted by negativity, or
begin to pick ourselves apart as we turn our awareness inside. How terrible it would have been to
say to my teen clients, "Well, it's up to you, either you do this or you'll be kicked out," or, "Hey, I'm
not the one who punched a tree at lunch, good luck figuring this out on your own!" And yet these
are the scolding voices I sometimes witness people using against themselves in attempts to
motivate change. In moments when I am tired and unmotivated, I have caught myself doing the
same, as if the purpose of my practice it to reveal some deep underlying deficiency, rather than to
unveil the pearls of my heart.
This is why I love this quote by Kabir, which so sweetly reminds me to dive deep, not in pursuit of
problems to be solved, but in search of rare gems of insight and pleasure. It reminds me to look
deeply at others, through the resistance or defense they express into the truth of their wholeness
and beauty. Eknath Easwaran explains, "Everything ever achieved we owe to this inexplicable
urge to reach beyond our grasp, do the impossible, know the unknown. The Upanishads would say
this urge is part of our evolutionary heritage, given to us for the ultimate adventure: to discover for
certain who we are. . ." (p.33)
Today as I move through my practice, I open my awareness to experiences of pleasure and
insight and soften my expectations to create room for these experiences to emerge. I trust that I
am on the right path, leading deeply into myself.
me on why we were bothering with the process. With raised eyebrows and skeptical grins, they
would ask, "Why are we talking about this?" Or some would be more forward, "I don't want to
think about this, it makes me mad, it's stupid to think about." Whatever the variation of language,
their message was clear: I would rather do anything other than think about who I am, or how I
feel, or what I want, or what has happened in my life so far.
For many of the teens I worked with, the reasons for this resistance were obvious, histories of
abuse and neglect, exposure to violence and poverty, and experiences of trauma and betrayal were
all readily available memories when they looked to the past, realities when they focused on the
present, and fears when they looked to the future. I couldn't help but empathize with their
resistance to counseling, and I also knew that without some capacity for introspection and
integration, it would be difficult for healing to occur.
Without extreme experiences like those of the clients I worked with, most of us have a similar
feeling of resistance as we sink in to a spiritual practice that encourages a similar capacity for
introspection and self awareness as an experience like counseling does. In each professional
position I have held, as a counselor, massage therapist, or yoga teacher, students and clients have
expressed to me the internal struggle they feel around turning their awareness inside, "Are you
sure that's really necessary?" their hesitation seems to ask.
While reading The Upanishads this month, I resonated with Eknath Easwaran's statement that,
"This spiritual ascent is so fraught with challenges that we can see why the sages took their
students young. Exploring the unconscious requires the daring of the years between twelve and
twenty." (p. 32) The journey inside requires as much courage as any other devoted endeavor, and
without adequate motivation to continue in this direction, it is sometimes difficult to stay
committed.
When I attended John Friend's part 1 immersion last year, he emphasised the two reasons for
practicing yoga according to Anusara's Tantric Philosophy, and reminded us that these were the
same as the purpose for life: 1. To experience insight. 2. For the pleasure of it.
Staying anchored in this purpose is what helps me continue on my journey, and what I try to
remind others as their resistance builds. It is surprisingly easy to get distracted by negativity, or
begin to pick ourselves apart as we turn our awareness inside. How terrible it would have been to
say to my teen clients, "Well, it's up to you, either you do this or you'll be kicked out," or, "Hey, I'm
not the one who punched a tree at lunch, good luck figuring this out on your own!" And yet these
are the scolding voices I sometimes witness people using against themselves in attempts to
motivate change. In moments when I am tired and unmotivated, I have caught myself doing the
same, as if the purpose of my practice it to reveal some deep underlying deficiency, rather than to
unveil the pearls of my heart.
This is why I love this quote by Kabir, which so sweetly reminds me to dive deep, not in pursuit of
problems to be solved, but in search of rare gems of insight and pleasure. It reminds me to look
deeply at others, through the resistance or defense they express into the truth of their wholeness
and beauty. Eknath Easwaran explains, "Everything ever achieved we owe to this inexplicable
urge to reach beyond our grasp, do the impossible, know the unknown. The Upanishads would say
this urge is part of our evolutionary heritage, given to us for the ultimate adventure: to discover for
certain who we are. . ." (p.33)
Today as I move through my practice, I open my awareness to experiences of pleasure and
insight and soften my expectations to create room for these experiences to emerge. I trust that I
am on the right path, leading deeply into myself.
| Indulgent Offerings July, 2011 "While it is true that being self-obsessed decreases happiness, mindsight actually frees you to become less self-absorbed, not more. When we are not taken over by our thoughts and feelings, we can become clearer in our own internal world as well as more receptive to the inner world of another." Daniel Siegel, Mindsight, (2011) p. xiv |
In a recent conversation with a friend, she expressed her hesitation to sign up for a
week long yoga intensive among the other commitments she has in her life. Although she
and I both teach yoga and consider it an important part of our careers, we each identified a
feeling of self indulgence that often comes up when we take time to study with our teachers
that we have not experienced when considering training for other career enhancing
endeavors or educational pursuits. Part of this feeling is probably a natural reaction to
having the opportunity to do something we love to do, and both of us enjoy the opportunity
to study with our teachers as much as we would a vacation, but as we spoke, I began to
recognize the importance of acknowledging that trainings, and our yoga practice in general,
is not a vacation and should not be placed in the same category as we consider how we are
spending our time because to do so dismisses the discipline, attention, and commitment
our practice requires, as well as the effects it has on the rest of our lives.
I read two books this month that described the power of a consistent meditative practice
to create health in its practitioners. One, Bringing Yoga to Life, by renowned yoga teacher
Donna Farhi, focuses on the relevance and application of ancient Yogic practices to
contemporary practitioners. The other, Mindsight, by the progressive neurobiologist Daniel
Siegel, emphasizes the incredible capacity for healing available to us through "mindsight,"
what he defines as, "focused attention that allows us to see the internal workings of our
own minds," (p. ix). His book essentially describes the neurobiology of meditation and other
mindful practices through his discussion of case examples that demonstrate the profound
effects of incorporating "mindsight" into treatment for his counseling clients.
I was struck by the energy each of these authors expressed for their unwavering faith in
the power of a regular practice to inspire radical transformation in practitioners' mental
health and relationships. Their descriptions of this process were consistent even though
they approach the topic from different perspectives, experiences, and educations. Their
conclusions were remarkable similar as well; they both emphasized that with a consistent
practice, people become more compassionate, present, and available to their lives and
relationships.
These conclusions, and my own experience of practicing yoga for several years directly
confront any concerns I've felt that the daily time I set aside for practice, or the larger
blocks of time I invest in formal trainings, are motivated by self-obsessed indulgence. So
why does this concern haunt me? Is it because I have somehow associated service with
sacrifice? Is it just another trick of my mind to avoid the commitment and discipline of
yoga? Or is it simply a healthy decision making process to have some doubt surrounding
every training I am tempted to complete? I don't know the answer, but this contemplation
is revealing interesting insights about the attitudes I hold around investing in myself. I
imagine most people struggle with this to some extent as they begin to take steps toward
creating healthy rituals in their lives - whether it is the decision to spend a little more on
organic groceries, to continue with counseling sessions past those covered by insurance, to
participate in a preventative health care regimen, or to commit to a yoga or meditation
practice and the training it requires. For some people, these changes might be financially
impossible. For many people though, there is something else blocking these steps toward
embracing ourselves. What might it be?
I always come back to a practice focusing on the relationship between muscular and
organic energy when I am holding this type of inquiry. This relationship between drawing in
and extending out is one of the most tangible teaching of Anusara yoga. If my mind can
convince itself that I might be able to be a fully present person in the world even if I don't
take care of myself, my body simply rejects that possibility by proving the difference
between an asana experienced with muscular energy, and one without. When I embrace
myself with physical strength and devotion, I can offer physical expansion, presence and
creativity. Of course, the same is true mentally, emotionally, and in my relationships. And
without the intention to offer back out, so much contraction would become uncomfortable,
so there is no need to worry about whether our practice will translate into generosity; the
laws of nature balance themselves.
week long yoga intensive among the other commitments she has in her life. Although she
and I both teach yoga and consider it an important part of our careers, we each identified a
feeling of self indulgence that often comes up when we take time to study with our teachers
that we have not experienced when considering training for other career enhancing
endeavors or educational pursuits. Part of this feeling is probably a natural reaction to
having the opportunity to do something we love to do, and both of us enjoy the opportunity
to study with our teachers as much as we would a vacation, but as we spoke, I began to
recognize the importance of acknowledging that trainings, and our yoga practice in general,
is not a vacation and should not be placed in the same category as we consider how we are
spending our time because to do so dismisses the discipline, attention, and commitment
our practice requires, as well as the effects it has on the rest of our lives.
I read two books this month that described the power of a consistent meditative practice
to create health in its practitioners. One, Bringing Yoga to Life, by renowned yoga teacher
Donna Farhi, focuses on the relevance and application of ancient Yogic practices to
contemporary practitioners. The other, Mindsight, by the progressive neurobiologist Daniel
Siegel, emphasizes the incredible capacity for healing available to us through "mindsight,"
what he defines as, "focused attention that allows us to see the internal workings of our
own minds," (p. ix). His book essentially describes the neurobiology of meditation and other
mindful practices through his discussion of case examples that demonstrate the profound
effects of incorporating "mindsight" into treatment for his counseling clients.
I was struck by the energy each of these authors expressed for their unwavering faith in
the power of a regular practice to inspire radical transformation in practitioners' mental
health and relationships. Their descriptions of this process were consistent even though
they approach the topic from different perspectives, experiences, and educations. Their
conclusions were remarkable similar as well; they both emphasized that with a consistent
practice, people become more compassionate, present, and available to their lives and
relationships.
These conclusions, and my own experience of practicing yoga for several years directly
confront any concerns I've felt that the daily time I set aside for practice, or the larger
blocks of time I invest in formal trainings, are motivated by self-obsessed indulgence. So
why does this concern haunt me? Is it because I have somehow associated service with
sacrifice? Is it just another trick of my mind to avoid the commitment and discipline of
yoga? Or is it simply a healthy decision making process to have some doubt surrounding
every training I am tempted to complete? I don't know the answer, but this contemplation
is revealing interesting insights about the attitudes I hold around investing in myself. I
imagine most people struggle with this to some extent as they begin to take steps toward
creating healthy rituals in their lives - whether it is the decision to spend a little more on
organic groceries, to continue with counseling sessions past those covered by insurance, to
participate in a preventative health care regimen, or to commit to a yoga or meditation
practice and the training it requires. For some people, these changes might be financially
impossible. For many people though, there is something else blocking these steps toward
embracing ourselves. What might it be?
