Emma Magenta Blog - To Move and Be Moved

On Teaching: Nice vs. Kind (or Backing Away from the Bitch from Hell)

2011-10-25T17:31:00.003-04:00

Back in high school, somebody called me a bitch from hell. (Probably because I was.) When the comment got back to me, I was embarrassed. “Bitch from hell” was not what I was going for. I resolved to be nicer. Later, in my twenties, I was a new yoga teacher, lacking in confidence and longing to be liked. I pumped out nice by the gallon. My classes grew.

After a couple of years, I decided all this niceness was utterly insupportable. The inauthentic nature of my niceness was wearing on me. I was sick of it! I decided I had been babying my students. I turned off being nice and I turned on…something else. If I had a bad day, I’d show it. If one of my students seemed disturbed by the way I spoke to her, that was her problem—she needed to face her shit! During this era of my teaching, I often received feedback that included the words “drill sergeant” and “Nazi”. My classes were PACKED.

Here’s the problem: I didn’t go into teaching to arrogantly boss people around (although that has been a fabulous perk. Kidding!) And I didn’t go into teaching yoga to be liked. (Oh, all right. Maybe I did, a little, at the beginning. Okay, A LOT, at the beginning. Cut me a break, I was 23.) Way down, underneath overtly manipulative bossiness and the covertly manipulative niceness, was a desire to make a difference for people. At this point I’d met John Friend and I had a name for what I wanted to do. I wanted to serve.

And the nasty approach was not serving. I’ll relate just one incident here. I snapped at a student for asking me to turn on the air conditioning. (“OKAY, you don’t have to CRY about it!”) I thought she was whiny. She got up and left. After class I called her to apologize. She told me she appreciated my apology, but that she could never take my class again. I thought about it, and you know what? I wouldn’t take my class again either. Who wants to be snapped at by their yoga teacher? Enough friction exists outside the yoga studio. Enough friction arises within you on the mat. And enough friction exists between you and your yoga teacher (thought bubble: “how much longer are we gonna hold this? Enough about shri—I want savasana!”) without the teacher being needlessly rude to you.

Newsflash: indifference, disrespect, and sarcasm are not empowering. Sadly, people who are used to indifference, disrespect, and sarcasm feel right at home with this approach, regardless of whether or not it actually works for them. Are there teachers out there who are interpersonally skilled enough to use negative energy with JUST the right person at JUST the right moment in JUST the right way to create an awakening in the student? Maybe. But you know what? I’m not that teacher. I’m not doing anybody any favors by being rude. I’m not teaching someone a special life lesson about how “the real guru is within you”. I’m not “being a mirror” and reflecting their essence back to them. I’m being self-indulgent and ineffective.

“Manners are an economy,” writes Henry James, and if our primary intention is to serve, superfluous nastiness is not economical. Nor is being ingratiating out of a need to be liked. It’s far more effective to be KIND. Kindness is going slow enough and being clear enough that people can truly understand. Kindness is making a genuine effort to see the good intentions behind unskillful words or actions. Kindness is patient. It takes the high road. It makes the inevitable friction of life and yoga a little more bearable. When I’m kind, treating my students respectfully and revealing deeper truths to them are the same thing.

Does this mean that I never snap at my students? No. I am human and I snap. It DOES mean that I no longer justify snapping at my students. Does this mean that when I DO snap at my students, that I feel really guilty about it? No. Guilt sucks. I just clean it up by apologizing if necessary. Does this mean I’m inauthentic? No. When I’m having a horrible day, I acknowledge it to myself and to my loved ones. But when I step into the classroom, I try my best to set aside my day and embody the wider vision of my role as the yoga teacher.

I am sure there are tons of yoga teachers out there who do not struggle with these issues, who understand from the get-go that the whole point is kindness. I am not that wise. The bitch from hell inside me says, “Ten years of teaching and ‘be kind’ is one of your greatest insights? How lame are you?” I’d like to tell her to STFU, but she needs kindness too. And that’s the great lesson. When I finally realized that the way to treat my students was kindness, I realized that was how I had to treat myself too. Not bullying. Not babying. Kindness.

12 Reasons I Love Having Men in Yoga Class

2011-08-03T23:34:00.007-04:00

I am a feminist and was raised by a feminist. In my teens, I immersed myself in Simone de Beauvoir and Susan Faludi (this made me a real hit in the high school lunchroom in Manhattan, Kansas). I attended a women’s college and wholeheartedly embraced the perspective that our society is patriarchal and misogynistic. Then in my early twenties, I discovered Anusara yoga, and learned a new way to think about masculinity and femininity. I discovered that gender identity could be sacred and unifying instead of degrading and divisive.

Today’s post is in praise of the masculine. Dudes are usually a minority in yoga class, and it takes real courage to step up to the plate of an activity that can be encoded feminine in modern America. So here’s to the fellas—this is why I love ya!

Male energy tends to be grounding in an adult yoga class.
Men tend to be bigger and denser with greater muscle mass. When there are more men in my class, the room gets warm faster. More heat raises shakti—we all get buzzed.
Men tend to sweat more, so the room gets humid faster. A little more moisture in the air makes the breath move more easily for all of us.
Men aren’t afraid to breathe loudly and even pant with effort. Establishing deep, full breathing is one of my first priorities for my students, and hearing even one person breathe freely makes it safe for others to do so. It doesn’t have to be a fancy pranayama technique, either! Just deep, free, audible breathing.
Men expect physical activity to be physical. First-timers in yoga class may be surprised by how intense it is, but they don’t resent it—they put their shoulder to the wheel and hearts into their labor.
Men are generally less self-conscious, and more comfortable with the burping, sweating, farting, coughing that comes with the territory in life and in yoga.
Men are generally not afraid of partner work. When they are uncomfortable with it, it’s for chivalrous reasons—they don’t want to sweat all over a female partner, or they notice that the woman is apprehensive about partnering with a man.
Men are often stronger and bigger than women, so once they’re trained, they give great assists!
On the other side, assisting a big guy gives you the chance to get really good at partner work. For example, my pals Julissa Carranza and Kristinn Sigridarson co-create the Anjali Clothing line. Julissa’s pretty average in size, but Kristinn is a big, tall Viking dude. They usually partner together and she handles her hubby like a champion. Julissa’s assists are fantastic because she’s used to working with a big partner.
Two women partnering smile at each other and get down to business. Two men partnering shake hands and introduce themselves. So civilized!
Baritones during the Invocation add a whole other color to the spectrum of a chord.
More men in yoga = world peace!

I love seeing Life’s ferocity and tenderness in unexpected places. I love seeing a soft maternal woman claw the floor fiercely, and I love seeing a big tough guy melt his heart in a backbend. Yoga dudes, thanks for showing me your softness—it inspires me to embody my strength.

Wanderlust Demystified

2011-05-17T16:15:00.009-04:00

The latest dialogue between me and my bestie, Certified Anusara teacher Bernadette Birney

Em: Hey Bern, our anniversary is coming up.

Bern: What anniversary? The anniversary of me injuring myself, and several innocent bystanders, while hula hooping last year?

Em: No, the anniversary of our first meeting! We should get together this summer and renew our vows at Wanderlust.

Bern: Oh, I love it! In the interest of demystifying Wanderlust for our readers, can we talk about the fact that this summer there are two Anusara events coordinated around Wanderlust? Are you as exuberantly dorked out as I am?

Em: Yeah, that is pretty exciting. Why don’t you explain what Wanderlust is, in case any of our readers have been doing prolonged stints in ashrams, or living under rocks?

Bern: Ha! Good idea. Wanderlust is a festival bringing some of the world’s best yoga together with some of the world’s best musicians in crazy, breathtakingly beautiful natural settings. This year there are two dedicated Anusara events built around Wanderlust. One is for licensed teachers in Tahoe at the end of July, and one is for EVERYONE in Vermont coming up soon at the end of June.

Em: So, in addition to the Anusara classes being presented during the actual festival, there are also dedicated Anusara events, on both coasts, preceding the festivals. There’s the Inspired Gathering just for Anusara teachers on the West Coast, and The Anusara Grand Circle on the East Coast.

Bern: I’m over the moon to have John Friend on the East Coast. I’ll travel to see him any day, but it feels downright luxurious to have him on both coasts this summer. I love the thought of not having to get on a plane, and just being able to hop in the car. How delicious is it to drive to the mountains, spend Summer Solstice at The Grand Circle, practicing yoga outdoors, and hanging out around the campfire?

Em: It’s going to be such a massive love-fest in Vermont. Some of my very best memories in Anusara yoga are from big communal gatherings like the Grand Circle. It’s so, so sweet to be with our teacher AND our students.

Bern: Agreed. I also love that we’ll be outside, and not in some convention center. That makes it magical.

