This afternoon my teacher Diana came up to me before the start of class with a book outstretched in her hand. "I wanted to share a poem with you that I've been reading this week, which has to do with this idea of the teacher looking for the student as much as the student looking for the teacher." She left the book with me and walked away. I read it and felt tears begin to sting my eyes. I felt grateful. The poem is as follows:
Bring the Man to Me:
A Perfect One was traveling through the desert.
He was stretched out around the fire one night
And said to one of his close ones,
"There is a slave loose not far from us.
He escaped today from a cruel master.
His hands are still bound behind his back,
His feet are also shackled.
I can see him right now praying for God’s help.
Go to him.
Ride to that distant hill;
About a hundred feet up and to the right
You will find a small cave.
He is there.
Do not say a single world to him.
Bring the man to me.
God requests that I personally untie his body
And press my lips to his wounds."
The disciple mounts his horse and within two hours
Arrives at the small mountain cave.
The slave sees him coming, the slave looks frightened.
The disciple, on orders not to speak,
Gestures toward the sky, pantomiming:
God saw you in prayer,
Please come with me,
A great Murshid* has used his heart’s divine eye
To know your whereabouts.
The slave cannot believe this story,
And begins to shout at the man and tries to run
But trips from his bindings.
The disciple becomes forced to subdue him.
Think of this picture as they now travel:
The million candles in the sky are lit and singing.
Every particle of existence is a dancing alter
That some mysterious force worships.
The earth is a church floor whereupon
In the middle of a glorious night
Walks a slave, weeping, tied to a rope behind a horse,
With a speechless rider
Taking him toward the unknown.
Several times with all of his might the slave
Tries to break free,
Feeling he is being returned to captivity.
The rider stops, dismounts—brings his eyes
Near the prisoner’s eyes.
A deep kindness there communicates an unbelievable hope.
The rider motions—soon, soon you will be free.
Tears roll down from the rider’s cheeks
In happiness for this man.
Anger, all this fighting and tormenting want,
Mashuq,**
God has seen you and sent a close one.
Mashuq,**
God has seen your heart in prayer
And sent Hafiz.
*Murshid - Persian: teacher
**Mashuq – Persian: sweetheart
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
plankety plank plank
It seems a rash of little breakthroughs is sweeping through yoga school this week. Mine has to do with plank position and, specifically, how this position transitions into chaturanga dandasana. Plank, I'd thought, I was reasonably comfortable in, and I had assumed that my struggles with chaturanga were simply a result of my upper arm strength, or rather, my lack of it. While this is partly true, two simple observations recently have forever changed both of these poses for me!
First, I had not realized that I was not using my legs effectively, or that I was not flexing my feet sufficiently to really activate this pose. Those small changes turned on my abdominals in a way I had never previously engaged them, dramatically changing the pose (and I have the sore abs to show for it). But the big breakthrough was what came next: in order to transition from plank into chaturanga one must shift the position. This might mean shifting the feet significantly forward on the toes, or perhaps moving the position of the hands down, or stepping the feet in, or all of the above-- and that it is OKAY to do this!!
Until I watched my teacher Lisa Mae transition from one pose to the next *without* making these adjustments, I had not realized how awkward it was and how much more difficult I had been making it for myself. It was positively awful to watch. Then she did it again, shifting her feet, and her arms magically aligned and the pose looked effortless. It will not, at this point, look or feel effortless to me, but now I can actually work toward building the strength to be able transition from plank to chaturanga in one straight line because I can now access the pose and the correct alignment. It's amazing! I'm still on my knees for this, but now I can practice the pose and it isn't so frustrating and demoralizing! It's like a whole new world has opened as a result of this tiny change.
It also makes me want to practice chaturanga with this lovely assist, as demonstrated here by the amazing dawn jansen.
First, I had not realized that I was not using my legs effectively, or that I was not flexing my feet sufficiently to really activate this pose. Those small changes turned on my abdominals in a way I had never previously engaged them, dramatically changing the pose (and I have the sore abs to show for it). But the big breakthrough was what came next: in order to transition from plank into chaturanga one must shift the position. This might mean shifting the feet significantly forward on the toes, or perhaps moving the position of the hands down, or stepping the feet in, or all of the above-- and that it is OKAY to do this!!
Until I watched my teacher Lisa Mae transition from one pose to the next *without* making these adjustments, I had not realized how awkward it was and how much more difficult I had been making it for myself. It was positively awful to watch. Then she did it again, shifting her feet, and her arms magically aligned and the pose looked effortless. It will not, at this point, look or feel effortless to me, but now I can actually work toward building the strength to be able transition from plank to chaturanga in one straight line because I can now access the pose and the correct alignment. It's amazing! I'm still on my knees for this, but now I can practice the pose and it isn't so frustrating and demoralizing! It's like a whole new world has opened as a result of this tiny change.
It also makes me want to practice chaturanga with this lovely assist, as demonstrated here by the amazing dawn jansen.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
a poem
I have been thinking about my last entry and the things we do to stay focused on, or, alternatively, get through the moment and it made me think of this poem by Mary Szybist:
Script Says Cry
They look more alert and patient now.