I always come back to a practice focusing on the relationship between muscular and
organic energy when I am holding this type of inquiry. This relationship between drawing in
and extending out is one of the most tangible teaching of Anusara yoga. If my mind can
convince itself that I might be able to be a fully present person in the world even if I don't
take care of myself, my body simply rejects that possibility by proving the difference
between an asana experienced with muscular energy, and one without. When I embrace
myself with physical strength and devotion, I can offer physical expansion, presence and
creativity. Of course, the same is true mentally, emotionally, and in my relationships. And
without the intention to offer back out, so much contraction would become uncomfortable,
so there is no need to worry about whether our practice will translate into generosity; the
laws of nature balance themselves.
| The world is not in dire need of people who can be in two places at one time or who can suspend themselves in hyperconscious states while living in a cave. But the world is in terrible need of greater kindness, generosity, and wisdom. These capacities are all well within the reach of anyone willing to devote himself or herself sincerely to practice." Donna Farhi, Bringing Yoga to Life: The Everyday Practice of Enlightened Living, (2003 p.36 |
| Trusting Grace August 2011 "Low-trust geographical regions tend to have significantly greater income disparity between the rich and the poor; worse health and social services available to the poor; lower political participation rates. . .lower participation rates of volunteering with neighborhood, social, and philanthropic groups; lover levels of philanthropic giving; and less sense of neighborhood and community. Lower social trust in geographical region is also associated with overall poorer physical and mental health of the populations, lower longevity, greater crime, and lower child achievement in schools and on standardized tests. Also, inteventions (such as reducing class size in schools) are generally far less effective in low-trust states." The Science of Trust, by John Gottman, p. 42 |
Therapist John Gottman is famous for his research on intimate relationships and what makes
couples happy. The founder of The Gottman Institute, where extensive research on couples is
conducted, he has been able to identify characteristics of relationships that predict not only their
longevity, but also their quality over time. His work is fascinating, whether explored from a
scientific or personal perspective, and while his findings describe intimate relationships, they
offer insight on healthy human relationships of any sort.
Despite the intelligence of his research and my own interest in understanding human
connection, I was never very interested in Gottman’s information. His books felt somehow
empty of meaning in their reduction of healthy relationships to applicable “how to” steps.
There seemed to be a void of humanity in his descriptions, and I resisted their simplicity. This
year, however, he published a new book, The Science of Trust (2011), in which he addresses
this very concern. He writes, “For many critics of this research, something fundamental,
mysterious, and basic was apparently missing from our analysis. Skills didn’t seem to capture
the essence of what made love relationships work. It all felt too mechanistic – not mysterious,
dramatic, poetic, artful, or musical enough. Something about these criticisms felt right.” (p.38)
Acknowledging this void in their research, the Gottman institute researchers returned to their
studies and discovered they had missed an important piece of each relationship skill they had
previously prescribed: in order for any skills to be effective in a relationship, the relationship
had to first be grounded in TRUST.
As I read The Science of Trust, I am struck by the power of this essential teaching, and how
something so obvious could have remained elusive to researchers for so long. I relate this
foundation of trust to the first principle of Anusara Yoga’s Universal Principles of Alignment:
Open to Grace. While this is the First Principle, and the essence of our practice, once we begin
to study the biomechanics of Asana, contemplate the art of effective class sequencing, or
become absorbed in philosophical details of Tantric studies, how easy is it to forget that what
really matters above all of these details is our trust in Grace? How many people begin a yoga
practice hoping that they can just sort of skip that "Grace" step?
If we enter our practice from a place of disconnection or pain, cultivating a sense of trust or
even considering the concept of Grace will be more difficult than engaging our muscles, just as
if we are in a relationship that is challenged, following a checklist of phrases to say to our
partner is easier than facing a potentially deep sense of betrayal and grief that is creating a
chasm between us. Sometimes it might be necessary to stay for a while on the surface where it
feels safe. At no point in his new findings does Gottman dismiss the usefulness of his previous
guidelines for relationships, they are excellent tools as long as we understand what the tools are
for: cultivating greater trust in our relationships. With time, sensitivity to the more subtle
energy that underlies our experiences will ultimately guide the growth of our relationships and
the tools won't be as necessary.
As I move through my practice this week, I am noticing when I get lost in the detail of
alignment as an end in itself, rather than using alignment to enhance my connection to spirit.
Through this awareness, my practice softens as I return my attention to the energy moving
through me and around me, the steadiness of my breath, and the feeling of my connection to
the floor. All of these practices help me remember to trust by reminding me I am supported by
a greater energy that I will be able to feel if I stay receptive. From this state of trust, I return to
the details with a new perspective and allow my practice to unfold.
couples happy. The founder of The Gottman Institute, where extensive research on couples is
conducted, he has been able to identify characteristics of relationships that predict not only their
longevity, but also their quality over time. His work is fascinating, whether explored from a
scientific or personal perspective, and while his findings describe intimate relationships, they
offer insight on healthy human relationships of any sort.
Despite the intelligence of his research and my own interest in understanding human
connection, I was never very interested in Gottman’s information. His books felt somehow
empty of meaning in their reduction of healthy relationships to applicable “how to” steps.
There seemed to be a void of humanity in his descriptions, and I resisted their simplicity. This
year, however, he published a new book, The Science of Trust (2011), in which he addresses
this very concern. He writes, “For many critics of this research, something fundamental,
mysterious, and basic was apparently missing from our analysis. Skills didn’t seem to capture
the essence of what made love relationships work. It all felt too mechanistic – not mysterious,
dramatic, poetic, artful, or musical enough. Something about these criticisms felt right.” (p.38)
Acknowledging this void in their research, the Gottman institute researchers returned to their
studies and discovered they had missed an important piece of each relationship skill they had
previously prescribed: in order for any skills to be effective in a relationship, the relationship
had to first be grounded in TRUST.
As I read The Science of Trust, I am struck by the power of this essential teaching, and how
something so obvious could have remained elusive to researchers for so long. I relate this
foundation of trust to the first principle of Anusara Yoga’s Universal Principles of Alignment:
Open to Grace. While this is the First Principle, and the essence of our practice, once we begin
to study the biomechanics of Asana, contemplate the art of effective class sequencing, or
become absorbed in philosophical details of Tantric studies, how easy is it to forget that what
really matters above all of these details is our trust in Grace? How many people begin a yoga
practice hoping that they can just sort of skip that "Grace" step?
If we enter our practice from a place of disconnection or pain, cultivating a sense of trust or
even considering the concept of Grace will be more difficult than engaging our muscles, just as
if we are in a relationship that is challenged, following a checklist of phrases to say to our
partner is easier than facing a potentially deep sense of betrayal and grief that is creating a
chasm between us. Sometimes it might be necessary to stay for a while on the surface where it
feels safe. At no point in his new findings does Gottman dismiss the usefulness of his previous
guidelines for relationships, they are excellent tools as long as we understand what the tools are
for: cultivating greater trust in our relationships. With time, sensitivity to the more subtle
energy that underlies our experiences will ultimately guide the growth of our relationships and
the tools won't be as necessary.
As I move through my practice this week, I am noticing when I get lost in the detail of
alignment as an end in itself, rather than using alignment to enhance my connection to spirit.
Through this awareness, my practice softens as I return my attention to the energy moving
through me and around me, the steadiness of my breath, and the feeling of my connection to
the floor. All of these practices help me remember to trust by reminding me I am supported by
a greater energy that I will be able to feel if I stay receptive. From this state of trust, I return to
the details with a new perspective and allow my practice to unfold.
Jimi Lazlo
In the first year when I started to practice yoga regularly, I cried a lot. It seemed strange and
dramatic, the way I would go to class feeling nothing in particular and by savasana feel tears streaming
steadily from the corners of my eyes. I became curious about what I was experiencing in my practice
that was inspiring this reaction. I noticed a significant distinction in the way these tears felt from other
moments of sadness or crying I had experienced in the past. Mainly, I noticed that by the time I
returned to my seated position and offered my "namaste," my heart felt lighter, and I always left the
yoga studio with a sense of brightness and hope inside. I also noticed that most of the time, even if I
searched for one, I could not find any logical explanation or conscious reason for my tears, and while I
could always guess - maybe I'm homesick, maybe I'm just tired, I guess that disagreement must have
stressed me out more than I thought - the process remained mysterious, and I felt a sense of peace in
that.
Years later, as I make my way through Antonio Damasio's thorough exploration of consciousness as it
relates to the body and emotions in his book, The Feeling of What Happens, I am struck by the power
of his description of the relationship between the body, mind, and emotions, and how the patterns of
this relationship create the essence of consciousness. His explanation is helping me to more deeply
understand the shifts many people experience through a yoga practice, or other movement practices
that are combined with introspective awareness.
The brief except I have included from his book initiates a discussion about why and how the
disconnections between mind and body occur in the first place, how we begin to not feel what we feel.
He goes on to explain how this capacity for disconnection is adaptive and in many cases can be
temporarily beneficial; however, he explains, "This skewing of perspective relative to what is available in
our minds has a cost. It tends to prevent us from sensing the possible origin and nature of what we
call self. When the veil is lifted, however, at the scale of understanding permitted to the human mind, I
believe we can sense the origin of the construct we call self in the representation of individual life"
(p.29). The rest of his book continues to explore this construct, and describes the process of creating
consciousness, as well as it's purpose: To know life.
Damasio is not a yoga instructor, but a neuroscientist, and his book is not intended to describe the
power of yoga, but it does. This is important to me, because it helps me clarify the intention of my
practice, and deepens my trust in yoga as a practice of self awareness, or expanding consciousness. As
Georg Feuerstein explains in The Shambhala Guide to Yoga (1996), "This is indeed the great message
of all forms of Yoga: Happiness is our essential nature, and our perpetual quest for happiness is fulfilled
only when we realize who we truly are" (p.2). It seems Yogis have always known that this quest for
self understanding is a journey of following the breath into the body, and as science begins to unravel
the details of this path, perhaps our maps to consciousness will become clear enough for all of society
to easily follow.
Looking back on the beginnings of my yoga journey, I now recognize that my tears were and
indication that I had simply begun to feel what I had previously refused to feel. As Damasio
emphasizes, most of what I had refused to feel made sense: sadness, vulnerability, deep compassion
and empathy. . .these are not always comfortable experiences to contain. But my teachers kept
encouraging me to feel, to become more sensitive, so I did, and while I noticed the changes that
followed, I did not recognize the depth of what was happening. I didn't understand that by being
willing to feel, I was shifting my own consciousness. Damasio explains, "The apparent self emerges as
the feeling of a feeling. When the story is first told, spontaneously, without it ever having been
requested, and forevermore after that when the story is repeated, knowledge about what the organism
is living through automatically emerges as the answer to a question never asked. From that moment
on, we begin to know" (p. 31).
I come to my mat this morning in awe of the transformation my yoga practice has gently yet intensely
guided me through, and as I soften my body and open my awareness, I feel a new excitement in the
recognition that with every breath I feel, I become more deeply acquainted with my true self. I draw in
with strength and engagement to support the emergence of my own consciousness, recognizing that it
is not easy to travel into deeper levels of knowing . In his immersion manual, John Friend writes,
"Anusara is grounded in a Tantric philosophy of intrinsic goodness. In this philosophy, we take the
premise that everything in this world is an embodiment of Supreme Consciousness, which at its essence
pulsates with goodness and the highest bliss" (p. 3). Understanding each opportunity to expand my
conscious essence as an opportunity to create goodness and offer bliss, I find the motivation to journey
courageously into my heart.
dramatic, the way I would go to class feeling nothing in particular and by savasana feel tears streaming
steadily from the corners of my eyes. I became curious about what I was experiencing in my practice
that was inspiring this reaction. I noticed a significant distinction in the way these tears felt from other
moments of sadness or crying I had experienced in the past. Mainly, I noticed that by the time I
returned to my seated position and offered my "namaste," my heart felt lighter, and I always left the
yoga studio with a sense of brightness and hope inside. I also noticed that most of the time, even if I
searched for one, I could not find any logical explanation or conscious reason for my tears, and while I
could always guess - maybe I'm homesick, maybe I'm just tired, I guess that disagreement must have
stressed me out more than I thought - the process remained mysterious, and I felt a sense of peace in
that.