Em: Yeah, usually we spend the day together practicing and then everyone goes separate ways in the evening. The cool thing about The Grand Circle is that it’s a festival, so we’ll still be together at night, enjoying great music, dancing, and breaking bread with students and teachers we love.

Bern: I’ll pass on the bread; I don’t do gluten. Poolside cocktails, however, have my name written all over them.

Em: I don’t doubt it. You gotta bring your hula hoop—hooping goes great with cocktails!

Bern: I won’t make that mistake again. Okay, so that’s The Grand Circle. Let’s tell them a little bit about The Inspired Gathering in Tahoe now.

Em: Well, I think it is FABULOUS that there’s going to be a Gathering focused on Anusara Inspired teachers, because I was one for many years. There are way more Inspired teachers than Certified teachers. They do so, so much to bring Anusara yoga to people all over the world, often teaching in communities or settings where there are no other Anusara teachers. They need to be celebrated!

Bern: They sure do. Also, I consider these gatherings to be staff meetings for Anusara yoga ® teachers; John really wants us there, so I make it a point to try to go. This year’s intermingling of Certified and Inspired Teachers will be especially fabulous. Do you know that when I got Certified, one of the things I was most excited about was to finally find out for myself what happened at the Certified Teacher’s Gatherings? I thought maybe I would learn a secret loop or spiral!

Em: No way, so did I! I always fantasized that it would be midnight revels and campfire singalongs, and this year it actually is.

Bern: You’re so funny. Remember, we first met and fell in love at one of those teacher gatherings.

Em: How could I forget? It’s one of the very best things about Anusara events—you find out there’s a whole world of kindred spirits out there.

Bern: Yup. Sometimes you just gotta wander a little bit to find them.

Untouchable

2011-02-09T21:28:00.038-05:00

nainam chindanti sastrani

nainam dahati pavakah

na caiman kledayantyapo

na sosayati matutah

I found out about my grapefruit-sized ovarian cyst in August. At the time, I was viscerally terrified of "going under the knife". To my relief, my doctors decided to wait for some other medical issues to resolve first. Six months later, I went to the ER in terrible pain, and it became clear that we couldn't wait anymore. I went home to collect my things and sleep before my surgery, and turned to one of my favorite books, Paths to God by Ram Dass.

Ram Dass was once a Harvard Sociology professor named Richard Alpert. Then he dropped a LOT of acid with Timothy Leary and discovered that he liked the experience of altered consciousness. Later he discovered that yoga and spirituality brought him to an even more expansive state. He acquired a guru, left/was fired from his teaching position, and embarked on a very different life from the one his parents originally mapped out for him.

I love reading Ram Dass for his humility, his humor, his authenticity, his lack of pretense. He is a passionate mystic, yet he came from the same milieu that I live in now: a comfortable suburb of a major American city. Dick Alpert was “one of us”, a well-educated, middle-class, conventional person, who evolved into something…different. Just like my students, who are mostly householders with traditional vocations, evolving through yoga.

Paths to God is a sort of Bhagavad Gita study guide. One anecdote in this book particularly speaks to me. Ram Dass explains that his mother and father had a tradition of exchanging a single red rose on their anniversary. On the day of his mother's funeral, her casket was covered in roses, and as they wheeled it past the family pew, a single red rose fell at his father's feet. Ram Dass says that his whole family, normally very conservative and “uptight”, agreed that their mother had sent their father one last rose. It’s a very beautiful moment.

Then everybody gets really concerned with how they’re going to preserve the rose. Ram Dass describes its journey: his father contacts a company who seals the rose in some kind of material that is guaranteed to preserve it forever. But it doesn’t quite work and after a few years, the rose starts to disintegrate. Then his father remarries and the rose gets hidden away. Ram Dass rescues it from the attic and keeps on his puja for a few years. Finally he moves and it gets lost in the shuffle.

You know this Helen Keller quote? “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched—they must be felt with the heart.” Lovely, yes? I don't quite align with this because she uses a superlative; I think of spirit and matter as being on the same spectrum, rather than in a hierarchy. The material world has plenty of beauty and goodness in it (other people, ripe peaches, sunsets, cherry blossoms, Kandinsky paintings, Hatha yoga), and it’s not a competition. But I love the quote anyway, because it points to the idea that this world is more than what you can see and touch. The “more” isn't better. But yeah, it’s more.

In Ram Dass's story, his father loses sight of/falls out of touch with the more. Preserving the rose was a totally unsatisfactory attempt to preserve something unseen, untouchable: the connection of the heart in that marriage.

After my surgery, I thought a lot about what had happened to the material of my body. It had been cut open, the muscles of my abdomen had been clamped back, my ovary had been removed from the body and cut open, the sides of the ovary had been peeled back away from the cyst, then the ovary had been stitched back up, re-inserted, then all those other tissues had been stitched up with layers and layers of stitches. All the while drugs that are normally illegal were fed into my bloodstream through a tube in my arm, and a machine did my breathing for me. The material of my body went through a horrible, horrible trauma.

I thought a lot about these things, and I thought about this beautiful passage from the Bhagavad Gita.

Know that that by which all this universe
Is pervaded is indeed indestructible.
…
Weapons do not pierce it,
Fire does not burn it,
Water does not wet it,
Nor does the wind cause it to wither.
…
This is eternal, all pervading, fixed;
This is unmoving and primeval.

There are some things that the surgeon’s knife can’t touch. There's a part of this universe, a part of you and me, that is beyond injury, illness, decay, or death. Untouchable, except by the heart.

Patti Freakin' LuPone

2011-01-20T22:55:00.017-05:00

I came late to my love of theater. Scratch that--technically I fell in love at Nichols Theater on the campus of Kansas State University in 1992. The show was called Bent. Let me briefly summarize that amazing show: gay men in concentration camp. I am surprised, in retrospect, that the administration allowed Bent to be staged; Kansas in the early '90s was petrie dish for a particularly virulent form of social conservatism. As a 15 year-old I hardly knew what gay was (though I later realized that "gay" explained every single one of my high school boyfriends), but I was utterly rapt, tears streaming down my face through the entire second act of the show. I can't remember who took me, but they were kind and did not make a big deal about my sobbing and nose-blowing, which continued long after the curtain went down.

I went home and tried to convey to my father something of the spirit of the show, why it had moved me to tears. My parents had dutifully taken me to four or five dull operatic or symphonic performances a year at K-State's McCain Auditorium all through my childhood, and none of them had ever elicited a reaction like this. My at-the-time-slightly-homophobic-but-now-not father was baffled by the intensity of my absorption in the story, my compassion for the characters. I'm pretty sure my parents thought I was a lesbian for a while. It didn't help that I kept bringing home gay guys and saying they were my boyfriends.

Fast forward through fifteen years of complete lack of interest in theater. Chris got us tickets to see Gypsy on Broadway starring Patti LuPone. I didn't know who she was, other than an actress who had appeared on Will & Grace. I didn't know what Gypsy was, or who Stephen Sondheim was. Can you believe I didn't know who Sondheim was? (If you're into musical theater, you're SHOCKED, and if not you're thinking, "Who?") How immeasurably richer my life is, now that I "know" Stephen Sondheim!

Chris says of that show that the actors got half way through it before they really started bringing the heat. I don't remember thinking that. I just remember staring at the stage, holding my breath, and alternately losing myself in the emotion of the performance and marveling at the amazing technique of the performers. Patti LuPone took my breath away. There's no other way to describe it. Her voice, her gorgeous face (at age 60ish!), her amazing ability to convey emotion, her VOICE! When she did "Rose's Turn" and staggered around the stage, I was transfixed with horror.

For those of you as ignorant as I was about Broadway, here's one half of what you have to know about Patti LuPone: she is an AMAZING singer. Truly. Yes, people make fun of her diction, but they make fun of it in the way that they complain about the length of James Joyce's Ulysses. It's a valid comment but everybody knows it in no way detracts from the amazing genius of the work.

Here's a fun little clip from early in La LuPone's career. She is singing a song from the musical Evita (which Madonna butchered horribly--don't ever watch anything from the Madonna Evita). I don't know very much about music or singing or theater, but this song seems really complex; it is a rush of words and very intricate notes that are all over the scale. I actually don't like the song (in fact, I'm not a fan of Evita or Andrew Lloyd Weber), but I love her performance: it's muscular (literally! notice the muscles of her throat working) and yet totally organic.

Here's the other half of what you have to know about Patti: she is, in my opinion, an even better actress than she is a singer. With pipes like hers, she could have spent her whole life honing her singing craft, wearing boring outfits, standing in the middle of a stage in front of a mike stand or putting out albums. But she didn't--when she went to Juilliard, she joined the Drama department. She spent four years getting serious training there and then went on the road with Juilliard's travelling company for four more years.

