Dear Charlie

Dear Charlie,

I've missed you in my workshop the past three weeks. I was truly looking forward to learning more from you, from your wry smile and tepid questions. Having you in my class a few months ago challenged me to be a better teacher (really... I thought harder when preparing my next several classes because of you). My explanations were never quite what you were hoping for, but rather than frustrating me or hardening my skin, your questions inspired stronger answers.

You helped me grow. The only thing we hope to offer as teachers is room for growth in our students, openness to the questions beyond, and a willingness to open your eyes.

I'm not sure I can imagine the storm you must have been in, the fury and finality. I missed the telltale look in your eyes, even though I've seen it a few times before. Did I mistake desperation for challenge? My memory is too foggy to see through.

I hope that wherever you are now, in ground or sky or on the wind at night that you have found peace. You remind me to relish each day, each student, each interaction. You remind me that the student is the true teacher, and the teacher merely a humble student.

The light in me sees, honors, and reflects the light in you. I hope that in your favorable rebirth, we may meet again. Namaste.

Sunsets

I have an inordinate number of pictures of myself facing the ocean, looking into the sunset. This is strange because I live in a desert thousands of miles from any given ocean. Even my inland pictures are frequently of bruised skies mourning the sun.

There is something magical about a sunset.

When I was five, my father explained sunsets to me. He said that the colors in the sunset are always there, but we can't see them because of the angle of the sun/atmosphere/something else about physics. Do you know? I can't remember the exact description, but I do remember the key element. The colors in the sunset are always there, we just don't always get to see them.

So much exists that we can't see unless we are lucky enough to look at just the right time, from the perfect angle. This is true in yoga. When we slog through our days and start to look down at the ground, we forget to look up and we forget to look within. Stepping onto the mat we put ourselves in the right place for an amount of time that something might fall away and we might just see the colors in the sky. We salute the sun, we sit, we lie down, and if we are lucky enough we drive home just in time to see the sunset. We see what has always been there. That which is within us begins to reflect the brilliance of what is around us, which in turn, shines more brightly inside of us.

We set the world ablaze.

Hanuman

If we were in a yoga class right now and I said "Hanuman" you would probably:
a) cringe, grimace and find an excuse to fix your clothing, mat, hair, etc.
b) become frustrated, enraged, and irritated that some idiot came up with this pose.
c) worry intensely about how your groin will feel for the next several minutes.
d) one of you would get really excited. Maybe.

So many yoga classes depart from the history of the postures, with one exception. Hanuman is the story you hear over and over again, his devotion, his leap of faith, blah blah blah while the teacher tries desperately to keep you distracted from the OUCH my CROTCH mantra that has taken over your mind.

Have you ever really thought about Hanuman? His life story is a little soap-opera-esque, demi god, half monkey, big fan of the king. But his power came from hearing the voices of people cheering him on as the king asked the impossible: go back to the Himalayas and find the herb that will save my brother. He didn't think he could do it. Onlookers told him he could, and when he got back, he couldn't find the right herb (he was half monkey, after all). Rather than giving up, Hanuman put the entire mountain on his back and jumped back to Sri Lanka, stretching as far as he could and saved the king's brother.

Has this happened in your life? My guess is that it has. Someone has probably asked the impossible of you, supportive people cheered you on, and you made an incredible leap of faith. You're probably not a monkey, and you likely can't carry mountains on your back, but the principle is what is pivotal to the pose. Next time you are there, close your eyes. Hear the supportive groans of your fellow yogi(ni)s, and have faith that the posture will come in time.

Off the mat, the story of Hanuman isn't about the splits, and it isn't even always having faith. The essence of Hanuman is listening to the people in your life who say YOU CAN DO IT.

Sahas badan tumharo yash gaave
(Thousands of living beings are chanting hymns of your glories)

Yoga, on the Rocks

I just spent three days in the wilderness, without internet.

And I survived.

Every year my husband and I (and a small group of our assorted closest friends and relatives) head out into the mountains and spend time eating, sleeping, and staring off into space. We occasionally hike, but more often we daze and allow our minds to reacquaint themselves with the rhythm of life, as dictated by the rise and fall of the sun, tummy rumbling, and whatever the dog happens to be doing.

It is well known that our particular spot is outside of the reaches of the 21st century (namely the 3G network, Wi-Fi, and even microwaves), and yet I still find myself compelled to check The Phone. For the first eight hours of our excursion in the wilderness, I find that I've got about a three-minute window to think of things other than "did I get a new message yet?" or "I wonder what time it is?" As luck would have it, this is also the amount of time it takes the average hospital patient on pain-meds to avoid pressing the morphine button.

The irony is not lost on me.