Years later, as I make my way through Antonio Damasio's thorough exploration of consciousness as it
relates to the body and emotions in his book, The Feeling of What Happens, I am struck by the power
of his description of the relationship between the body, mind, and emotions, and how the patterns of
this relationship create the essence of consciousness. His explanation is helping me to more deeply
understand the shifts many people experience through a yoga practice, or other movement practices
that are combined with introspective awareness.
The brief except I have included from his book initiates a discussion about why and how the
disconnections between mind and body occur in the first place, how we begin to not feel what we feel.
He goes on to explain how this capacity for disconnection is adaptive and in many cases can be
temporarily beneficial; however, he explains, "This skewing of perspective relative to what is available in
our minds has a cost. It tends to prevent us from sensing the possible origin and nature of what we
call self. When the veil is lifted, however, at the scale of understanding permitted to the human mind, I
believe we can sense the origin of the construct we call self in the representation of individual life"
(p.29). The rest of his book continues to explore this construct, and describes the process of creating
consciousness, as well as it's purpose: To know life.
Damasio is not a yoga instructor, but a neuroscientist, and his book is not intended to describe the
power of yoga, but it does. This is important to me, because it helps me clarify the intention of my
practice, and deepens my trust in yoga as a practice of self awareness, or expanding consciousness. As
Georg Feuerstein explains in The Shambhala Guide to Yoga (1996), "This is indeed the great message
of all forms of Yoga: Happiness is our essential nature, and our perpetual quest for happiness is fulfilled
only when we realize who we truly are" (p.2). It seems Yogis have always known that this quest for
self understanding is a journey of following the breath into the body, and as science begins to unravel
the details of this path, perhaps our maps to consciousness will become clear enough for all of society
to easily follow.
Looking back on the beginnings of my yoga journey, I now recognize that my tears were and
indication that I had simply begun to feel what I had previously refused to feel. As Damasio
emphasizes, most of what I had refused to feel made sense: sadness, vulnerability, deep compassion
and empathy. . .these are not always comfortable experiences to contain. But my teachers kept
encouraging me to feel, to become more sensitive, so I did, and while I noticed the changes that
followed, I did not recognize the depth of what was happening. I didn't understand that by being
willing to feel, I was shifting my own consciousness. Damasio explains, "The apparent self emerges as
the feeling of a feeling. When the story is first told, spontaneously, without it ever having been
requested, and forevermore after that when the story is repeated, knowledge about what the organism
is living through automatically emerges as the answer to a question never asked. From that moment
on, we begin to know" (p. 31).
I come to my mat this morning in awe of the transformation my yoga practice has gently yet intensely
guided me through, and as I soften my body and open my awareness, I feel a new excitement in the
recognition that with every breath I feel, I become more deeply acquainted with my true self. I draw in
with strength and engagement to support the emergence of my own consciousness, recognizing that it
is not easy to travel into deeper levels of knowing . In his immersion manual, John Friend writes,
"Anusara is grounded in a Tantric philosophy of intrinsic goodness. In this philosophy, we take the
premise that everything in this world is an embodiment of Supreme Consciousness, which at its essence
pulsates with goodness and the highest bliss" (p. 3). Understanding each opportunity to expand my
conscious essence as an opportunity to create goodness and offer bliss, I find the motivation to journey
courageously into my heart.
Hidden Consciousness
September 2011
"Sometimes we use our minds not to discover
facts but to hide them. We use part of the mind
as a screen to prevent another part of it from
sensing what goes on elsewhere. The
screening is not necessarily intentional - we are
not deliberate obfuscators all of the time - but
deliberate or not, the screen does hide.
One of the things the screen hides most
effectively is the body, our own body, by which I
mean the ins of it, its interiors. Like a veil thrown
over the skin to secure its modesty, but not too
well, the screen partially removes from the mind
the inner states of the body, those that constitute
the flow of life as it wanders the journey of each
day.
The alleged vagueness, elusiveness, and
intangibility of emotions and feelings is probably
a symptom of this fact, an indication of how we
covet the representation of our bodies, of how
much mental imagery based on nonbody objects
and events masks the reality of the body.
Otherwise we would easily know that emotions
and feelings are tangibly about the body.
Sometimes we use our minds to hide a part of
our beings from another part of our beings."
Antonio Damasio, The Feeling of What Happens
(1999 )p. 28-29
September 2011
"Sometimes we use our minds not to discover
facts but to hide them. We use part of the mind
as a screen to prevent another part of it from
sensing what goes on elsewhere. The
screening is not necessarily intentional - we are
not deliberate obfuscators all of the time - but
deliberate or not, the screen does hide.
One of the things the screen hides most
effectively is the body, our own body, by which I
mean the ins of it, its interiors. Like a veil thrown
over the skin to secure its modesty, but not too
well, the screen partially removes from the mind
the inner states of the body, those that constitute
the flow of life as it wanders the journey of each
day.
The alleged vagueness, elusiveness, and
intangibility of emotions and feelings is probably
a symptom of this fact, an indication of how we
covet the representation of our bodies, of how
much mental imagery based on nonbody objects
and events masks the reality of the body.
Otherwise we would easily know that emotions
and feelings are tangibly about the body.
Sometimes we use our minds to hide a part of
our beings from another part of our beings."
Antonio Damasio, The Feeling of What Happens
(1999 )p. 28-29
Ashley Badie
Looking through an old journal this month, I found this quote from my favorite
character, Lulu, in Louise Erdrich's novel, Love Medicine, and was grateful to be reminded
of her passionate wisdom. Lulu is a character who navigates the intensity of pain and pleasure from
her heart and embraces all that life brings. Her character is a perfect representation of the
definition of the word, Anusara: to flow with grace.
Sianna Sherman taught a class on YogaGlo this month that highlighted the nuances of this
definition. She emphasized that grace takes more than one form. It is a sweet and
supportive embrace, but it also manifests as a wild force of transformation. If we want to
open to grace, we must open to its fierceness as much as we do to its support.
I attended a teacher intensive with John Friend earlier this month that focused on the
topic of relationships. Similar to Sianna’s description of grace, John highlighted both the sweet and
supportive as well as intense and sometimes painful path of relationships. He encouraged the
perspective that like grace, relationships have their own courses and are always meant to guide us
deeper into our hearts. This is perhaps the realm of life where the willingness to remain spacious
and trusting through the intensity of transformation is needed more than any, and as John offered
guidance on applying the principles of yoga to navigate relationships from the heart, I imagine
every person at the training felt both confronted and touched by the teachings that were offered.
The topic of relationships is anything but neutral.
After allowing a couple of weeks for the experience to sink in, the message I have taken from this
training is similar to the message offered by the character Lulu: when we are willing to allow the
paths of our relationships to unfold, it will not necessarily be the gentlest option, but if we can stay
connected to our hearts through the transformation, we will always evolve into more conscious and
loving beings.
I hold the guidance of all of the teachers who have been reminding me to trust the
changes of life this month when I step on to my mat. As my breath guides me through the
transformation of Asana, I catch myself at any moment when I feel I am resisting the
sensations that come through my practice. I remind myself to embrace them fiercely
instead, by first softening, and then engaging. The alignment principle always tell me how to
proceed when I am hesitant, and with time the pauses are less necessary as my
sensitivity becomes more attuned. Aware of the intensity I might encounter, there is no other course
I want to take.
character, Lulu, in Louise Erdrich's novel, Love Medicine, and was grateful to be reminded
of her passionate wisdom. Lulu is a character who navigates the intensity of pain and pleasure from
her heart and embraces all that life brings. Her character is a perfect representation of the
definition of the word, Anusara: to flow with grace.
Sianna Sherman taught a class on YogaGlo this month that highlighted the nuances of this
definition. She emphasized that grace takes more than one form. It is a sweet and
supportive embrace, but it also manifests as a wild force of transformation. If we want to
open to grace, we must open to its fierceness as much as we do to its support.
I attended a teacher intensive with John Friend earlier this month that focused on the
topic of relationships. Similar to Sianna’s description of grace, John highlighted both the sweet and
supportive as well as intense and sometimes painful path of relationships. He encouraged the
perspective that like grace, relationships have their own courses and are always meant to guide us
deeper into our hearts. This is perhaps the realm of life where the willingness to remain spacious
and trusting through the intensity of transformation is needed more than any, and as John offered
guidance on applying the principles of yoga to navigate relationships from the heart, I imagine
every person at the training felt both confronted and touched by the teachings that were offered.
The topic of relationships is anything but neutral.
After allowing a couple of weeks for the experience to sink in, the message I have taken from this
training is similar to the message offered by the character Lulu: when we are willing to allow the
paths of our relationships to unfold, it will not necessarily be the gentlest option, but if we can stay
connected to our hearts through the transformation, we will always evolve into more conscious and
loving beings.
I hold the guidance of all of the teachers who have been reminding me to trust the
changes of life this month when I step on to my mat. As my breath guides me through the
transformation of Asana, I catch myself at any moment when I feel I am resisting the
sensations that come through my practice. I remind myself to embrace them fiercely
instead, by first softening, and then engaging. The alignment principle always tell me how to
proceed when I am hesitant, and with time the pauses are less necessary as my
sensitivity becomes more attuned. Aware of the intensity I might encounter, there is no other course
I want to take.
| A Fierce Embrace October, 2011 "My life is like that. I don't stop myself from going into the feeling, the emotion that pulls like gravity. Surely there are gentler courses, switchbacks, but for some reason I can't get myself to take them." Louise Erdrich, Love Medicine |
Sammy Mayo Jr.
| Rare Depth June 2011 |
| Gratitude and Grief November, 2011 Absolutely Clear by Hafiz Don’t surrender your loneliness So quickly. Let it cut more deep. Let it ferment and season you As few human Or even divine ingredients can. Something missing in my heart Tonight Has made my eyes so soft, My voice So tender, My need of God Absolutely Clear. |
In November, as the days continue to grow darker, a feeling of loneliness always
creeps into my heart. Growing up in Montana, this feeling was coupled with a sense of
dread of the many long winter months to come, and I often resented having to live where
encounters with the Sun felt so fleeting. As the layers of snow grew higher and shades
of grey darker; however, I always found my attention turned deeply inward and even in
my most resentful teenage stages, something in me could identify the rich awareness of
my own depth, gleaned through the lonely Winter months, as a precious and rare gift.
Every year, by the time spring buds began to emerge, I felt a sense of deep
transformation for having experienced the darkness of the season, and faced its parallel
energy within myself.