By the time she landed her breakout role as Evita, she was already a very seasoned actress. As amazing as the "Buenos Aires" performance is vocally, it is even more amazing to watch her face and her eyes and her gestures. Her eyes literally flash, she flirts with the camera, she shimmies her shoulders with delight. She makes a very interesting gesture at :33; it's a more spontaneous version of the stylized gestures the character of Evita makes later in the show.

Check out this clip of her doing "Don't Cry for Me Argentina" at the 1980 Grammies. She is wearing a truly horrible '80s dress and hairstyle and yet her incredible Mediterranean beauty is undiminished. The bizarrely poofy white folds of her gown become a frame for those eyes, those lips, those teeth! She uses them, the tools of her craft, to communicate things about the character that are beyond words. In this particular performance, what's most moving is what happens when she's NOT singing. A consummate actress, she actually brings herself to tears. (For contrast, go to youtube and check out Elaine Paige's extremely adept, yet passionless version of the same song.)

The clip starts out kind of in the middle of the first verse (sorry). First verse, second verse, chorus. All very nice, great singing, great acting. I love that when she violently shakes her head at "I never invited them in" her voice doesn't waver at all. Third verse, partial chorus, musical interlude.

During the interlude (which is very beautiful), the camera cuts away, probably because it's the Grammies, and they're there to film music, not acting. I hate the camera for doing that. You can bet that whatever was playing across her face at that moment was worth catching. Especially because then, when the camera comes back to her face for the third chorus, you see the tears pooling below her eyes.

The performance she gives in the final moments of the song is a tour de force of power and vulnerability.

When she comes back in, she is almost hysterical. Her voice cracks the perfect amount; enough to show you she is moved, but not enough to actually compromise the quality of the tone. It reminds me of aged goat cheese or old stained glass or a really good red wine or sunbeams cascading through dense forest. It sounds like something clean and pure filtered through something darker. Watch her put a lid on the feeling after the "there's nothing more I can think of to say to you" line, even as the flutes trill. Then she lets it out again for the last line, not only through the mature, womanly timbre of her voice, but in the passionate spontaneity of her stylized gestures. She ends the number with her head bowed in surrender, but her arms raised in triumph, a perfect embodiment of Evita's arrogance and humility.

Then her fingers curl, her arms drop, she smiles and bows. She's no longer Eva Peron, she's Patti LuPone from Long Island. She gets a huge standing ovation from a crowd of jaded music industry types. She has utterly seduced them, just as she seduced me when I saw her in Gypsy, 30 years later.

Atonement

2010-12-13T23:19:00.006-05:00

At-one-ment. You rip the fabric of the universe, then stitch it back together.

Check out my friend's blog about her amazing little boy.

On Anusara Yoga and Tantra

2010-11-24T22:49:00.003-05:00

Check out my recent collaboration with my bestie Bernadette Birney at Elephant Journal, an online yoga magazine! Offer your comments/questions, if you are so inspired.

On Teaching: Observing John

2010-11-18T09:12:00.010-05:00

Recently I attended Anusara founder John Friend's Weekend Workshop in Bryn Athyn, PA. I've been to many of John's events as a student, and when I became a teacher in 2001, I made a practice of observing him.

In the early years of observing, I watched the students. I wanted to see how they reacted to John's words. This is a great practice: I particularly remember looking around at my first observation, and seeing that all 150 students were embodying cobra pose impeccably with nary an alignment instruction. That was a great lesson for me about the power of theme. By looking at the students when John talks, you see where his eye goes, who he adjusts, when he chooses a demo. You see how Anusara yoga's UPAs build on each other to create poses of stability and joy. You see inspiration, discipline, breakthroughs. The students become more and more illuminated over the course of the workshop, until finally it's like watching 400 individual flames.

Then I mostly watched my notebook for a few years, frantically transcribing every word that came out of John's mouth. This is also a great practice. John is an extremely adept communicator, and as my pen inscribed his exact verbiage in my notebook, his words deeply imprinted my consciousness. Because I made a practice for many years of exactly transcribing what John said, I can now convey the Universal truths I learned from him with a fluency and nuance that is my own. Transcription hasn't made me a John parrot--it's made me an effective channel for my own particular brand of Spirit.

These days, when I observe, I just watch John.

The thing is, I'm almost 20 years younger than my teacher. He won't be around forever. And I could be hit by a bus tomorrow! I want to watch him while I can. I'm not necessarily the most focussed yogi (to read the writings of a seriously focussed yogi, go to Christina Sell's beautiful blog), but I'm able to observe John with an intensity that actually surprises me. I find a spot with a clear line of sight. I set up my seat: blanket, notebook, water bottle. Then, I fix my beady eyes on the dude with the white hair.

He may think I am creepy as a serial killer! I doubt it, though. Great teachers are great students, and I bet John closely observed his teachers too.

Each time I observe, I come away with something new, and this workshop addressed a question I've had for years: how does John stay so inspired? I can't speak for him, but I've always figured that he stays inspired through his own connection to Spirit, his sadhana, the legacy and spirit of his teachers. This weekend I saw something else: he stays inspired through US. John LOVES teaching yoga, and he LOVES the students! As he teaches, he often appears absolutely ecstatic. Sometimes he is measured, patient, contemplative. Other times he sports a wide, open-mouthed grin, raises his eyebrows, and nods his head with delight.

I know this cycle of studentship will repeat over and over. As long as John Friend is teaching yoga, I'll be observing his class. I might be staring at John, I might be scribbling in my notebook, or I might be watching YOU. No matter what, I'll be inspired.

Vesselifying

2010-10-20T23:21:00.000-04:00

Last week, at the Level 2 Teacher Training we had in NJ, Amy Ippoliti and Ross Rayburn joked about "vesselifying": training ourselves to be vessels for the transmission of yoga. Ross described how he recently taught a 650-person class in South Korea. He said that when he stepped up to teach, he was briefly shaken by the size of the audience. What did he do? He fell back on his training, and allowed that to communicate the theme. "From the feet (wait for translation), draw power up the legs (wait for translation) and into the pelvis (wait for translation). Then extend back out from the pelvis (translation) down through the legs (translation) into the earth (translation)."

Our training as Certified Anusara teachers is exquisite. It is rooted in a long lineage, framed by a structure of Principles, honed by long practice, sustained by sincere devotion to spirit, highly refined by feedback from our peers, and illuminated by the consciousness of Anusara founder John Friend, who taught us all. When the pressure is on, I turn to my training and wait. Training primes the pump.

Then, on good days, something wild happens.

My colleague Noah Maze describes teaching the Bhagavad Gita as an experience of possession. This captures some of the flavor of stepping to the front of the room, feeling the support of your training, and then feeling SOMETHING ELSE rise up like a tsunami behind your training, overwhelming and roaring through it. It’s something vast, benevolent, nuanced, electric, intoxicating. Your skin prickles, eyes open in the back of your head, your muscles release, your skin ripples like an animal's.

Let’s just call this SOMETHING ELSE "IT". It doesn't happen every class. It can happen to greater and lesser degrees. I don't know for sure when it's going to happen. I've improved at invoking it over time. I'm afraid of losing it. Watch IT kick in for Art Garfunkel in this video as he performs Bridge Over Troubled Water at the 1981 Concert in Central Park.

When Art steps up to the microphone, he is slightly hesitant, tentative. There’s a slight strain in his eyes and around his mouth. "When you're weary...feeling small." He looks small. Feet together. At the beginning of a yoga class, things are in flux and you don't know if your instrument is going to perform. You don't know if the vessel is going to come together, or if it is going to make an appearance.

500,000 people were at that concert (including my brother-in-law Michael, who has never recovered). The pressure is on, but Art knows how to handle pressure. He starts slow. He falls back on his training. He’s Art Garfunkel, for crissakes, and when he "falls back on his training" he sounds absolutely beautiful. But his delivery is a little mannered, heady. It’s not present; not yet.

The shift happens at 1:30. You see it!

At 1:30, Art takes hold of the microphone to sing "I will lay me down" and the energy of the moment coalesces. Something comes out of his eyes; it's the gleam of it moving through the vessel. At 1:36, the break after the first verse, he steps back and you see the result: he’s pleased. The gleam in his eye sharpens, because now he knows he has it in hand. Or rather, he knows it has him in hand. You see his intellect catch up with the experience of what's just happened. You see his human mind realize and revel in the possession he's just experienced; you see the realization dawn that he is absolutely going to slay the rest of the song.

From then on, Art’s training is not a foundation or a formula, but a supple, responsive mechanism for expressing Spirit. It comes alive. It pulsates, shimmers with significance and the potent ability to move us. Look at Art’s expression at 3:00. It's the face of a Master reveling in his art. Now not only does IT have him; he has IT. His gaze is a funny combination of gentle and penetrating. It is the gaze of someone fully in the flow. It is not unlike the gaze of my girl Julie D's cat in the picture at right.