They quiet around me and wait.
I must be frail here, summon the appearance
as it is a cold day, as the curtains are thick with dust—
But I am all interruption.
I arch my back a trifle, my mouth embarrassed and open—
A metal teaspoon slants in a glass cup;
I lean on a chair at the same angle.
I try to hold still. My leaning begins to swoon,
I touch my head with one fingertip, flinch.
I bring my mouth to my shoulder and nudge it.
A handkerchief falls. The moment is still going on,
the lamp at the end of the table is still coating the room
with its expected flush, and the natural heat of my body,
though conscious of great sweetness,
is growing colder as the moment presses closer, against me,
with eyes intent on me. . .
but they are tired of me now.
I look at them more directly than I have for several minutes.
To continue past the moment I say I am thirsty
and continue past the moment.
Script Says Cry
They look more alert and patient now.
They quiet around me and wait.
I must be frail here, summon the appearance
as it is a cold day, as the curtains are thick with dust—
But I am all interruption.
I arch my back a trifle, my mouth embarrassed and open—
A metal teaspoon slants in a glass cup;
I lean on a chair at the same angle.
I try to hold still. My leaning begins to swoon,
I touch my head with one fingertip, flinch.
I bring my mouth to my shoulder and nudge it.
A handkerchief falls. The moment is still going on,
the lamp at the end of the table is still coating the room
with its expected flush, and the natural heat of my body,
though conscious of great sweetness,
is growing colder as the moment presses closer, against me,
with eyes intent on me. . .
but they are tired of me now.
I look at them more directly than I have for several minutes.
To continue past the moment I say I am thirsty
and continue past the moment.
Friday, January 21, 2011
pranayama
This week we have been asked to consider the practice of pranayama. In my time on this earth there have only been a few nuggets of wisdom that I've found I could consistently rely upon. The first was "this too shall pass." I found this was important to remember, whether something good was unfolding, or something terrible had just occurred. When I was 19 I experienced a succession of deaths, including an open casket funeral for an 18 year old, having never experienced death before, not even of a pet. It was a difficult year. But to arrive at a place where I could remind myself that this, too, would pass, I had to be able to have the presence of mind to arrive there.
More than anything, over the course of my life, remembering to breathe and to look up, often, has saved me from completely losing my mind. I won't say it's like meditation, but perhaps it is a little bit like a magic spell, once invoked, that creates a little space and a bit of freedom in an otherwise overcrowded landscape populated with deeply unruly thoughts and emotions. Breathe and look up. It's so simple, really. But it helps. Noticing that it helped eventually led me to discover other kinds of breathwork. In yoga, I was consistently introduced to ujjayi breathing, which helped me to stay focused and present while I was practicing. Yoga practice also introduced me to kapalabhati, or skull shining breath, which produced a different effect. I became curious. There are many traditions that employ breathwork as a means of effecting change, gaining focus, moving further toward liberation. I have encountered some breath practices that produce radical, and sometimes unsettling, effects.
Of course, I do not always remember my breath. It is a continual effort to remain conscious of it, in much the same way that it is a continual effort to become and remain aware of my bodily tensions and to consciously work toward undoing them. Often, when I am physically struggling with a pose, the breath is the first thing to go. It's not that I don't breath. I do. But my attention withdraws from it and I am no longer conscious of my doing it. My presence in my own practice changes as a result. When I can stay with my breath, I am more present. And the more often I am present in this fashion, the more I find it crosses over into other aspects of my life, generally to my benefit.
Which brings me to my last little nugget, which is, perhaps, only a synthesis of the two that have come before: "This is happening." For several months, now, "this is happening" has been a sort of silent personal mantra. I am so easily compelled to try to look forward to the future or to attempt to make sense of the past, which decidedly brings me further and further away from the present. This, right now, in this moment, in my body, in my breath, in this space, is happening. It's sort of the mantra equivalent of breathing and looking up. If I can stay focused there, I can't spin out into some dramatic emotional overload (or some other kind of psychic spin out).
Given these experiences, it seems clear to me that one's state of mind, of being, is directly linked to one's relationship to the breath and the mindfulness attached to that. Like everything else in yoga school, it is clear to me that I still have a long way to go and much to learn, but furthering my knowledge of and experience with pranayama practices is possibly one of the most beneficial aspects of this particular adventure.
More than anything, over the course of my life, remembering to breathe and to look up, often, has saved me from completely losing my mind. I won't say it's like meditation, but perhaps it is a little bit like a magic spell, once invoked, that creates a little space and a bit of freedom in an otherwise overcrowded landscape populated with deeply unruly thoughts and emotions. Breathe and look up. It's so simple, really. But it helps. Noticing that it helped eventually led me to discover other kinds of breathwork. In yoga, I was consistently introduced to ujjayi breathing, which helped me to stay focused and present while I was practicing. Yoga practice also introduced me to kapalabhati, or skull shining breath, which produced a different effect. I became curious. There are many traditions that employ breathwork as a means of effecting change, gaining focus, moving further toward liberation. I have encountered some breath practices that produce radical, and sometimes unsettling, effects.