I was blessed to study again with John Friend this month. He arrived for a weekend
workshop before Thanksgiving and reflected on gratitude, particularly on the relationship
between gratitude and grief. He explained that we practice Yoga to stay present and
open to the painful emotions evoked through the difficult experiences of life, not to
punish or hurt ourselves, but so we can heal. This process opens us to new levels of
compassion, empathy, and love – it brings us into deeper acquaintance with our hearts,
and for this we can be grateful.
I left the workshop with a sense of peace that comes from a visceral awareness of
truth, similar to what I feel when I read this poem, “Absolutely Clear,” by Hafiz. I find
great comfort in being reminded to open to the parts of myself that feel so close to
shutting down. John coupled these teachings with a practice focused on backbends
specifically to access the areas in the chest and shoulders that constricts physically
every time we contract emotionally. When we have a physical practice to access this
energy, even something as subtle as breathing consciously into our uplifted chest, the
movement back into a natural physical rhythm allows emotions become more accessible
for transformation. Asana practice becomes alchemy when infused with such intention .
. .
This year as I shift into the introspective energy of November and begin to turn inside, I
feel a comfortable familiarity with any darkness I encounter, and am full of gratitude for
the intensity of Montana winters that now make living in DC often feel like a tropical
vacation. I recognize, as Hafiz says, the gift of being “fermented and seasoned,” by my
intimacy with the dark, cold, barren parts of the world and of myself; I go there willingly
now and wait patiently for the clarity that will come.
creeps into my heart. Growing up in Montana, this feeling was coupled with a sense of
dread of the many long winter months to come, and I often resented having to live where
encounters with the Sun felt so fleeting. As the layers of snow grew higher and shades
of grey darker; however, I always found my attention turned deeply inward and even in
my most resentful teenage stages, something in me could identify the rich awareness of
my own depth, gleaned through the lonely Winter months, as a precious and rare gift.
Every year, by the time spring buds began to emerge, I felt a sense of deep
transformation for having experienced the darkness of the season, and faced its parallel
energy within myself.
I was blessed to study again with John Friend this month. He arrived for a weekend
workshop before Thanksgiving and reflected on gratitude, particularly on the relationship
between gratitude and grief. He explained that we practice Yoga to stay present and
open to the painful emotions evoked through the difficult experiences of life, not to
punish or hurt ourselves, but so we can heal. This process opens us to new levels of
compassion, empathy, and love – it brings us into deeper acquaintance with our hearts,
and for this we can be grateful.
I left the workshop with a sense of peace that comes from a visceral awareness of
truth, similar to what I feel when I read this poem, “Absolutely Clear,” by Hafiz. I find
great comfort in being reminded to open to the parts of myself that feel so close to
shutting down. John coupled these teachings with a practice focused on backbends
specifically to access the areas in the chest and shoulders that constricts physically
every time we contract emotionally. When we have a physical practice to access this
energy, even something as subtle as breathing consciously into our uplifted chest, the
movement back into a natural physical rhythm allows emotions become more accessible
for transformation. Asana practice becomes alchemy when infused with such intention .
. .
This year as I shift into the introspective energy of November and begin to turn inside, I
feel a comfortable familiarity with any darkness I encounter, and am full of gratitude for
the intensity of Montana winters that now make living in DC often feel like a tropical
vacation. I recognize, as Hafiz says, the gift of being “fermented and seasoned,” by my
intimacy with the dark, cold, barren parts of the world and of myself; I go there willingly
now and wait patiently for the clarity that will come.
| The Pace of Ahimsa December 2011 “Pendulation is the primal rhythm expressed as movement from contraction to expansion – and back to contraction, but gradually opening to more and more expansion. It is an involuntary, internal, rocking back and forth between these two polarities. It softens the edge of difficult sensations such as fear and pain. The importance of the human ability to move through “bad” and difficult sensations, opening to those of expansion and “goodness,” cannot be overstated: it is pivotal for the healing of trauma and more generally, the alleviation of suffering. It is vital for a client to know and experience this rhythm. Its steady ebb and flow tell you that, no matter how bad you feel (in the contraction phase), expansion will invevitably follow, bringing with it a sense of opening, relief and flow. At the same time, too rapid or large a magnitude of expansion can be frightening, causing a client to contract precipitously against expansion. Hence, the therapist needs to moderate the scale and pace of this rhythm.” Peter Levine, Phd, In an Unspoken Voice, 2010, p . 80 |
This month I had the opportunity to attend a part 1 training in Somatic Experiencing (SE), and read In an Unspoken
Voice: how the body releases trauma and restores goodness (2010), by its founder, Peter Levine. I was amazed by
the overlap in the philosophies of Somatic Experiencing and Anusara Yoga. Every time I discover such consistency in
paradigms from two different perspectives, it gives me more faith in the efficacy of their methods. As I finished the final
pages of Levine’s book, I felt a renewed sense of hope and confidence in our society’s understanding of the role of
our bodies in our well-being and healing.
Of the many consistencies between SE and Anusara Yoga, the one that struck me the most was the emphasis on
the importance of rhythm and pacing in therapeutic work. Both of these methods suggest that moving too quickly into
a state of expansion can create disreglulation, injury, or potentially retraumatization. The first time I attended an
Anusara Yoga class, I was confused and even irritated by the pace of the class and of each asana. I had become
accustomed to a practice where I focused exclusively on expanding as much as possible in every posture, and while I
didn’t do this violently or rapidly by my judgment, my Anusara teacher guided me to back off so much in asanas I was
used to sprawling into that I could hardly feel any sensation in my new form. This was my introduction to the principle
of Muscular Energy in my yoga practice. Muscular Energy is a supportive contraction of the muscles that follows the
initial expansion of Opening to Grace, and empowers further expansion. I have come to appreciate this stabilizing
embrace in my practice for the incredible sense of balance and peace it provides my generally expansive and organic
nature.
Watching demonstrations of a therapist using the Somatic Experiencing methods in counseling inspired a similar
initial reaction in me as my first Anusara yoga class, I was surprised by the slow pace. I was struck by the amount of
guidance by the counselor as the client spoke, and what almost looked like attempts to hold the client back from
his/her experience. I was not yet trained to recognize the role of contraction and expansion in a counseling session, so
healthy pacing actually looked like interruption of flow to me. However, I know that when I have practiced or received
counseling myself, there have been times when the flow of discussion has led to a point of emotional overwhelm, so I
felt very curious about a different approach.
Just as my Anusara yoga teachers had to rearrange my posture and guide me not to open further than I could
support myself with strength, Somatic Experiencing requires a counselor to be acutely attuned to the client to first
establish an emotional container for the intensity that is likely to arise when working with trauma. To do this, the
counselor has to sense when the client is approaching hyper and hypo arousal, something the client him/herself may
not be aware of, especially if living within one of these states has become a norm. The therapist does this by
consistently guiding the client to track his/her body, and this takes precedent over details of a story. It is extremely
difficult to stay present with the body while listening or speaking of an intense experience, and the temptation to lose
track of the body out of curiosity about a story reminds me of the experience of becoming so curious about the “full
expression” of a yoga pose that a person lets go of all muscular engagement in order to push to the deepest opening
possible, this is where injuries can occur.
In yogic philosophy, there is a concept called Ahimsa, which translates to non-violence, that is the first ethical
discipline (Yama) of the practice. When I began practicing yoga, I thought of Ahimsa in very concrete terms, what to
do or not to do. However, with time, I am understanding that the practice of Ahimsa shows up in HOW we do what we
do, rather than simply in our choices about what to do or not. Most people would not consider yoga a violent practice,
but certainly if we approach asanas with aggression we can harm our bodies, and while the Mental Health field claims
to have a benevolent intention with the clients it treats, a brief look at its history reveals much damage has been done
by clinicians’ attempts to help. These are difficult complexities to face in any therapeutic endeavor, and it is essential
for us to contemplate the meaning of Ahimsa in our practice if we are truly dedicated to healing.
The training in Somatic Experiencing reminded me that the pace at which we enter our bodies, the rhythm we align
with, determines whether we are acting in accordance with Ahimsa. This has been a valuable lesson in my yoga
practice, and it was fascinating to see it enacted in the subtle energetic realm of conversation between two people. To
align with a therapeutic pendulation skillfully is an art in counseling just as it is in yoga, and requires as much
sensitivity to and trust in our bodies to guide us toward healing.
As I return to my mat after this training, I feel a new level of respect for the universality of the alignment principles I
have learned through my yoga practice, and my dedication to become more sensitive and attuned to my internal
experience is renewed with my deeper understanding of how this will allow me to interact with others with a pace of
relationship that is healing. I hold the intention of Ahimsa in my heart as align with the rhythm of my breath –
expansion, contraction, expansion… and humbly follow its lead.
Voice: how the body releases trauma and restores goodness (2010), by its founder, Peter Levine. I was amazed by
the overlap in the philosophies of Somatic Experiencing and Anusara Yoga. Every time I discover such consistency in
paradigms from two different perspectives, it gives me more faith in the efficacy of their methods. As I finished the final
pages of Levine’s book, I felt a renewed sense of hope and confidence in our society’s understanding of the role of
our bodies in our well-being and healing.
Of the many consistencies between SE and Anusara Yoga, the one that struck me the most was the emphasis on
the importance of rhythm and pacing in therapeutic work. Both of these methods suggest that moving too quickly into
a state of expansion can create disreglulation, injury, or potentially retraumatization. The first time I attended an
Anusara Yoga class, I was confused and even irritated by the pace of the class and of each asana. I had become
accustomed to a practice where I focused exclusively on expanding as much as possible in every posture, and while I
didn’t do this violently or rapidly by my judgment, my Anusara teacher guided me to back off so much in asanas I was
used to sprawling into that I could hardly feel any sensation in my new form. This was my introduction to the principle
of Muscular Energy in my yoga practice. Muscular Energy is a supportive contraction of the muscles that follows the
initial expansion of Opening to Grace, and empowers further expansion. I have come to appreciate this stabilizing
embrace in my practice for the incredible sense of balance and peace it provides my generally expansive and organic
nature.
Watching demonstrations of a therapist using the Somatic Experiencing methods in counseling inspired a similar
initial reaction in me as my first Anusara yoga class, I was surprised by the slow pace. I was struck by the amount of
guidance by the counselor as the client spoke, and what almost looked like attempts to hold the client back from
his/her experience. I was not yet trained to recognize the role of contraction and expansion in a counseling session, so
healthy pacing actually looked like interruption of flow to me. However, I know that when I have practiced or received
counseling myself, there have been times when the flow of discussion has led to a point of emotional overwhelm, so I
felt very curious about a different approach.
Just as my Anusara yoga teachers had to rearrange my posture and guide me not to open further than I could
support myself with strength, Somatic Experiencing requires a counselor to be acutely attuned to the client to first
establish an emotional container for the intensity that is likely to arise when working with trauma. To do this, the
counselor has to sense when the client is approaching hyper and hypo arousal, something the client him/herself may
not be aware of, especially if living within one of these states has become a norm. The therapist does this by
consistently guiding the client to track his/her body, and this takes precedent over details of a story. It is extremely
difficult to stay present with the body while listening or speaking of an intense experience, and the temptation to lose
track of the body out of curiosity about a story reminds me of the experience of becoming so curious about the “full
expression” of a yoga pose that a person lets go of all muscular engagement in order to push to the deepest opening
possible, this is where injuries can occur.