I'm no Art Garfunkel. However, with all humility, I really identify with him when I watch this performance. To have strong training, to feel the pressure, to step up to the plate, then to perform your best—what a rush. To have the goods and to deliver. Watch Art’s reaction at 4:28, at the end of the song. He pumps his fist. The emotion is so high. It abides in the Master, fully in the stream of his art.

Jocks, Nerds, and Drama Geeks

2010-10-09T22:21:00.000-04:00

My pal/hero Christina Sell jokes that Anusara yogis generally fall into one of three categories: Mystic, Engineer, or Athlete. You can read it in her own words on her wonderful blog.

Last week I was tweeting that "a good theme is a map for how to get from your physical form to the subtlest, highest energies of the universe. Or vice versa." Our yoga allows us to perceive that the mundane stuff that we can see, touch, and sort of understand is also the sacred stuff that is subtle, invisible, and beyond all understanding. And vice versa.

Here, I've mapped it all out for you in the chart below.

The Three Great Energies of Consciousness	Iccha	Jnana	Kriya
Anusara's 3 As	Attitude	Alignment	Action
Bhagavad Gita's Paths of Yoga	Bhakti	Jnana	Karma
Christina's Types of Anusara Yogis	Mystic	Engineer	Athlete
High School Cliques	Drama Geek	Nerd	Jock

Deep, no?

On Teaching: Themes are Easier!

2010-10-04T19:04:00.001-04:00

Q: Why do we use themes in Anusara Yoga?
A: Teaching with a theme is just easier.

Okay, okay. I know what you're thinking. "What do you mean, easier? Themes are the most challenging part of my teaching and the hardest part to improve!" I hear this a lot from teachers I mentor. If that's you, I totally understand. Developing, delivering, and wielding a good theme is the most challenging part of my teaching too.

I think of a theme as a complex instrument that can either be used crudely or with great refinement. I've delivered meaningful, moving, beautiful themes at the beginning of class and then found myself utterly unable to render them effectively during asana. On those days, it's as if I've carved a very elaborate, refined sculpture and then picked it up by the base and used it as a club.

On rare days, I simply do not have a theme: I didn't plan ahead, I’m uninspired, and I got nothin'. Those days…are rough. Sometimes I bring in a great theme, but I haven't fully considered it and it falls flat. There are times when I put a great deal of thought and effort into a theme that does not mesh well with either the sequence, or the students, or my mood. On the other hand, sometimes what I think is a lame duck theme transforms, swan-like, into an amazing inspiration in the context of the class.

I recently tweeted, "A good theme connects the dots between an easily-relatable anecdote and the highest, subtlest virtues of the Universe. Or vice versa." That's a tall order! And you have maybe five minutes to set it up at the beginning of your class!

It’s a challenge, but consider this: the presentation of a theme is one of your first opportunities to help your students Open to Grace. Open to Grace is Anusara Yoga's First Principle, and it contains all other Principles within it. When you're truly O2G, your foundation is strong and resilient, your inner body is bright, and your outer body is soft. If the theme is rich with meaning and you deliver it effectively, the students' inner bodies naturally expand with joy, wonder, strength, faith, and love. Because their inner bodies are bright, their form is effortlessly in alignment with the flow of Life. You don't need a lot of alignment instructions. Your words will have created First Principle in your students without you teaching a single pose.

Without a theme to help create an Opening to Grace, our elegant alignment principles are brittle, wooden. It takes a flood of very detailed alignment principles to even come close to what happens when a Being Opens to Grace. On the few occasions in my teaching career that I've taught without a theme, I've been utterly exhausted by the end of class. I just can't give enough instructions to make up for the lack of inspiration.

Yes, good theming is hard. And in my opinion, it's not hard like math or social studies is hard. It's hard like finding your life's purpose is hard. Or having faith in a time of darkness is hard. Or loving a person who is driving you crazy is hard. However, while it may be hard to know your life's purpose, it's even harder to live a purposeless life. It may be hard to have faith in a time of darkness, but it's harder to navigate darkness without faith. It's hard to love people who drive us crazy, but it's crazy to live without love. Themes are challenging, but we use them because they channel the blazing mystery at the heart of Life. That mystery is the source of yoga's transformative, alchemical power.

You get me now? Teaching with a theme is just easier.

Some Useful Definitions

2010-09-19T13:37:00.001-04:00

Anu
orderly
methodically
repeatedly
with

because of
in service of
alongside
again

subject to
according to
following
after

Sara
Strength, power, energy, flow.

The pith or marrow or cream or heart;
the best of anything, the essential part.

"Sound" (like an argument, thoroughly proved).
A rhetorical climax. Resin used as perfume.

A chess piece. An ally. A confederate prince.
The real meaning. The main point. Nectar. Quintessence.

Quintessence
1: the essence of a thing in its purest and most concentrated form.

2: the fifth and highest element in ancient and medieval philosophy,
that permeates all nature and composes heavenly bodies.

Anusara
Methodically sound.
Alongside an ally.
Following the fragrance.
In service of the flow.
In accordance with the quintessence.

After the real meaning?
Again, the essential:
Because of the heart.

[Sources:]
http://sanskritdocuments.org/dict/
http://spokensanskrit.de/

Dignity and Humility

2010-09-01T09:57:00.000-04:00

Lord knows, this life is full of undignified experiences.

At one of the spectrum are minor affronts to dignity. A rainstorm ruins your clothes. You pass gas in yoga class. You lock your keys in the car. Moving along the spectrum: you bounce a check. You have a fender-bender. You get sick. You get audited. Further along: you lose your job. You need emergency surgery. You get divorced. And further: someone you love dies. You suffer a long, painful battle with an incurable disease. You lose your home. You lose your mind. You're incarcerated. The greatest indignities, at the far end of the spectrum, involve assault, violence, war, enslavement, rape, murder, mutilation, torture.

The Latin root of the word indignity means "unworthy". When we suffer an indignity, our self-worth is challenged. Our boundaries are crossed. Our wholeness is diminished.

While life is full of indignities, Life itself has an innate, uncompromising Dignity. Life has a deep order, a sequence, a pattern. DNA and the Periodic Table are examples of Life’s stately, measured progression. Fibonacci numbers are another great example. (Don’t ask me to explain Fibonacci numbers. I can only understand them very slightly on days when I am very smart.)

YOU have an innate, uncompromising Dignity. Here's how you know: some experiences make you feel beloved, powerful, and whole. Some make you feel worthless, powerless, and broken. Dignity helps you discern which is which. Dignity tells you when the integrity of your Being is compromised. It is the longing to embody the world's order and beauty. It is part of the impulse to thrive.

Humor is helpful in handling life's minor indignities. But some affronts are so grave that they cannot be laughed at. How do we integrate inexplicable, painful, degrading, demoralizing experiences?

Paradoxically, humility restores dignity.

Humility comes from the Latin root "humus", which means earth or soil. In the Jewish faith, one way to "rekosher" a utensil is to thrust it into the earth. The earth cleanses and sanctifies--that's why we put our dead there.

Cultivating humility means acknowledging our earthiness. We acknowledge that we are matter as well as spirit. We honor our tender mortality. We cherish our flesh, even knowing that it can be torn and ruptured. We acknowledge our limitations, material and spiritual. We cherish the moment. We cherish the seemingly-small gifts of the universe, of embodiment: the touch of the earth. The warmth of the sun. A smile. A memory. The intimacy of our own flesh. Perhaps the kindness of strangers.

The thing is, Life beats the crap out of us. She breathes us till She's done. She uses up our tender bodies. This isn't a mistake or a miscalculation! Life knows what She’s doing. We are not sullied by the indignities we experience, and our humanity is not diminished. She knows that we're not made LESS by experience. We're made MORE.

Her finest offerings can’t be tasted in an ivory tower. And I’m not gonna sit out the game because I’m afraid to lose.

Heartbreak

2010-08-08T21:38:00.001-04:00

Some heartbreak prepares us to do better the next time.

"I couldn't make that relationship work."

"I lost all that money."

"I trusted someone and she hurt me."

"I should have left years ago."

"I didn't get the job."

"I lost the baby."

"I didn't get to say goodbye."

You know how people say that in life there are no second chances? Nonsense. Next time someone says that to you, nod politely and walk away. Are you breathing? You've got a second chance.

Grace happens when you think you're out of second chances.