Of course, I do not always remember my breath. It is a continual effort to remain conscious of it, in much the same way that it is a continual effort to become and remain aware of my bodily tensions and to consciously work toward undoing them. Often, when I am physically struggling with a pose, the breath is the first thing to go. It's not that I don't breath. I do. But my attention withdraws from it and I am no longer conscious of my doing it. My presence in my own practice changes as a result. When I can stay with my breath, I am more present. And the more often I am present in this fashion, the more I find it crosses over into other aspects of my life, generally to my benefit.
Which brings me to my last little nugget, which is, perhaps, only a synthesis of the two that have come before: "This is happening." For several months, now, "this is happening" has been a sort of silent personal mantra. I am so easily compelled to try to look forward to the future or to attempt to make sense of the past, which decidedly brings me further and further away from the present. This, right now, in this moment, in my body, in my breath, in this space, is happening. It's sort of the mantra equivalent of breathing and looking up. If I can stay focused there, I can't spin out into some dramatic emotional overload (or some other kind of psychic spin out).
Given these experiences, it seems clear to me that one's state of mind, of being, is directly linked to one's relationship to the breath and the mindfulness attached to that. Like everything else in yoga school, it is clear to me that I still have a long way to go and much to learn, but furthering my knowledge of and experience with pranayama practices is possibly one of the most beneficial aspects of this particular adventure.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
yoga
Last night was my first night of yoga school and we were asked to comment on what "yoga" means to each of us. Continually, as we exchanged words around the room, I saw a chorus of nodding heads. "Yes," we seemed to say, "I recognize that, too." It was strange to feel that, perhaps, I truly had just been dropped into the middle of a real community.
On the one hand, this seems obvious. Here were some twenty individuals gathered together with a common purpose. Naturally, we would find common ground among us. But it also felt like more than that. As we shared with each other over the course of the evening, we learned that most of us had spent some time struggling, experienced perhaps enough grief and loss to push us to find a better way to deal with such things. We each found ourselves practicing yoga because it brought some measure of peace to our lives. In which ways this time proved therapeutic or healing varied in their specifics according to the individual addressing the question, but each of us found that our lives had been dramatically improved when we consistently engaged in the practice of yoga.
So, we sat together, holding space with and for each other, because something had called each of us there and was directing us to walk this path at this time. I took a long look around the room, noting that each of us seemed to stare at the others with a bit of wonder. The unspoken question perhaps, "Could it be that we are really not quite so alone?" Of course there are innumerable differences between us, but there was such a spirit of deep humanness and respect, and the sense that each of us aspired to be more fearless and more kind.
As for what yoga means to me, I know that I have spent a lot of time in recent years thinking about the ideas of love and surrender. I have dedicated a lot of energy toward my fierce attempt to walk through the world with an open heart. At times, I think this has left me too open. At other times, I think I have not yet opened enough. It's a delicate balance, I think, and I've certainly not mastered it. I know there is something to this idea of devotion, the act of and willingness to commit to something, to surrender to something, that is beyond the self. In this regard, I think that yoga has already taught me a lot about how to hold open the necessary space in which the heart can do its work. I think I have much still to learn.
For the first time in a long time I feel I am in exactly the right place and doing exactly the right thing. I am committed to walking this path and discovering where it leads. I don't know that I can say the same about anything else in my life right now.
On the one hand, this seems obvious. Here were some twenty individuals gathered together with a common purpose. Naturally, we would find common ground among us. But it also felt like more than that. As we shared with each other over the course of the evening, we learned that most of us had spent some time struggling, experienced perhaps enough grief and loss to push us to find a better way to deal with such things. We each found ourselves practicing yoga because it brought some measure of peace to our lives. In which ways this time proved therapeutic or healing varied in their specifics according to the individual addressing the question, but each of us found that our lives had been dramatically improved when we consistently engaged in the practice of yoga.
So, we sat together, holding space with and for each other, because something had called each of us there and was directing us to walk this path at this time. I took a long look around the room, noting that each of us seemed to stare at the others with a bit of wonder. The unspoken question perhaps, "Could it be that we are really not quite so alone?" Of course there are innumerable differences between us, but there was such a spirit of deep humanness and respect, and the sense that each of us aspired to be more fearless and more kind.
As for what yoga means to me, I know that I have spent a lot of time in recent years thinking about the ideas of love and surrender. I have dedicated a lot of energy toward my fierce attempt to walk through the world with an open heart. At times, I think this has left me too open. At other times, I think I have not yet opened enough. It's a delicate balance, I think, and I've certainly not mastered it. I know there is something to this idea of devotion, the act of and willingness to commit to something, to surrender to something, that is beyond the self. In this regard, I think that yoga has already taught me a lot about how to hold open the necessary space in which the heart can do its work. I think I have much still to learn.
For the first time in a long time I feel I am in exactly the right place and doing exactly the right thing. I am committed to walking this path and discovering where it leads. I don't know that I can say the same about anything else in my life right now.
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