In yogic philosophy, there is a concept called Ahimsa, which translates to non-violence, that is the first ethical
discipline (Yama) of the practice. When I began practicing yoga, I thought of Ahimsa in very concrete terms, what to
do or not to do. However, with time, I am understanding that the practice of Ahimsa shows up in HOW we do what we
do, rather than simply in our choices about what to do or not. Most people would not consider yoga a violent practice,
but certainly if we approach asanas with aggression we can harm our bodies, and while the Mental Health field claims
to have a benevolent intention with the clients it treats, a brief look at its history reveals much damage has been done
by clinicians’ attempts to help. These are difficult complexities to face in any therapeutic endeavor, and it is essential
for us to contemplate the meaning of Ahimsa in our practice if we are truly dedicated to healing.
The training in Somatic Experiencing reminded me that the pace at which we enter our bodies, the rhythm we align
with, determines whether we are acting in accordance with Ahimsa. This has been a valuable lesson in my yoga
practice, and it was fascinating to see it enacted in the subtle energetic realm of conversation between two people. To
align with a therapeutic pendulation skillfully is an art in counseling just as it is in yoga, and requires as much
sensitivity to and trust in our bodies to guide us toward healing.
As I return to my mat after this training, I feel a new level of respect for the universality of the alignment principles I
have learned through my yoga practice, and my dedication to become more sensitive and attuned to my internal
experience is renewed with my deeper understanding of how this will allow me to interact with others with a pace of
relationship that is healing. I hold the intention of Ahimsa in my heart as align with the rhythm of my breath –
expansion, contraction, expansion… and humbly follow its lead.
| January 2012 Fearless Vision "When I dare to be powerful - to use my strength in service of my vision, it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid." Audre Lourde |
2012 has arrived, and among the excitement for global shifts, changes in consciousness, or potentially the end of the world, I am contemplating
the value of fearlessness during times of intensity. So far, January has brought me the energy to challenge myself in deep and subtle ways, and I
have been amazed by the new insight I gain about myself as I cultivate the steadiness to face areas of my life, behavior, and internal patterns that I
have been too afraid to stay present with until now.
It is appropriate that I had the opportunity to travel to the Abhaya yoga studio in Brooklyn this month to train with one of my most courageous
teachers. The Sanskrit word, Abhaya, translates to “fearlessness,” and as I joined other teachers in this space for an intensive to focus on enhancing
our teaching, I recognized how clearly my general anxieties and fears in life can be accessed through my experiences of teaching yoga, and how
through teaching, I can expand my consciousness of where my fears abide, and address them accordingly.
Part of a yoga practice is to develop a witness consciousness, so that while we are moving our bodies through postures, we are also noticing our
own reactions to our experiences of the postures – this practice expands consciousness by creating new levels of awareness into our internal state.
Judgments, projections, preferences, and other mysteries of mood and internal energies can be revealed quickly through this practice, and ultimately
we hope to gain more tolerance and insight about how we navigate our lives, so that we can choose this process with intention rather than reaction.
After this weekend at Abhaya, I am recognizing the challenge of applying the witness consciousness I have developed in my yoga practice to the
practice of teaching, and am excited to have learned new tools to track my own internal experiences while teaching so I can begin to recognize the
ways fear or anxiety interrupt the process of maintaining witness consciousness while teaching, and thereby limit my self awareness. While being a
student of yoga has given me an opportunity to expand my awareness of relationships that require me to trust someone else to guide me, contain my
experience, and offer their knowledge; taking the seat of a teacher presents an exploration of how I experience relationships that require me to be the
one who offers, leads, and guides. I am discovering that for me, much more fear and resistance reside here. Through this recognition, I am learning
more about my fears of being powerful.
While assisting a new student into a press-up handstand this weekend, my teacher reflected that it was fine for the student to feel fearful, as long
as her steadiness - translated literally into the steadiness of her fingertips pressing into the mat -was stronger than her fear. As her legs floated to the
sky, this student offered an embodied example of the fearlessness that resulted in connecting to her own strength. She was able to do this by
connecting her power to a vision of being a steady person, strong enough to support others in her own life.
As I begin tracking my fears while teaching this month, I know I will learn more about my relationship to being powerful. I am ready for deep
contemplations about the connection between power and service, and truly envision what I want from myself as a teacher. In the process I will keep
coming back to my mat, strengthening my inner witness in my practice and cultivating a deeper sense of presence so that when I am in a position to
hold space for others to expand into their own power, my vision of their strength will be greater than their fear.
the value of fearlessness during times of intensity. So far, January has brought me the energy to challenge myself in deep and subtle ways, and I
have been amazed by the new insight I gain about myself as I cultivate the steadiness to face areas of my life, behavior, and internal patterns that I
have been too afraid to stay present with until now.
It is appropriate that I had the opportunity to travel to the Abhaya yoga studio in Brooklyn this month to train with one of my most courageous
teachers. The Sanskrit word, Abhaya, translates to “fearlessness,” and as I joined other teachers in this space for an intensive to focus on enhancing
our teaching, I recognized how clearly my general anxieties and fears in life can be accessed through my experiences of teaching yoga, and how
through teaching, I can expand my consciousness of where my fears abide, and address them accordingly.
Part of a yoga practice is to develop a witness consciousness, so that while we are moving our bodies through postures, we are also noticing our
own reactions to our experiences of the postures – this practice expands consciousness by creating new levels of awareness into our internal state.
Judgments, projections, preferences, and other mysteries of mood and internal energies can be revealed quickly through this practice, and ultimately
we hope to gain more tolerance and insight about how we navigate our lives, so that we can choose this process with intention rather than reaction.
After this weekend at Abhaya, I am recognizing the challenge of applying the witness consciousness I have developed in my yoga practice to the
practice of teaching, and am excited to have learned new tools to track my own internal experiences while teaching so I can begin to recognize the
ways fear or anxiety interrupt the process of maintaining witness consciousness while teaching, and thereby limit my self awareness. While being a
student of yoga has given me an opportunity to expand my awareness of relationships that require me to trust someone else to guide me, contain my
experience, and offer their knowledge; taking the seat of a teacher presents an exploration of how I experience relationships that require me to be the
one who offers, leads, and guides. I am discovering that for me, much more fear and resistance reside here. Through this recognition, I am learning
more about my fears of being powerful.
While assisting a new student into a press-up handstand this weekend, my teacher reflected that it was fine for the student to feel fearful, as long
as her steadiness - translated literally into the steadiness of her fingertips pressing into the mat -was stronger than her fear. As her legs floated to the
sky, this student offered an embodied example of the fearlessness that resulted in connecting to her own strength. She was able to do this by
connecting her power to a vision of being a steady person, strong enough to support others in her own life.
As I begin tracking my fears while teaching this month, I know I will learn more about my relationship to being powerful. I am ready for deep
contemplations about the connection between power and service, and truly envision what I want from myself as a teacher. In the process I will keep
coming back to my mat, strengthening my inner witness in my practice and cultivating a deeper sense of presence so that when I am in a position to
hold space for others to expand into their own power, my vision of their strength will be greater than their fear.
| In my body, in Miami: My experience as a witness February, 2012 |
These are the writings I posted for the Anusara community during my training with John Friend following accusations of Ethical Misconduct in January.
Dear Anusara Community, most of you don't know me, but I wanted to offer my experience of being here in Miami with John. I am taking an internal and personal approach to my description, rather than attempting to be
objective, I have been trying to stay very present to my own body and process as I witness what is happening. I hope that as you read my process of orienting my own experience, you will have an opportunity to also create
more space and presence for whatever has been occurring in you for the past weeks. I am writing in the present tense so that I can access my internal experience more easily, and so that you can hear it more clearly.
Day 1.
I arrive at the center and I am lost. I am aware of a missing magnetism that I usually feel when I attend these events, a pull to the location. Today I feel no pull. I do not know where I am.
I find my way to the room. I walk into shamed silence. My mind pulls my body to the past, to funerals where the death was shameful, suicide or drunk driving. People are grieving, people are angry. Nobody knows what to do.
I feel a compulsion to connect, is anyone here! I meet a familiar face, my breath returns, when I see the sadness in his eyes my heart sinks. I am aware of how much more deeply wounded many people have been by these
events than I have been. I cannot compare my grief to theirs, I am humbled by the magnitude of their pain. I am aware of a desire to offer comfort, to fix, and a deep knowing that this uncomfortable feeling is not supposed to
go away right now. I settle my feet to the floor and remember I have been uncomfortable before. I can stay centered now. I feel grateful to be here, steady enough that others can lean on me if they need to.
John walks into the room. I feel my body lighten. I am amazed by this response. I am comforted by his presence, and he has disappointed me. But I am very familiar with these two realities existing in me at once. I
recognize a deep sense of gratitude that I am not really at a funeral. John is still alive. I feel hopeful in recognizing there is still time for change.
John speaks. I realize how many expectations I had about what I would feel at this moment. I realize this because I am not experiencing what I would expect to experience. I am crying. My body feels the presence of a
person in deep pain. I am witnessing a man see himself fully for the first time. I am aware of the profundity of this moment, and of its vulnerability. I am aware that this evokes different responses in each witness. There is a
part of me that is afraid my tears will be mistaken for blind sympathy. I want to please the others in the group, I want them to know I am disappointed too. Then I remember, there’s nothing I can do to change this reality. I
have to allow witnesses their own reactions, and I am calmed in this knowing.
I hear John speak of shame. His words summon ghosts in my heart, the many many stories I have heard of sexual shame. The power of this force in my life, in this world, hits me with the weight of thousands of years. I see
what is occurring in front of me now. I see it occurring in small circles all over the world. I see it occurring for thousands of years.
I hear john speak of being “weird.” I hear him attempt to joke. “I was always a weird guy.” I see how this laughter comforts some. Enrages others. I empathize with both responses. I want to explain to John not to use
humor right now, and I want to explain to the group how this only reveals how scared he is, I am torn in what I imagine is a scene where misunderstanding is happening. I catch myself being pulled out of my body, I recognize
that I do not know what my own response is. So I imagine a 13 year old boy in a wiccan ceremony. I feel scared and alone.
I hear John speak of his Dad, almost in passing. I have not heard much of this before. I experience him as becoming disoriented as he speaks of how ashamed his father would be. DISHONOR. This word carries a darkness
that hollows my chest.
We go to our mats. John does not teach. I feel selfish for hating this. I do not want the other teachers to teach. I know that what they are doing is “right,” and I scold myself for caring only about myself, my practice, my
needs. And I am also aware of a truth in having come here to heal, and my faith in John’s guidance in helping me with that. I am lost in confusion about why my mind cannot convince my body that John is not trustworthy
anymore. I am lost in confusion about why he has to be trustworthy to teach me this practice. I am remembering Campus Feminists’ Alliance, where we decided we would do everything by consensus. I feel like I am again
stuck in a four hour meeting that will result in no decisions because we have decided hierarchy is wrong. And then I remember how healing it was for us, this group of women, to come together and make our own rules. We did
not care about efficiency at that point. And it worked, I healed in this circle. I remind myself that there may need to be a lot of inefficiency for the sake of healing before John can teach again. I feel forgiveness for everyone
who wants consensus even though it is disrupting my agenda. I understand.