When I came to the realization this time that my compulsion resembled an addiction, I did not throw the phone into the river, but I did let it die. I threw caution into the wind and took off my watch, and had to rely on the sky to tell me what I needed to know. Slowly peeling my fingers back from the iProduct of the moment, I let the sun kiss my face and said hello. For once, it wasn't time for yoga because it was Time for Yoga, it was simply all that needed to be done.

Yoga, on the rocks.

Spring... Er... Summer cleaning

Winter has done it's best to wipe the slate clean: the ground is ready, animals awake, and boots ready to head into their annual slumber in the back of the hall closet. Fuzzy sweaters and holey socks find new homes and renewed purpose staking tomato plants, scrubbing floors, or keeping someone else warm. 

That's the easy part. Perhaps you don't get around to washing the high windows or buying new car mats, but those are lower on the list that margaritas on the patio and starlit campouts. 

Or at least they should be.

This spring... Er... Summer... I invite you to turn that cleaning bug inward beyond facials and tooth whitening and outward beyond washing windows. What is the one dirty and damaging thing you are doing to yourself inside? Eating something that doesn't fuel you? Drinking something that hurts you? Telling yourself sad stories? Smoking?

Saucha is there for you, friends. Think of it as a green light to clean the thing you've been ignoring (and not the gutters). I invite you to treat your body like you would treat your favorite room in the house. Maybe it is full of garbage and gifts Christmas morning, but the rest of the year it is pretty darn inviting for guests, electricians, and even in-laws. If you can create a welcoming and well cared for self, you'll be a more gracious friend, employer and even in-law.

It's a two-for-one deal: heal yourself and yourself will heal the world. 

Savasana

Sometimes when I talk to newbies, I explain my heated vinyasa flow class as an arse-kicking workout followed by a short, supervised nap. 

I am most often greeted by a sideways 'what?' look not unlike the look I get from dogs when I 'jog' through the park. Most of the time they are looking for the arse-kicking, but I firmly believe that they stay for the nap.

What is savasana, and why do we stay, sweaty and exhausted when we could pop up and get to the car and get out of there? Don't tell me it is because you might get a foot rub or a savasana adjustment... The following are a few reasons you might stay, and/or what's in it for you.

1.  You might get an adjustment. Ok, fine, perhaps not the best reason to stay, but if you don't have another meaningful human interaction during a given day, the human contact can be just what you need.

2. You might get a foot rub. Where else in the world (please tell me) will you hold still for three minutes and someone will rub your feet?

3. If you are able to close your eyes and let go of the conscious breath, your mind could find the place of stillness, peace, and bliss. The field beyond judgement. Samadhi.

4. If you allow yourself a few minutes of relaxation after a difficult class, your blood vessels will take the opportunity to reset, funnel blood back towards your internal organs and supercharge your digestion and self-maintenance. Sort of like allowing your car's radiator to reset on a hot day.

5. You might find that feeling you did as a child... Lying on the sand after a long swim, sprawling in the grass after a brutal game of soccer, or making a snow angel after an intense day of sledding. Remember that? You've done it before, and that feeling is there for you every time you end a class.

The Line

I've heard lately that we are happiest just at the border of our comfort zones. We need to be challenged just to the edge of our capacity. We wallow in our boredom when under stimulated, or burn out when forced into overdrive. I have personally experienced both in life: under stimulation drove me to alphabetize my spices and overstimulation has found me frantically emailing from The Throne in the middle of a conference, eating in the shower, and brushing my teeth while on the phone and doing squats. There are frequently occasions on my calendar in which I am somehow expecting myself to be three places at once.

You can tell which side of the line is my favorite.

It recently occurred to me that this happens on the mat as often as it does of the mat. I notice my fellow yogi(ni)s as well as my reflection trying to squeeze another drop, twist, bind, or balance out of every posture. I leave the line in the dust and push through, which ironically leaves me prepared to fall sleep on the couch/ floor as soon as I make it home. 

My husband teaches meditation, and more importantly, practices what he preaches. He meditates for nearly an hour a day. I have found that I am incapable of meditating without surreptitiously falling fast asleep. This takes precisely five minutes. In order to stay awake I have to think of things, like state capitals, what I will make for dinner tomorrow night, and what I should write my next blog post about. 

I ignore signposts that clearly read, "hey dorkus, the line was back that way," or "last chance for gas/food/restroom for the next 150 miles." who needs gas, food and restrooms? I have YOGA, which means I am fueled from within!

Does this happen to you? Does it sound slightly less logical when I say it?

It sounds less logical when I read it, too. Let's agree to take the first step towards approaching the line, which means finding it. Have you seen your line lately, or is it so beaten down from border crossings that it blends in with the horizon? Let's make an effort to see the line, both on and off the mat. Start in the microcosm that is your mat. Take one full breath before the bind. Find the line. Take child's pose. Close your eyes. Remind yourself that your fellow mat riders aren't racing you. So long as you all start and end class in your mat and breathing, you all win.

Even on this side of the line.