Cynicism vs Doubt

2010-08-03T18:08:00.000-04:00

Let’s begin with a very useful idea: adult spirituality. This is a concept I learned from meditation teacher Paul Muller-Ortega. Child spirituality is marked by the belief in the infallibility of a teacher, leader, or parent (“Does My Teacher even go to the bathroom?”). Adolescent spirituality is flavored by the conflict between attraction to the teachings and resentment of the human qualities of the teacher (“I heard My Teacher eats meat. How un-yogic!”). Adult spirituality honors the divinity of the teachings and the humanity of the teacher. Adult spirituality recognizes that someone doesn't have to be a deity, a perfected being, to teach you meaningful lessons about the nature of life. In fact, the WAY the universe teaches us is through the complex, multi-faceted, mortal human beings we find around us.

Cynicism is a feature of adolescent spirituality. Doubt is a feature of adult spirituality.

What do I mean by that?

Merriam-Webster defines cynicism: "An attitude of scornful or jaded negativity, especially a general distrust of the integrity or professed motives of others." I love the word jaded. It means, "made dull by surfeit or experience".

In my experience, distrust is learned. Life in the womb encourages trust; baby gets everything it needs from the mother via mechanisms it knows nothing about. Distrust comes later. Your needs aren’t met as an infant or a child. One day, or maybe repeatedly, a parent, teacher, or coach lets you down or belittles you. At some point you learn the word “hypocrisy” and recognize it in the adults around you. Maybe later in life, you are disappointed in love. You learn what it is to disappoint yourself. The buffeting winds of Life extinguish your belief in Her fundamental beauty and promise. You feel that only a fool would continue to believe in Love/other people/Life/himself/Spirit/Goodness. You’re suspicious of anyone espousing the idea that Life is Good.

In this life, I have goals. I want to live a meaningful life. I want to be of service. If I talk optimistically in yoga class, it’s not because I am optimistic by nature. No, by nature I am cynical and maudlin. But I am also pragmatic, and cynicism is a lousy strategy for living a meaningful life. Is it easier for me to practice faith, meaning, and trust in other people’s intentions? HELL, NO. There are times when it is as painful emotionally as Hanumanasana is physically. But it’s more EFFECTIVE. I am a better wife/friend/daughter/teacher when I do this. I serve better. And I’m happier. Amazingly, after 10 years of Anusara yoga, I can say that I am improving! I’m a better practitioner of faith and trust.

Why am I getting better at it? In part, because my teachers have always encouraged me to doubt. Last year on retreat, Paul explained that there will be times when we doubt the validity of our practices and our path. I leaned over to my wise friend Cindy Lusk and whispered, “I can’t imaging ever doubting this! How can this not be true? It all makes so much sense.” Cindy looked at me and said, “Wait five minutes.” Sure enough, five minutes later I was looking around the room and thinking, “who are all these people? Why am I at this hippie resort in the middle of the desert? Do I really believe that this Universe is an explosion of a Divine Consciousness that takes the form of everything around us, including myself? I wonder what’s for dinner.”

Doubt can be a blossom or a root of faith. Paul says doubt takes you deeper. John Friend has always encouraged us to do our own research, to explore and discover on our own terms. In doubting yourself, your teachers, your practice, your beliefs, you are forced to ask: what’s really important? What really works? Whose teachings are truly addressing what’s in my heart? There have been times when I felt disappointed by my teachers. But in serious, intimate adult relationships, we sometimes feel disappointed. What’s more important is that I’ve also been inspired, delighted, fulfilled, informed, loved, respected, and allowed the space to grow.

As I’ve grown, I’ve learned the difference between cynicism and doubt. Even when I doubt these human beings, I love and respect them. These days, I never doubt that they care for me. I never doubt their sincerity. I know they mean what they say. I know they are trying as hard they can to use the brief span of time they are allotted to love me and make my life more meaningful. In the case of my yoga teachers, I know they’re doing this for countless other lucky people.

What’s the opposite of cynicism? Optimism? Sincerity? Trust? Faith? Whatever it is, my teachers have always extended it to me.

Thanks, guys.

Continence

2010-07-13T10:00:00.000-04:00

Brahmacharya is one of the five yamas, or ethical precepts, set forth in Patanjali's Yoga Sutra. Sometimes yogis translate it as celibacy. Sometimes we translate it as continence. It's generally understood to apply to the realm of sexuality. The etymology of the word is way more open to interpretation: Brahma is a Hindu deity representing the creative force of the universe. Charya means "to be followed." Sometimes yogis render brahmacharya as conduct like God.

Anusara Yoga is rooted in Tantric philosophy, so I favor the continence interpretation over the celibacy or abstinence interpretation. Continence doesn't mean that you NEVER go to the bathroom, or NEVER have sex, you just choose the proper context. As adults, it's up to us to figure out what proper is. If you WANT to urinate in church, or sleep with everybody in your small circle of friends, you are welcome to do so. Of course, there's this little thing called karma, which, to put it extremely simply, is just the idea that actions create effects. If you throw a stone in the water, ripples move out. Peeing in church and dating indiscriminately create ripples that you might not ultimately enjoy.

There's an implication with brahmacharya that it's not just sexual energy that should be contained, but sexual fluids (tejas in Sanskrit). Certain yoga texts indicate that containment builds power; these fluids are a very potent essence of life, and by containing them, the yogi builds his/her potency. To me, brahmacharya represents more than just sexual continence; it also means energetic, emotional continence. Through yoga we learn, literally, to contain ourselves.

I love to sing, and many years ago I took a workshop with brilliant singing teacher Claude Stein. I have a fair amount of baggage around singing, and I spent a lot of the weekend crying. Each participant prepared a song to share, and I brought a song about a letter. There's a painful episode in my life concerning some letters, so when I started to sing, all my singing issues combined with some tough memories, and tears overwhelmed me. I couldn't sing. Claude looked at me and said, "Sometimes you gotta hold something back or you can't go forward." He had me pick a different song. "If you can't hold it, you're not ready to sing that one yet."

Holding builds power. Inability to hold disperses power. I remember the first time I heard John Friend ask us to remain silent after a partner pose and simply feel the aftermath. We all nodded, full of good intentions, and then bbbuuuuzzzZZZZZZZ! after the pose we were so excited we could not help but burst into chatter. When shakti rises, it's very hard not to laugh, sigh, talk, look around, fidget, yawn, jump up and move around, etc. Nothin' wrong with this--but as yogis, we want stay steady; we want to be able to savor and wield the shakti we build up through practice.

This steadiness is in the very first line of our Anusara Invocation. Om Namah Shivaya Gurave. Gurave means the teacher, but also THE HEAVY one. The dense one. Like butter: rich, dense, heavy, self-contained. Not that cream isn't delightful, and we cultivate fluidity too. But the very first quality we list when we describe the great Power that coalesces to form the Universe (other than the fact that "shiva" literally means auspicious) is heaviness. Shiva doesn't dilute the Universe into existence. He consolidates. Creates a border. Contains.

Unmindful withholding can build power in a dangerous way. You bottle up your feelings and they explode. You never process a painful episode so it rules your life. Our yoga is always about knowing the full spectrum of experience so that you have options, so that you can navigate reality skillfully. So we can't talk about withholding without talking about release, offering, surrender.

A couple of years after I met Claude, my big sister asked me to give a toast at her wedding. My sister is an accomplished, glamorous woman, and she got married in a beautiful, swanky NYC venue in front of 200 people. I have a real love/hate relationship with attention (I love attention! But not too much, and not the wrong kind), and I was petrified about this toast. I stayed up late practicing it the night before. My sister's now-husband jokingly asked her if she wanted to preview my toast. She declined, but I was thinking, "Shouldn't someone be checking this homework before I turn it in?"

Well, when I started giving the toast, everyone started laughing at the first line. It's always good to open with a joke, so this shouldn't have been a problem, except for the fact that I was not intending to be funny. I had to re-start the toast 3-4 times, and every time, everybody roared with laughter. So that was kind of unnerving, but I kept going. Toward the end of the toast, when I got to this part about coming to know my sister in a new way, I started crying. My voice wobbled horribly, and I couldn't stop the tears. I paused and considered my options. I could: 1. leave the stage. 2. turn around so that nobody could see me crying. 3. let the tears flow and just speak as clearly as I could. I went with #3, and when I looked around the room, I saw that nobody was laughing anymore. They were listening intently and some of them were tearing up too.

I've taught 10-14 yoga classes a week for ten years. 10 years x 52 weeks x 12 yoga classes: I've taught 6,240 yoga classes in my life. But the three-minute speech I gave at my sister's wedding was the most satisfying, effective, and powerful public speaking I've ever done. The combination of holding and letting go was a potent one that I try, try, try to recreate when I teach.