Bill Mahoney arrives in the afternoon. He is not making jokes. He looks at us and I feel my tears again. This time its different. This time its because I see him looking at us, and I see that he is witnessing pain. I feel the
weight of his words, “I am here to support the community.” He is telling us that this is not a small situation. He is saying, John is in trouble. This is what I hear. He is here to offer healing in the disguise of a lecturer. I see
in his eyes he knows something we have yet to even fathom. And I see in his eyes acceptance for all that is. I feel safe in his presence.
Day 2.
I wake up anxious. What am I doing here? What is wrong with me that I am involved with something like this? What does this mean about me? My body is tight in my harshness and judgments of myself. I feel nervous and
wrong. Shame. I catch it and then it softens. I remember that so many people who I love are feeling this about themselves right now. No, my heart whispers, you are not crazy. It is very hard to trust this.
I arrive at the training. News that the teachers have left weighs heavily in the room. I think of Harry Potter movies, Hogwarts after Dumbledore dies, and I am so irritated that a children’s movie would pop up in response to
this adult situation, and then I am aware of the children in all of us who are in the room too.
There is little to do but move. I am so grateful to move in John’s guidance. My body is in a lot of pain. As if I can feel the connections of a community I did not realize I was so connected to being torn from my back.
Manoj speaks in the afternoon. In his voice I feel his loyalty to John. I feel he doesn’t want to speak. I feel none of us want to listen. I feel everyone wants to lay on the floor and cry. I recognize how much I am projecting
my feelings on to everyone now and wonder if it’s because I am trying to imagine connection where it feels there is none. We practice again and I am grateful. In savasana I go somewhere far away.
I thank John before I go, I tell him I needed him to be here this week, and I am so grateful that he came. I tell him that many men have done disappointing things, in the world and in my life, and few of them will stand in their
shame and remain present to the relationships with people who need them. I say this knowing how abandoned many people feel by him, and I am sad that this is my truth when others do not feel supported. I am struck by the
humility in John’s eyes and when he speaks with conviction of his determination to change, I experience these words as carrying truth.
I come home and talk to friends on the phone. Lives are unraveling everywhere. I sense urgency in every voice. I feel no urgency in myself. This discrepancy is mysterious and I recognize that I am blessed to be in the
space I am where I have time to process. How can anyone in the real world take the time to process? This is always the question I have about life.
Day 3.
I wake up with a sense of doom. I feel that Anusara is over. I am surprised by the magnitude of sadness this brings me, as I have had so many complaints about Anusara. It is the pain of witnessing such a violent ending. A
sense of finality fills my body. I arrive at the training. I see John and I feel anxiety. I watch his movements, erratic, I see his eyes darting. I am watching a person in the aftermath of trauma. I want to root his ankles toward
the ground. He speaks in circles, philosophizing and intellectualizing his experience until he is finally oriented enough to speak from his own experience, my chest relaxes a little when he finally arrives in his body. As he
speaks, many words come. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” is all I hear.
Many people speak. Attempts at encouragement. The Brazilians want him to stay! Some want to comfort him with reminders of endings being beginnings – the philosophy he has taught us. I am aware of a delicate
community longing for its leader. And I am aware of a need in myself to stop. I want to stand up and freeze time and say firmly, “ENDINGS ARE BEGINNINGS BUT THEY ARE ALSO ENDINGS. WE HAVE TO STOP NOW
AND LET WHAT HAS ENDED END!”
I see a leader on the stage attempting to comfort a grieving crowd. I think of the exploitation of humanity that is often involved in being a leader. I think of the frustrated sense of powerlessness often involved in being in a
crowd. Again I see the whole world in this room.
We move. We do backbends. I go in and out of being able to feel my body at all.
The afternoon begins with questions. We are all lost. We move again. In savasana I am far away again. John places a chocolate on our mats for Valentine’s day. Another small gesture sure to evoke many different
responses. I imagine a cynical voice saying something like, “what, he thinks he can give us a dove chocolate and we’re going to forgive him!?!” I am surprised to find tears in my eyes again. I feel so humiliated for him.
I come home and look at Facebook. I read a report of 3 days in Miami. I hear nothing of my experience in it. I decide to write.
Dear Anusara Community, most of you don't know me, but I wanted to offer my experience of being here in Miami with John. I am taking an internal and personal approach to my description, rather than attempting to be
objective, I have been trying to stay very present to my own body and process as I witness what is happening. I hope that as you read my process of orienting my own experience, you will have an opportunity to also create
more space and presence for whatever has been occurring in you for the past weeks. I am writing in the present tense so that I can access my internal experience more easily, and so that you can hear it more clearly.
Day 1.
I arrive at the center and I am lost. I am aware of a missing magnetism that I usually feel when I attend these events, a pull to the location. Today I feel no pull. I do not know where I am.
I find my way to the room. I walk into shamed silence. My mind pulls my body to the past, to funerals where the death was shameful, suicide or drunk driving. People are grieving, people are angry. Nobody knows what to do.
I feel a compulsion to connect, is anyone here! I meet a familiar face, my breath returns, when I see the sadness in his eyes my heart sinks. I am aware of how much more deeply wounded many people have been by these
events than I have been. I cannot compare my grief to theirs, I am humbled by the magnitude of their pain. I am aware of a desire to offer comfort, to fix, and a deep knowing that this uncomfortable feeling is not supposed to
go away right now. I settle my feet to the floor and remember I have been uncomfortable before. I can stay centered now. I feel grateful to be here, steady enough that others can lean on me if they need to.
John walks into the room. I feel my body lighten. I am amazed by this response. I am comforted by his presence, and he has disappointed me. But I am very familiar with these two realities existing in me at once. I
recognize a deep sense of gratitude that I am not really at a funeral. John is still alive. I feel hopeful in recognizing there is still time for change.
John speaks. I realize how many expectations I had about what I would feel at this moment. I realize this because I am not experiencing what I would expect to experience. I am crying. My body feels the presence of a
person in deep pain. I am witnessing a man see himself fully for the first time. I am aware of the profundity of this moment, and of its vulnerability. I am aware that this evokes different responses in each witness. There is a
part of me that is afraid my tears will be mistaken for blind sympathy. I want to please the others in the group, I want them to know I am disappointed too. Then I remember, there’s nothing I can do to change this reality. I
have to allow witnesses their own reactions, and I am calmed in this knowing.
I hear John speak of shame. His words summon ghosts in my heart, the many many stories I have heard of sexual shame. The power of this force in my life, in this world, hits me with the weight of thousands of years. I see
what is occurring in front of me now. I see it occurring in small circles all over the world. I see it occurring for thousands of years.
I hear john speak of being “weird.” I hear him attempt to joke. “I was always a weird guy.” I see how this laughter comforts some. Enrages others. I empathize with both responses. I want to explain to John not to use
humor right now, and I want to explain to the group how this only reveals how scared he is, I am torn in what I imagine is a scene where misunderstanding is happening. I catch myself being pulled out of my body, I recognize
that I do not know what my own response is. So I imagine a 13 year old boy in a wiccan ceremony. I feel scared and alone.
I hear John speak of his Dad, almost in passing. I have not heard much of this before. I experience him as becoming disoriented as he speaks of how ashamed his father would be. DISHONOR. This word carries a darkness
that hollows my chest.
We go to our mats. John does not teach. I feel selfish for hating this. I do not want the other teachers to teach. I know that what they are doing is “right,” and I scold myself for caring only about myself, my practice, my
needs. And I am also aware of a truth in having come here to heal, and my faith in John’s guidance in helping me with that. I am lost in confusion about why my mind cannot convince my body that John is not trustworthy
anymore. I am lost in confusion about why he has to be trustworthy to teach me this practice. I am remembering Campus Feminists’ Alliance, where we decided we would do everything by consensus. I feel like I am again
stuck in a four hour meeting that will result in no decisions because we have decided hierarchy is wrong. And then I remember how healing it was for us, this group of women, to come together and make our own rules. We did
not care about efficiency at that point. And it worked, I healed in this circle. I remind myself that there may need to be a lot of inefficiency for the sake of healing before John can teach again. I feel forgiveness for everyone
who wants consensus even though it is disrupting my agenda. I understand.
Bill Mahoney arrives in the afternoon. He is not making jokes. He looks at us and I feel my tears again. This time its different. This time its because I see him looking at us, and I see that he is witnessing pain. I feel the
weight of his words, “I am here to support the community.” He is telling us that this is not a small situation. He is saying, John is in trouble. This is what I hear. He is here to offer healing in the disguise of a lecturer. I see
in his eyes he knows something we have yet to even fathom. And I see in his eyes acceptance for all that is. I feel safe in his presence.
Day 2.
I wake up anxious. What am I doing here? What is wrong with me that I am involved with something like this? What does this mean about me? My body is tight in my harshness and judgments of myself. I feel nervous and
wrong. Shame. I catch it and then it softens. I remember that so many people who I love are feeling this about themselves right now. No, my heart whispers, you are not crazy. It is very hard to trust this.
I arrive at the training. News that the teachers have left weighs heavily in the room. I think of Harry Potter movies, Hogwarts after Dumbledore dies, and I am so irritated that a children’s movie would pop up in response to
this adult situation, and then I am aware of the children in all of us who are in the room too.
There is little to do but move. I am so grateful to move in John’s guidance. My body is in a lot of pain. As if I can feel the connections of a community I did not realize I was so connected to being torn from my back.
Manoj speaks in the afternoon. In his voice I feel his loyalty to John. I feel he doesn’t want to speak. I feel none of us want to listen. I feel everyone wants to lay on the floor and cry. I recognize how much I am projecting
my feelings on to everyone now and wonder if it’s because I am trying to imagine connection where it feels there is none. We practice again and I am grateful. In savasana I go somewhere far away.
I thank John before I go, I tell him I needed him to be here this week, and I am so grateful that he came. I tell him that many men have done disappointing things, in the world and in my life, and few of them will stand in their
shame and remain present to the relationships with people who need them. I say this knowing how abandoned many people feel by him, and I am sad that this is my truth when others do not feel supported. I am struck by the
humility in John’s eyes and when he speaks with conviction of his determination to change, I experience these words as carrying truth.
I come home and talk to friends on the phone. Lives are unraveling everywhere. I sense urgency in every voice. I feel no urgency in myself. This discrepancy is mysterious and I recognize that I am blessed to be in the
space I am where I have time to process. How can anyone in the real world take the time to process? This is always the question I have about life.
Day 3.
I wake up with a sense of doom. I feel that Anusara is over. I am surprised by the magnitude of sadness this brings me, as I have had so many complaints about Anusara. It is the pain of witnessing such a violent ending. A
sense of finality fills my body. I arrive at the training. I see John and I feel anxiety. I watch his movements, erratic, I see his eyes darting. I am watching a person in the aftermath of trauma. I want to root his ankles toward
the ground. He speaks in circles, philosophizing and intellectualizing his experience until he is finally oriented enough to speak from his own experience, my chest relaxes a little when he finally arrives in his body. As he
speaks, many words come. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” is all I hear.