Philosopher Ken Wilber says that as we get more adept at Awakening, we cry MORE. We feel more. But our vessel also gets stronger, so that even as we are moved more deeply by Life's small showings of beauty, suffering, tenderness, we are be able to hold those experiences more strongly. We are moved more and unmoored less. How does this happen? We get better and better at continence. We keep our own counsel when necessary. We choose our words carefully. And when we can't hold back anymore, and our eyes well up, we steady our voices and sing through the tears.

Tejas

2010-07-13T09:37:00.000-04:00

The blade of a knife.

The tip of a flame.

Brilliance.

Fire.

The essence of desire.

Flower Poem

2010-07-08T10:09:00.001-04:00

If there's one flower left

By God

I'll sit down beside it and

Inhale

If there are no flowers left

As long as

I'm breathing

I'll remember

The Oil Spill

2010-07-03T22:09:00.001-04:00

This week I did a lot of looking at the disaster in the Gulf and, frankly, weeping. The clips of the animals, the hot-fudge sauce texture of the water, the constant billow of petroleum on the live cams, the ineptness of BP, the callousness of the BP CEO, the bitterness of the locals, the world-wide fury, grief, and feeling of helplessness... What a horrible situation. That hole is a festering bullet wound in our Beloved Mother Earth.

Here in America, petroleum allows us to sit in climate-controlled rooms, wearing finely-woven garments, eating whatever we want, surrounded by nice furnishings, fiddling on our computers, watching TV, preserving our skin with creams, wearing makeup. Petroleum allows us to educate our children, travel around the world in a day, build dwellings and structures of unbelievable complexity, travel off our planet to other realms. And yet when we go to the gas station, we never have to actually look at the gasoline. We roll up the windows to avoid the horrible smell. Who wants to look at petroleum? Who wants to look directly at the sun? Energy that potent burns our eyes.

We modern first-world humans like to think of ourselves as somehow separate from nature. You can spend the whole day indoors without ever touching soil, sniffing the wind, or seeing a tree. Mother Earth gives us everything--even the power to escape awareness of our dependency on her. Although we drive modern cars, wear modern clothes and live in modern houses, the energy that powers our lives is a primeval black gunk that we pull out of the ground. We delve deep beneath Earth's surface to extract this dark, potent, poisonous potion. We use it to extend our reach into every corner of our planet and into the heavens. We use it to extend our reach back down into the darkness of Mother Earth to extract more darkly potent magic potion. J.K. Rowling couldn't make this stuff up!

What makes the magic of this potion so powerful? As I wrote in a previous post: Dead creatures from long ago! "Fossil fuels are fuels formed by natural resources such as anaerobic decomposition of buried dead organisms." (Wikipedia.) Fossil fuel is very old, concentrated, liquidized death. Now, let me spell something out: Death, from the point of view of the yogi (and many spiritual masters), is not a Bad Thing. You may or may not know that most yoga classes conclude with a pose called savasana, in which you recline full length on the floor. Savasana means "corpse pose", and it's pretty much universal in all types of hatha yoga. We're all doing it: laying down and taking the form of a corpse. Why do we do this? Why do yogis cultivate a practice of acknowledging death, even to go so far as to take the form of death?

Because yogis take the premise that immortal, infinite Spirit chooses to coalesce into finite packets of space and time to create our human lives. We're given the opportunity to experience the infinite through a finite body and make of our lives what we choose. Acknowledging our mortality is bittersweet, and yet yogis understand that acknowledging it is a good strategy for living. Awareness of mortality has the power to clarify priorities like nothing else. Awareness of mortality instills a healthy reverence for the fundamental cycles of life on Earth. Instead of ignoring death, we bring it out and treat it respectfully as a part of ourselves. Hindus respectfully address the annihilating, transformative power of the universe by the name Kali.

Petroleum, to me, has many Kali-like associations. It's dark, powerful, potent, dangerous, deep. Let me explain a little about Kali, if you don't already know her name. She is a Hindu deity associated with the destructive/alchemical nature of time. Here are some awe-full descriptions of how she rolls from two texts, the Tantrasara and the Kali Tantra, both of which I found in a book called Tantric Visions of the Divine Feminine by David Kinsley.

"She is completely naked, and her body gleams with blood that is smeared all over it from the garland of bleeding severed heads around her neck. Her ear ornaments are the corpses of children." "She is like a mountain of collyrium (a dark substance), and her abode is in the cremation ground. She has three red eyes, her hair is disheveled, and she is awful to look at because of her emaciated body. In her left hand she holds a jar full of liquor mixed with meat, and in her right hand she holds a freshly severed head. She is eating raw flesh, she is naked, her limbs are adorned with ornaments, she is drunk on wine, and she smiles. ...She makes a loud, laughing sound, is very dreadful, but bestows the desires of the aspirant."

That last bit, about bestowing the desires of the aspirant, is interesting. You know what they say about answered prayers! Our culture's prayers have been answered, in a fashion, by fossil fuels. We've accessed power beyond our wildest dreams. But having power doesn't mean you know how to use in in a life-affirming way. This is something we work with a lot as Anusara yogis. We cultivate power: strength of heart and body, fortitude, clarity of vision, the ability to manifest our desires. But that power has to serve a greater vision than our individual desires. In the epic poems of India, the deities and the demons are all adept yogis--they're all potent and powerful. Being a yogi doesn't make you a decent person (trust me on this). It makes you a powerful one. What differentiates a demon from a deity is to what end s/he wields his/her power. Who cares if you can do sirsasana if you can't be kind to your intimates?

So look: as Americans, or inhabitants of the first world, we have been granted the boon of power on a scale unheard of in any other epoch of human history. However, we don't really know what the heck to do with it or how to manage it. We've invested the energy unlocked by the use of fossil fuels in a completely unsustainable infrastructure that has damaged our planet.

This mis-management of power happens on a microcosmic scale for each of us in our own human hearts. Personally, I avoided, and still sometimes avoid, my own darkness for many years. I never wanted, and still sometimes do not want, to acknowledge my anger, shame, insecurity, hurt or fear. So, of course those things fester/ed in my heart and leak/ed out in the form of irritability, anxiety, depression. When I'm not acting in the highest, I re-invest the energy of my darker feelings in my darker feelings. However, one of the promises of yoga is that through the practice, we are able to confront our darkest feelings, bring them out into the light, and use their power to create beauty, bring love, express art, establish peace, etc. Types of yoga that are based on Tantric philosophy, like Anusara yoga, are particularly likely to emphasize the idea that your dark places aren't EVIL. They're just dark! Kali isn't evil, petroleum isn't evil, our emotions aren't evil. These things are powerful, and the key issue is how we respond to them and roll with them.

So how can we respond to the darkness? What's our dharma in this horrible situation in the Gulf? What's our duty to life? Novelist and blogger Cherie Priest has some excellent suggestions about specific political and financial steps to take: http://www.cheriepriest.com/2010/06/04/things-you-can-do-about-the-oil-spill/. As a yoga student, I offer a reminder that while the darkness is powerful, so is the Light! A central tenet of Anusara Yoga is that however dark things get, that's how light they can be. However low, that's how high. However mundane or even profane, that's how sacred.

So now, let us slip through a portal. Cross a threshold. Turn on a pivot. Let us turn from Kali to Lakshmi.

Lakshmi is a Hindu deity associated with beauty, auspiciousness, and good fortune. If Kali is associated with the burning, blinding sun, Lakshmi is associated with the cooling, romantic moon. Her skin is coral. She wears a red sari. She is beautiful, and beautifully adorned. She carries lotuses, her outstretched palms drip coins. Lakshmi also promises power, bestows boons, and smiles. But unlike Kali, Lakshmi promises SAFETY. Stability. Reliability. Happy lives going on happily. She's often associated with, and invoked by, royal power. Her other name, Shri, literally means auspicious.

Lakshmi is the glistening promise of Life fulfilled. These last few days in New Jersey have been high summer; the edges of the leaves are gilded with sunshine. The succulence and abundance of the flowers is overwhelming. The sky is a perfect crystalline blue with fluffy white clouds. All weekend, the nights brought brilliant, sparkling fireworks that delighted the eyes with a different kind of magic than that of petroleum. It's been a succession of bright blessed days and dark sacred nights. The abundance of this season reminds me that despite the horrors in the Gulf, life goes on. Kids play, people have barbeque. People enjoy fireworks, as they have since the 12th century.

We are free to refuse the gift of Life's beauty. And sometimes, in the face of horror, injustice, suffering, brutality, it's tempting to turn your face to the wall. Ever met an activist who was utterly unable to appreciate the moment because s/he was so troubled by the presence of injustice elsewhere? Here's a fictional example: Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar. Mary Magdalene is bathing Christ's feet and face with ointment, and Judas shrieks:

"Your fine ointment,
Brand new and expensive,
Should have been saved for the poor.
Why has it been wasted?
We could have raised maybe
Three hundred silver pieces or more.
People who are hungry,
People who are starving,
Matter more than your feet and hair!"