Many people speak. Attempts at encouragement. The Brazilians want him to stay! Some want to comfort him with reminders of endings being beginnings – the philosophy he has taught us. I am aware of a delicate
community longing for its leader. And I am aware of a need in myself to stop. I want to stand up and freeze time and say firmly, “ENDINGS ARE BEGINNINGS BUT THEY ARE ALSO ENDINGS. WE HAVE TO STOP NOW
AND LET WHAT HAS ENDED END!”
I see a leader on the stage attempting to comfort a grieving crowd. I think of the exploitation of humanity that is often involved in being a leader. I think of the frustrated sense of powerlessness often involved in being in a
crowd. Again I see the whole world in this room.
We move. We do backbends. I go in and out of being able to feel my body at all.
The afternoon begins with questions. We are all lost. We move again. In savasana I am far away again. John places a chocolate on our mats for Valentine’s day. Another small gesture sure to evoke many different
responses. I imagine a cynical voice saying something like, “what, he thinks he can give us a dove chocolate and we’re going to forgive him!?!” I am surprised to find tears in my eyes again. I feel so humiliated for him.
I come home and look at Facebook. I read a report of 3 days in Miami. I hear nothing of my experience in it. I decide to write.
Day 4.
Today is the strangely euphoric morning following a terrible break-up when my brain saves me with fantasies of single men and no thought of how miserable first dates can be. I open my computer and see a flood of goodbyes.
I hear a common question being asked in each one, “Do I exist without John Friend?” and then I hear a triumphant declaration of, “YES!” I want to jump out of my chair and cheer for so many people claiming their own worth. A
fear has been realized and survival is now known. I imagine a healthy number of people asking themselves next, “Do I even want to teach Yoga?” and this makes me excited too, as I imagine a stream of creative, ambitious
people trickling into the world with the consciousness they’ve gained through their practice. I see them creating funky businesses and rewriting elementary education and working on prison reform and I am so lost in my
fantasies for all the creativity that will come through in our teaching and in our lives that I cannot access my fear about the decent number of disasters that might occur as well. I feel the beginning has begun.
I walk into the workshop late and the room is full. My energy is lifted. I am at a John Friend workshop, a potentially bankrupt John Friend workshop, but a John Friend workshop either way. When I see him smile, I detect fire
and freedom, and when I am in the presence of a person that I have labeled as free, my skin enlivens with excitement and I want to reach my arms to the sky. This is the feeling I have as I read letter after letter of resignation,
and this is the feeling I have now in the presence of the person from whom they have resigned. I am enjoying the bliss and am amazed by how disconnected I feel from anyone’s reality but my own as I practice. “You will be
fine!” I want to sing to the world, “Everyone is going to be just fine!” I am feeling a bit like a crazy person.
Then I remember my flight here from DC, where I sat by a cute military guy who explained he had just finished training in bomb deactivation.
“How was that?” I asked him.
“Everyone came back in one piece,” he smiled. My stomach sank, although he was laughing. He added that he would be leaving for Afghanistan next month.
I recognize why I feel such confidence in the ability we all have to endure, why I feel so determined that we are all so blessed. It’s because we are.
In the afternoon, I listen to John and feel resolution. He says he still wants to go dancing, part of my soul yells, “Hooray!” Another part of me is intimidated by his truth, because it is not mine. I do not want to go dancing. I
want togo home and construct a cocoon out of blankets and wait for my energy to settle back into my bones. I want me to have my truth and him to have his. For a moment it is hard to believe they can both exist in this
single room at the same time. I feel sensitive to the awareness that if I did not know how to give permission to myself to be different from him, I might feel threatened by his freedom.
Day 5.
The morning begins with questions. I am consumed by the group I am in, almost completely unaware of the teacher. Many hands are raised and I feel nervous recognizing how many voices want to be heard and how few ears
want to listen. I want to stretch myself like a net across the room and catch all of the truths that are being tossed out and smashing on the floor. One woman is so filled with passion that she must stand to express her gratitude
and empathy for her teacher. She has also been involved in an affair, she expresses, and knowing John’s mistakes helps her to heal. As she speaks, I experience many things. I see her emotion and I label her as brave, it is
powerful for her to speak her truth and this evokes my respect. I am energized by a fierceness in her, what I imagine is a new determination to defend herself, to assert her right to be. I feel pride in my chest. I also notice that
I am overwhelmed by knowing this information about her without first knowing even her name. It takes me a long time to arrive in my body once I step on to my mat. I long for a steadier container if such depth is going to be
exposed. This is a very familiar longing.
I notice a woman in a wild outfit, and I feel a desire in myself to put on six sweaters. I think of my roommate in DC packing for her trips to Afghanistan, “Uugh, I hate these outfits!” she says as she stuffs more turtlenecks and
baggy dresses into her suitcase, and we laugh as I remind her that she can just borrow my clothes. She feels limited by their culture, and they feel offended by hers. As I watch the woman with the wild clothes demonstrate a
pose, I remind myself that this issue of what women wear is not a light topic. As I watch a man wearing no shirt demonstrate the next pose, I feel peaceful, I do not even notice his lack of clothing at all.
At lunch I look at NPR. “Birth Control: Clash Between Conscience And Society.” I read this headline and remember that the business of women’s bodies is dividing more communities than ours.
All day my hand wants to write. My mind does not agree with this desire it wants to focus on yoga. I feel as though a serpentine force has possessed my fingers and they slither sneakily to my pen whenever I am not
watching. I think of all of the strong voices I have heard in the past four days. I am aware of an energy trying to emerge. I am intrigued by the possibility that through the shattering of our teacher, we have each been broken
open as well, and as I watch what pours out, there is a mysterious, intimidating beauty in all that is fighting its way into the light.
Day 6 .
I wake up early and walk along the ocean. I feel I am floating even as my feet settle into the sand. The rhythm of traveling between these two states creates a sense of peace in my core. I am immersed in gratitude and this
connects me to other blessed moments, I imagine my heart unraveling like ribbon along the shore as I watch them emerge. I remember the sweet spirits of the elementary school kids I worked with briefly in graduate school, the
ones who were labeled as Severely Emotionally Disturbed. I am experiencing a similar sense of awe now, watching the waves come in and out, as I did swinging on the playground with them. For a moment I am back on the
reservation in Montana, noticing the spectacular mountains framing bleak poverty, beauty and pain at the same time. I feel the calm rhythm of my body swinging back and forth.
In the workshop my awareness is deep inside. I see the teacher, I see the community, and my attention is only pulled when I recognize a familiar essence, a portal to other moments of my life.
The teacher demonstrates a handstand. There is no other reason for him to do this than that he wants to do it, I interpret his decision to reflect a wildly independent spirit, and I notice my reaction to this – admiration and
concern. My body knows this feeling in relationship to my wild sisters, and I am watching them with my mom, feeling both admiration and concern. We want to tell them what to do, and we want them to do what they do anyway.
The polarities in our personalities provide a rhythm in which we all get to swing.
For the past three days we are practicing in short cycles. Asana, pause, Pranayama, Meditation, Asana, pause, Pranayama, Meditation - the cycle of one traditional practice is not rhythmic enough now. In my body I feel a
faster beat: Change. Change. Change.
When the teacher finishes his next demo, he stops and looks to a trusted student for feedback. “Tell me,” he requests honestly, “What would be a good thing for me to work on?” The student speaks wisely and with respect.
“And now,” says the teacher, “please tell me more.”
I watch and remember the love of my boyfriend that was only available after he cheated on me and I did not leave. I imagine the worst thing about leaving a person after they hurt you is that you don’t get to experience the love
they offer as they heal in the light of your forgiveness.
We move toward backbends and the teacher offers three options: 3 drop backs with partners, 10 drop backs, or 54 drop backs. I close my eyes and see my teacher Batya with the most hypnotizing drop backs, rocking back
and forth, and I realize that the only way I could do this is if I let my body swing. When the bell rings my hands have patted the floor thirty times and I am trembling. I feel the space in my chest where the time I was not able to
offer my forgiveness to a person who had hurt me lives. I could not offer it because she did not want it. I had to find my forgiveness and return to love on my own. This was one of the loneliest experiences of my life. I let my
hands shake and I breathe.
We cycle back into meditation, I feel my spine being rocked in its circles. I am transported to the Western Montana Mental Health Center where I sit coloring pictures with the woman who rocks in circles. She does this
constantly, because of her medication, spins and spins and spins. I know there is more than medication moving her, though, and she is my favorite person to see. She only colors rainbows, and one day while we are coloring,
after telling me a story about getting thrown out of a car, she pauses and looks at me. “I wish that you had been my babysitter when I was a kid,” she says. As I come back to the room, to my body now, I feel the tears from that
moment in my eyes.
The grand finale is Natarajasana, an opportunity to express all this rhythm with a dance. We watch a demo and then try on our own. The teacher wanders through the room offering his assistance. At one moment I begin to fall,
and I feel his hands, steady, catch my ankle and my arm. “Look up.” He tells me, and my leg ascends toward the sky. I recognize in this moment the support of my dad. I have a clear understanding that in my life; I have never
fallen, because even in his moments of forgetting to care for himself he has never once wavered in his support for me. My body has never so fully embraced this truth.
Natarajasana becomes a teardrop, our teacher explains, representing tears of compassion from God.
Today is the strangely euphoric morning following a terrible break-up when my brain saves me with fantasies of single men and no thought of how miserable first dates can be. I open my computer and see a flood of goodbyes.
I hear a common question being asked in each one, “Do I exist without John Friend?” and then I hear a triumphant declaration of, “YES!” I want to jump out of my chair and cheer for so many people claiming their own worth. A
fear has been realized and survival is now known. I imagine a healthy number of people asking themselves next, “Do I even want to teach Yoga?” and this makes me excited too, as I imagine a stream of creative, ambitious
people trickling into the world with the consciousness they’ve gained through their practice. I see them creating funky businesses and rewriting elementary education and working on prison reform and I am so lost in my
fantasies for all the creativity that will come through in our teaching and in our lives that I cannot access my fear about the decent number of disasters that might occur as well. I feel the beginning has begun.
I walk into the workshop late and the room is full. My energy is lifted. I am at a John Friend workshop, a potentially bankrupt John Friend workshop, but a John Friend workshop either way. When I see him smile, I detect fire
and freedom, and when I am in the presence of a person that I have labeled as free, my skin enlivens with excitement and I want to reach my arms to the sky. This is the feeling I have as I read letter after letter of resignation,
and this is the feeling I have now in the presence of the person from whom they have resigned. I am enjoying the bliss and am amazed by how disconnected I feel from anyone’s reality but my own as I practice. “You will be
fine!” I want to sing to the world, “Everyone is going to be just fine!” I am feeling a bit like a crazy person.
Then I remember my flight here from DC, where I sat by a cute military guy who explained he had just finished training in bomb deactivation.
“How was that?” I asked him.
“Everyone came back in one piece,” he smiled. My stomach sank, although he was laughing. He added that he would be leaving for Afghanistan next month.
I recognize why I feel such confidence in the ability we all have to endure, why I feel so determined that we are all so blessed. It’s because we are.