Jesus snaps back:
"Surely you're not saying
We have the resources
To save the poor from their lot?
There will be poor always
Pathetically struggling.
Look at the good things you've got!
Think while you still have me,
Move while you still see me.
You'll be lost,
You'll be so sorry
When I'm gone."

This truth is universal, and acknowledged by sages from widely disparate locations in space and time: Life's horror and injustice are always present. If we wait until the last bit of horror is banished to savor our blessings, we will, (paraphrasing Thoreau) when we come to die, discover that we have not lived! I personally believe that part of MY dharma, and probably yours too, is to see and savor life's beauty. Humans who are able to see and cherish beauty are happier, healthier, and better able to respond in the highest way to any circumstance. Let us honor Life's beauty, which she freely offers to us. Savor beauty while you call your congresswo/man, write a check, drive to the Gulf to wash pelicans, organize petitions, change your driving habits, etc. Because this planet is still beautiful. Flowers still blossom, people still love you, children around the world still play goofy games, and fireworks are still gorgeous on the 4th of July.

Death

2010-04-05T19:10:00.001-04:00

Death. The elephant in the room.

I'm interested in death. What happens to us when we die? What's it going to feel like to die? How am I going to feel when I'm older, like (God willing) 70 or 80 and I am face to face with the reality that not only AM I going to die, it is going to happen SOONER rather than later? I remember being maybe 11, thinking about how I was going to die, that even if I was reincarnated I would never come back as the exact same me, and crying. I don't cry anymore, but I think about it.

I don't think my interest in death is odd, but when I try to talk about it in my yoga classes, things always get sort of, um, uncomfortable. To me, death is a topic that says, "Pay attention. This is serious." and when people talk about death I get focussed. Maybe not animated, but my ears prick up for sure, because I do believe that profound lessons may be gained from contemplation and experience of death. When I use death or darker themes in yoga class, I'm never sure if my students are pricking up their ears or thinking, "Darkness again--what a drag!", or "Jeez, can't she do a class on lila?" I wish I were more into teaching about lila and shri, but I'm not. As meditation teacher Paul Muller-Ortega says, "we've all walked in darkness", and that's what I tend to think about and teach about.

So now it's April. Easter. The Resurrection! What does a person seriously interested in contemplating darkness contemplate in the season of Triumphant Uprising? The roots.

My thoughts go a little something like this:

"Green buds on all the trees. Look at those flowering shrubs! New Jersey looks best in the springtime. Everyone looks good under a magnolia tree. Gee, where does all the beautiful abundance come from? From the earth! What's in the earth? Well, soil. What's soil made of? Well, minerals, and rocks, and, um, dirt, I guess. Yeah, but soil feels ALIVE. What's in it that makes it so potent? Well, THE BONES OF OUR ANCESTORS! And the ancestors of all the other plants and critters who have walked the earth before us!"

The potency of the soil is actually the terrible, overwhelming potency of death; the potency of death to create new life. I find this line of thinking delightful, reassuring, and interesting. Here's part of why: because I know intellectually, and perhaps now after many years of yoga and study, kinetically, that life always rises anew. Not in the same form; as my colleague and friend Christina Sell says, "we can be sure if we are walking a path that invokes Consciousness, we are not going to stay the same." This is what is scary. Maybe we're still around, but we sure as hell aren't the same. And change is scary enough when it involves technology, or the passing of time, or the change of administration, or moving, or transitions of life; it is even scarier when it involves THE BIG transition, from a human perspective. (One of the Big Two: 1. Enter Stage Left, and 2. Exit Stage Right.)

Recently I was describing the five acts of Shiva to my students. For brevity's sake, I'll stick to three of them: creation, maintenance, and destruction. I recently learned that "creation" and "destruction" do not quite give the right flavor of the words in their original Sanskrit. The word that often gets translated as "creation", shrishti, is more accurately translated as "letting go" or "casting out". The word "emanation" is also probably closer. The actual root of shrishti is "srj", to let go, to pour forth, to cast out, and I can't help noticing that if i were to pronounce "srj" it would sound a lot like "surge".

Similarly, the word for "destruction", samhara, is better translated as "withdrawal", or "reabsorbtion". Nothing gets destroyed--it is withdrawn. The mental picture I get is of a very talented yo-yoer. Have you ever seen a really talented yo-yo artist? I can't think of what else to call them (yoyotheletes? yoyokers? yoyartists? whatever.)

Shiva sends the yoyo out: shrishti. He pulls it back: samhara. He's not only a yogi, not only the erotic ascetic, not only the trickster and the gambler and the dancer, he's the yoyo master. Good times!

Things pulsate, right? We take that as a fundamental premise of yoga. Things pulsate between up and down, in and out, birth and death. In the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, Sogyal Rinpoche points out that the only thing we really have is NOW. Because in the next second, whatever was NOW is gone, is different. Our human idea of temporality is a human idea, it is an idea that creates our reality. Time is a creation of Shiva; his essential nature is eternal, but he creates, he emanates space and time and all of us who occupy it. We spend a lot of time mulling over the past and rushing toward the future. This focus on past and future creates anxiety. When you're truly in the moment, you're not worried about the past or the future.

Let's turn to another great sage: the Dog Whisperer. Cesar Millan is a man of many insights into the nature of reality. It just goes to show that if you penetrate anything deeply enough, you end up a yogi. Cesar recently had a rescue dog on his show named Howie. Howie's original owner had put a cord around his neck when he was a puppy and had not removed the cord as he grew. By the time Howie arrived at the Animal Hospital, he had a two-inch gash all around his neck where the cord has eaten away his flesh.

The lovely ladies who ran the animal hospital told Cesar that Howie was a real sweetie, but that he had a loud bark and tended to use it around strangers. He was also obviously a skittish dog. Cesar asked the ladies about Howie's behavior on walks and they said they were afraid to walk him for fear that his bark would get him into trouble. Cesar explained that even though Howie had been scarred by his past, he was capable of enjoying a walk in the present! Cesar got a leash on him, walked him in the park, and Howie immedately perked up and had a wonderful time. Animals are better than humans at living in the moment, so they don't suffer from existential angst about the inevitability of death.

Joseph Campbell relates a fantastic story of an Indian sage sitting by a river. As he watches the water, a beautiful pregnant woman emerges and steps onto the bank. Time seems to speed up, and he watches her deliver her child on the bank, put it to her bosom, and begin to nurse it. Suddenly her face grows horrible and congested, she sprouts fangs, and she devours her baby. Whoa!

I think the story is saying that life and death are entwined, that fertility is the ground of decay is the ground of fertility, that nature is red in tooth and claw. Red equals blood equals violence, but red equals blood equals LIFE. One of Shiva's earliest names is Rudra, the Howler. According to Professor Douglas Brooks, there's actually a very dim, far-off linguistic association between our word "red" and the name Rudra. The deity known as Rudra, the Howler, the Ruddy One, the Ferocious One, came to be known as Shiva, whose very name means "auspicious", "benevolent", "kind", "blissful".

All of which is to say: this Universe is Loving beyond all dualities of love/hate, Good beyond all dualities of good/bad, and Alive beyond all dualities of life/death. Death is coming, and the more we get comfortable with it, the more adept we get at savoring Life's juiciness in every moment.

Doing and Being Done

2009-11-26T10:09:00.000-05:00

The verbal root of shakti is "sak", to be able.

Saw this amazing talk on TED.com yesterday from Elizabeth Gilbert, who was saying that the idea that the individual is the source of genius is not helpful to artists or creative people. She explained that the ancient Greeks had the idea of a daimon that helped artists, something OUTSIDE yourself that was the source of your creativity. In Rome, daimon morphed into something that actually was called a genius. She shared two moving examples of artists: Ruth Stone, a poet, and Tom Waits, the songwriter, who both came to view their creativity as being external. I heard Neil Young say the same thing the other night on Charlie Rose: He described his songwriting talent as a gift. He's not saying anything comes through him or speaks through him, but when he gets an idea for a song, he stops whatever he's doing ("I'd leave this table right now if it struck me") and goes to catch it. He might be away 5 minutes or 2 hours. He says of that inspiration, "that's the boss". He says that if you don't catch it, it's gone. He says it's not respectful to ignore it when it comes--listening to that something is what got him where he is. Charlie concluded the interview by asking, "what's your goal in music now?" Neil says, "my goal is to listen for the source. My goal is to be there, to be ready."

This is a really cool idea for yogis to explore. We start from idea that universe is one undifferentiated, infinite, eternal conscious being. We can't say it's a field of consciousness, because fields have edges. All we can say is that it is a being. Because that's what it does--it "BEs". As I say to my students, "It IS and it loves to BE." It is alive and it exists and it loves being alive and existing. We call that BEing SHIVA.