In the afternoon, I listen to John and feel resolution. He says he still wants to go dancing, part of my soul yells, “Hooray!” Another part of me is intimidated by his truth, because it is not mine. I do not want to go dancing. I
want togo home and construct a cocoon out of blankets and wait for my energy to settle back into my bones. I want me to have my truth and him to have his. For a moment it is hard to believe they can both exist in this
single room at the same time. I feel sensitive to the awareness that if I did not know how to give permission to myself to be different from him, I might feel threatened by his freedom.
Day 5.
The morning begins with questions. I am consumed by the group I am in, almost completely unaware of the teacher. Many hands are raised and I feel nervous recognizing how many voices want to be heard and how few ears
want to listen. I want to stretch myself like a net across the room and catch all of the truths that are being tossed out and smashing on the floor. One woman is so filled with passion that she must stand to express her gratitude
and empathy for her teacher. She has also been involved in an affair, she expresses, and knowing John’s mistakes helps her to heal. As she speaks, I experience many things. I see her emotion and I label her as brave, it is
powerful for her to speak her truth and this evokes my respect. I am energized by a fierceness in her, what I imagine is a new determination to defend herself, to assert her right to be. I feel pride in my chest. I also notice that
I am overwhelmed by knowing this information about her without first knowing even her name. It takes me a long time to arrive in my body once I step on to my mat. I long for a steadier container if such depth is going to be
exposed. This is a very familiar longing.
I notice a woman in a wild outfit, and I feel a desire in myself to put on six sweaters. I think of my roommate in DC packing for her trips to Afghanistan, “Uugh, I hate these outfits!” she says as she stuffs more turtlenecks and
baggy dresses into her suitcase, and we laugh as I remind her that she can just borrow my clothes. She feels limited by their culture, and they feel offended by hers. As I watch the woman with the wild clothes demonstrate a
pose, I remind myself that this issue of what women wear is not a light topic. As I watch a man wearing no shirt demonstrate the next pose, I feel peaceful, I do not even notice his lack of clothing at all.
At lunch I look at NPR. “Birth Control: Clash Between Conscience And Society.” I read this headline and remember that the business of women’s bodies is dividing more communities than ours.
All day my hand wants to write. My mind does not agree with this desire it wants to focus on yoga. I feel as though a serpentine force has possessed my fingers and they slither sneakily to my pen whenever I am not
watching. I think of all of the strong voices I have heard in the past four days. I am aware of an energy trying to emerge. I am intrigued by the possibility that through the shattering of our teacher, we have each been broken
open as well, and as I watch what pours out, there is a mysterious, intimidating beauty in all that is fighting its way into the light.
Day 6 .
I wake up early and walk along the ocean. I feel I am floating even as my feet settle into the sand. The rhythm of traveling between these two states creates a sense of peace in my core. I am immersed in gratitude and this
connects me to other blessed moments, I imagine my heart unraveling like ribbon along the shore as I watch them emerge. I remember the sweet spirits of the elementary school kids I worked with briefly in graduate school, the
ones who were labeled as Severely Emotionally Disturbed. I am experiencing a similar sense of awe now, watching the waves come in and out, as I did swinging on the playground with them. For a moment I am back on the
reservation in Montana, noticing the spectacular mountains framing bleak poverty, beauty and pain at the same time. I feel the calm rhythm of my body swinging back and forth.
In the workshop my awareness is deep inside. I see the teacher, I see the community, and my attention is only pulled when I recognize a familiar essence, a portal to other moments of my life.
The teacher demonstrates a handstand. There is no other reason for him to do this than that he wants to do it, I interpret his decision to reflect a wildly independent spirit, and I notice my reaction to this – admiration and
concern. My body knows this feeling in relationship to my wild sisters, and I am watching them with my mom, feeling both admiration and concern. We want to tell them what to do, and we want them to do what they do anyway.
The polarities in our personalities provide a rhythm in which we all get to swing.
For the past three days we are practicing in short cycles. Asana, pause, Pranayama, Meditation, Asana, pause, Pranayama, Meditation - the cycle of one traditional practice is not rhythmic enough now. In my body I feel a
faster beat: Change. Change. Change.
When the teacher finishes his next demo, he stops and looks to a trusted student for feedback. “Tell me,” he requests honestly, “What would be a good thing for me to work on?” The student speaks wisely and with respect.
“And now,” says the teacher, “please tell me more.”
I watch and remember the love of my boyfriend that was only available after he cheated on me and I did not leave. I imagine the worst thing about leaving a person after they hurt you is that you don’t get to experience the love
they offer as they heal in the light of your forgiveness.
We move toward backbends and the teacher offers three options: 3 drop backs with partners, 10 drop backs, or 54 drop backs. I close my eyes and see my teacher Batya with the most hypnotizing drop backs, rocking back
and forth, and I realize that the only way I could do this is if I let my body swing. When the bell rings my hands have patted the floor thirty times and I am trembling. I feel the space in my chest where the time I was not able to
offer my forgiveness to a person who had hurt me lives. I could not offer it because she did not want it. I had to find my forgiveness and return to love on my own. This was one of the loneliest experiences of my life. I let my
hands shake and I breathe.
We cycle back into meditation, I feel my spine being rocked in its circles. I am transported to the Western Montana Mental Health Center where I sit coloring pictures with the woman who rocks in circles. She does this
constantly, because of her medication, spins and spins and spins. I know there is more than medication moving her, though, and she is my favorite person to see. She only colors rainbows, and one day while we are coloring,
after telling me a story about getting thrown out of a car, she pauses and looks at me. “I wish that you had been my babysitter when I was a kid,” she says. As I come back to the room, to my body now, I feel the tears from that
moment in my eyes.
The grand finale is Natarajasana, an opportunity to express all this rhythm with a dance. We watch a demo and then try on our own. The teacher wanders through the room offering his assistance. At one moment I begin to fall,
and I feel his hands, steady, catch my ankle and my arm. “Look up.” He tells me, and my leg ascends toward the sky. I recognize in this moment the support of my dad. I have a clear understanding that in my life; I have never
fallen, because even in his moments of forgetting to care for himself he has never once wavered in his support for me. My body has never so fully embraced this truth.
Natarajasana becomes a teardrop, our teacher explains, representing tears of compassion from God.
Day 7.
This morning John speaks of order. Pain is not random, he expresses, it is a response to our misalignments. I feel a new sense of trust in his declaration of this truth. I remember hearing him say this before, skepticism in my
mind about what I imagined was confidence that he had it all figured out, that he was so well aligned. I was sometimes confused by how he often seemed happy while speaking of painful things. Now I see consistency. His
eyes are sad when he says “pain,” and they brighten when he speaks of hope.
We move through a powerful and fluid practice. We work in partners for a backbend. My partner witnesses my unfolding and says with surprise, “Wow, this is a happy place for you.” I smile for a moment in agreement, and
then pause, noticing I am confused. “Happy” has not been the word I have ever associated with opening my heart. I am struck by how strange this seems.
A woman near me with a flexible body returns to a backbend on her own as the rest of the room continues to work together. She is beautiful and smiling. John sees her and offers guidance on how to extend her foot toward the
floor, she wobbles, still smiling, and falls. “You have to hold to the midline,” he says, almost as though to himself, and I sense disappointment in his voice. I imagine it he is tired of watching smiling people waver so easily.
And then I realize that is my own feeling, not his.
During Savasana, the stage is set up and a band begins to sing. I remember it is still winter outside of Miami and I feel their songs like benevolent snowflakes dusting kindness on my heart. They sing with the sweetness of a
mountain band and I feel the warmth of a small bar in Glacier Park, full of kind people with lives full of flaws. I miss my home, and I am grateful for this. I recognize that the kindness of the humble people in my community has
somehow influenced me. It’s unfortunate that I spent any of my life looking down on them.
Day 8.
Today is Purna Huti. John explains this as a moment of Culmination. He reminds us that the end of one cycle creates momentum for the next cycle to begin. He expresses his gratitude that this has been the end of his cycle,
before he leaves. “I’ll be in my own darkness for a while now,” he says, and I feel confidence in him to be fine with this. I experience only softness in the room. John’s lips quiver all morning as he speaks. Sometimes he
pauses and they do not stop quivering for a very long time. His presence is so genuine that I wish I could be near him. His kindness so available, I want to sit by him and hold his hand.
We practice a handstand with a partner, the focus is on softening the shoulders and melting the heart. As we balance, I notice how imperfect my partner’s assist is. And I notice that she can be imperfect and I can still melt my
heart.
The workshop today is calm even when it is a challenge. There is no urgency, just a steadiness that says we will be doing this work for a very long time. “Just do your best,” John says several times.
I experience him as being present. I experience his offering as love.
This morning John speaks of order. Pain is not random, he expresses, it is a response to our misalignments. I feel a new sense of trust in his declaration of this truth. I remember hearing him say this before, skepticism in my
mind about what I imagined was confidence that he had it all figured out, that he was so well aligned. I was sometimes confused by how he often seemed happy while speaking of painful things. Now I see consistency. His
eyes are sad when he says “pain,” and they brighten when he speaks of hope.
We move through a powerful and fluid practice. We work in partners for a backbend. My partner witnesses my unfolding and says with surprise, “Wow, this is a happy place for you.” I smile for a moment in agreement, and
then pause, noticing I am confused. “Happy” has not been the word I have ever associated with opening my heart. I am struck by how strange this seems.
A woman near me with a flexible body returns to a backbend on her own as the rest of the room continues to work together. She is beautiful and smiling. John sees her and offers guidance on how to extend her foot toward the
floor, she wobbles, still smiling, and falls. “You have to hold to the midline,” he says, almost as though to himself, and I sense disappointment in his voice. I imagine it he is tired of watching smiling people waver so easily.
And then I realize that is my own feeling, not his.
During Savasana, the stage is set up and a band begins to sing. I remember it is still winter outside of Miami and I feel their songs like benevolent snowflakes dusting kindness on my heart. They sing with the sweetness of a
mountain band and I feel the warmth of a small bar in Glacier Park, full of kind people with lives full of flaws. I miss my home, and I am grateful for this. I recognize that the kindness of the humble people in my community has
somehow influenced me. It’s unfortunate that I spent any of my life looking down on them.
Day 8.
Today is Purna Huti. John explains this as a moment of Culmination. He reminds us that the end of one cycle creates momentum for the next cycle to begin. He expresses his gratitude that this has been the end of his cycle,
before he leaves. “I’ll be in my own darkness for a while now,” he says, and I feel confidence in him to be fine with this. I experience only softness in the room. John’s lips quiver all morning as he speaks. Sometimes he
pauses and they do not stop quivering for a very long time. His presence is so genuine that I wish I could be near him. His kindness so available, I want to sit by him and hold his hand.
We practice a handstand with a partner, the focus is on softening the shoulders and melting the heart. As we balance, I notice how imperfect my partner’s assist is. And I notice that she can be imperfect and I can still melt my
heart.
The workshop today is calm even when it is a challenge. There is no urgency, just a steadiness that says we will be doing this work for a very long time. “Just do your best,” John says several times.
I experience him as being present. I experience his offering as love.