We take the premise that this great, undifferentiated BEing chooses out of its own free will (and the infinite possibilities present for it) to "step down" into form, to manifest. To differentiate, which is to say, to take on a bunch of different forms. It actually chooses to hide a part of itself from itself. This may sound odd, but in fact, as human beings we do this every day. I can think of one example just off the top of my head from someone else; my brother in law wrote this play called Fat Selfish Bastard all about his struggles with dieting and food. He describes an epiphany in which he realizes that he had eaten a disgusting piece of pizza in three bites to HIDE it from himself. We all hide things from ourselves. One of my favorite things to do is to pretend I don't know what time it is when I am doing something I really enjoy, like writing in my blog. What Shiva does is more like if you were to hide money in your pocket so that you could find it later, or if you put an extra chocolate bar in the freezer so that later you can stumble upon it and be delighted.

Which answers the following question: why would this powerful, infinite, eternal BEing choose to manifest, anyway? For the same reason you cook your food with spices, or go skiing, or buy a new outfit, or paint a room a color that you like. For the same reason that you want children, or get a dog, or drink a good wine. For the sheer delight of it. For the sheer delight of your senses rubbing up against something else. He conceals himself for the pleasure of revealing himself to himself. John Friend calls it "cosmic peekaboo", which maybe sounds trite until you realize that peekaboo is the first "game" we learn; we start playing it the minute we are remotely aware there is anyone to play peekaboo with, and we play it all our lives in various ways. Maybe that's a topic for another post.

ANYHOO, in the philosophy of tantric yoga, one set of mechanisms whereby this great BEing hides itself are called malas. There are three of them. Anava mala is a mechanism that conceals from a part of the BEing its perfection and fullness. It gives a part of the BEing a sense of incompleteness, inadequacy, broken-ness, flawedness. Mayiya mala is a mechanism that conceals from a part of the BEing its unified, indivisible, whole nature. It creates a sense of separation, of difference, of alienation, and is associated with a feeling of anger (I am separate from that other being and that other being does stuff that pisses me off).

Karma mala is the one that pertains to our topic today. It is a mechanism that conceals from a part of the great BEing its omnipotence. It actually creates a sensation of AGENCY. It makes a person think that his little human consciousness and will is actually the will that is making things happen, the will that is doing things. My teacher, Paul Muller-Orgeta, gives the example that people sometimes say, "I'm digesting my food". Well, really, your individual consciousness or will is not digesting your food; what is digesting your food is the biological wisdom of what some might call Nature and what yogis would call Mahashakti. It's a mechanism of that a deep, innate intelligence has evolved over millions of years to sustain life. Actually, a better way to put it is to take out the idea of mechanism: a deep innate intelligence, with millions of years of experience at taking the form of a digestive tract and then BEing a digestive tract, is digesting. The part of you that you would associate with your very particular pattern of shakti, your personal consciousness, isn't actually doing anything. YOU'RE not doing anything. You're being done. Which can be a good time. Wink wink.

Who's doing you? SHAKTI.

Shakti is GOOD. TIMES.

Like many ideas originating in India, Shakti is an it and a she. Shakti is a philosophical idea that also has an anthropomorphized or deified or personified aspect that is a Hindu deity. (I don't know, historically, the origins of the goddess. Was she a philosophical idea first or a goddess first? Really though, aren't all deities ideas first? Aren't all deities embodiments of ideas? Or embodiments of ideals?)

Shakti is Shiva's consort. The way I have often heard it described is that is Shiva is the river, Shakti is the flow of the river. It is helpful, in considering their relationship, to remember that the Sanskrit verbal root of her name is shak, "to be able". She is the power that makes things go.

Shakti is deadly, deadly serious. She will breathe you until she's done, i.e. until you're dead. She means business. She is totally certain and merciless. She is fierce and unyielding. She is red in tooth and claw. She is profoundly destructive. She is a forlorn puppy in the rain with its hind legs splayed out at a funny angle in the middle of High Street in East Orange the night before Thanksgiving. Look at the world around you--how so many things seem to form into inescapable cycles of greed, destruction, misery. That's how she rolls: fierce, bug-eyed, and wearing a garland of human skulls.

And.

Shakti is ecstatically playful and benevolent. She loves us like her children. Look at the world around you--how the seasons proceed apace, how everything is in order to develop and sustain life, how a little plant can push itself up between two concrete slabs. She is the two cop cars parked around the puppy and the cops making calls to handle the situation, and whoever called the cops in the first place. That's her.

We only know Shiva through Shakti. We only touch the Absolute through the relative. We only touch Pure Spirit through those we know and love. Some schools of Hindu Tantra totally emphazise Shiva. Some totally emphasize the importance of Shakti. Some emphasize both.

As yogis, as human BEings, it is helpful to remember that we're not actually in charge. We're not actually doing anything! This is not to say that you can lie in bed and wait for the shakti to move you. But it's helpful to recognize that your impulse to get up is in fact a deep impulse that comes from the powerful energy that underlies the entire universe, not just from the more limited part of yourself that gets jealous, feels anxious about her To Do list, gets tired, feels hopeless or hopeful. Your impulses, your entire life, the parts of yourself you like, the parts you don't, are all manifestations of the deep, joyous, infinite, ecstatic, serious, luminous energy that makes up the very fabric of reality.

So enjoy!

Seams and Portals

2008-07-20T12:57:00.001-04:00

Sianna Sherman, one of Anusara Yoga's best-known and most-beloved teachers, once used a lovely metaphor, which I will relate from memory as best I can. She said indigenous cultures often describe the place where the moon hits the water as a portal to an alternate, possibly deeper experience of reality. She encouraged us to turn the light of our awareness onto the flow of our breath, and move through that portal into a fuller experience of our divinity. The concept of a portal, or a threshold into a new reality, is deeply important to yogis. One word that comes up again and again in Tantric study is madhya, or seam.

A seam is where two things come together. The body is full of seams; in one theory of acupuncture, those seams are what create acupuncture channels. A seam is a place where divisions are blurry, where something can be one thing and another at the same time. Shiva, the great Hindu deity who dances the Universe into Being, hangs out in places of transition: the forest (transition from civilization to wilderness), the mountaintop (place of transition between two kingdoms or landscapes), and cremation grounds (place of transition between life and death). Shiva hangs out in those places because they are potent, these limbo spaces, these grey areas.

It can be hard to hang out in the seam of neither-here-nor-there. The Swiss doctor who helped my stepmother recover from breast cancer, Dr. Thomas Rau, says that the hardest thing for people healing from cancer is learning to live with the ambiguity of disease. Our model in this country is to CUT OUT the tumor, to radiate the hell out of the cells, and thereby "heal" ourselves. In fact, for Dr. Rau, you can cut out a tumor, but if you haven't changed the milieu of your tissues, it'll come back. Changing the milieu of your tissues is something that happens over time with diet, exercise, and importantly, spiritual practice of one sort or another. Changing the milieu is a slower, more nebulous kind of treatment, and it drives people crazy that this model isn't a dichotomy between sick/well. It's a spectrum of health. You can't cut your way to good health, but if you're strong enough to envision your health as being on a spectrum, you can eat/feel/pray/laugh yourself closer to the well end.

A seam can be a place that seems broken. We all have scars. Have you heard of this book, Kitchen Table Wisdom? It's written by Dr. Naomi Remen about life lessons she learned through her medical practice. She tells the story of a young athlete struggling to come to terms with the amputation of his leg. In the early days of his recovery, the young man was consumed with anger and bitterness at the medical staff, his parents, the world. Invited to draw a picture of himself, he drew a vase and covered it with a wide black crack, drawing so heavily that he ripped the paper with the crayon. After many months of rage, the young man began to bring Dr. Remen newspaper clippings about others who had suffered similar turns of fate. He spoke angrily at first, then passionately, of how others couldn't understand how it felt to experience that kind of trauma. Eventually he began a ministry of sorts to other amputees in the hospital. In his final meeting with Dr. Remen, she took out his vase drawing and showed it to him. He looked at it, tapped the black crack, and said, "the cracks are where the light shines through."

A seam can be a portal, a threshold to other experience. A seam can be enlarged, expanded. In hatha yoga practice, we come to the midline for power. Then we seek to open the midline up. We're not trying to cross the midline, or erase it--we want to GET INTO IT. We want to get into it and EXPAND IT MORE. We hug it more, then we expand it more. We actually WANT more grey area--we want to live in that place where pulling in becomes shining out, where life is both fragile and tenacious, where reality is terrible and beautiful, where giving is receiving, where fear is grace, where the mundane is divine is mundane is divine for all eternity but just for this one moment.

Because the cracks are where the light shines through. And your scars are the clearest manifestation of Life's healing power.