Forget your perfect offering...

A month just flew by in the blink of an eye.  Time is strange here.  The days are impossibly long, and yet the accumulative passing of them goes by in a flash.  I still have another week in Mysore, and many people have already left or are in the process of leaving this weekend.  There is much to catch up on since my last post, but mostly, if there's anything to know, it's that practice is practice is practice, whether you're at home or halfway around the world in Mysore, whether you're strong and rockin it or injured and crawling your way through the vinyasas.

In the last few weeks practice has taken an interesting plot twist for me.  I caught the bind in supta kurmasana just a day or two after my last blog, got moved on to the next bit of primary, the garbha pindasana to kukkutasana bit, then the following week got to go ahead with full primary.  Doing full primary means I'd get to work on dropping back.  But then a week and a half ago, I felt something pop in the right side of my chest as I was doing backbends from the ground.  I wasn't pushing myself to my edge, I was very much working within the realm of what's possible and even comfortable for me.  As I came back down to the ground, I was in serious pain.  If the pain had been on my left side, I would have seriously thought I was a having heart attack.  I couldn't finish the rest of the closing sequence, so I sat up, did the closing mantra, rolled up my mat and went home to lay down.  Next day I was in serious pain, literally crawling through the vinyasas.  I rested for a few days, since we had a moon day, then led class which I skipped, then Saturday off.  Sunday I practiced at home and it was so painful all I could do was cry.  Later that morning, I went to an ayurvedic bodyworker to see if I could get some relief.  He told me, "Pain is good sign, noooo problem.  Only in mind is there problem.  Your heart is opening, madame.  Happiness coming soon.  Yes, love coming too... coming very soon, maybe three or four days only.  No worry, pain good sign..." *head wobble*  The second opinion I received was a little more sobering.  It looked like I may have separated the rib from the cartilage that attaches to the sternum, and that I was looking at a six week minimum recovery, and perhaps as long as six months.

Three or four days later, I was still suffering, and I was coming to terms with the more grim prognosis of a long recovery.  Things were rough, and I was doing my best to handle it with grace and surrender.  To add insult to the injury, I came down with some awful upper respiratory infection, coughing, sneezing, sinus pressure hell.  It already hurt to breathe, and then with every cough and sneeze it was like a knife in my ribs.  It was so painful.  I mean, what the fuck, Universe?  I come to Mysore, prepared for whatever is in store for me, ready and willing to suffer if need be, and yet, my predicament seemed beyond ridiculous (and somehow entirely appropriate).  Of all the sicknesses I could get in India, I get the one that hits me right in the chest where I was already injured?  (And as far as being sick in India goes, I think I prefer the coughing and sneezing over the alternatives... but still).  I was suffering so badly, and yet the irony was not at all lost on me.  I started laughing about it, which was also very painful, but I think that's when something shifted...

I found a little book called The Yoga of Beauty.  It talks of beauty as one part of the holy trinity of the Good, the True, the Beautiful.  The trick is finding beauty in things that are not pretty and perhaps downright ugly.  There is plenty of art that is aesthetically and/or emotionally challenging that I find beautiful.  Some of the most beautiful moments of my life were ones marked by hardship.  The thing that makes something beautiful is not a set of some formal characteristics which are pretty, but it is a whole accumulation and unfolding of moments that lead to an aesthetic experience.  The Japanese concept of wabi-sabi is a good example of how we can celebrate imperfection.  If a vase is broken, it is put back together in a way that adorns and embellishes the cracks instead of attempting to hide the imperfection.  And as the very wise Leonard Cohen says, there's a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in...

I went to talk to Sharath about modifying my practice and to get any advice he may have about my situation.  He told me to breathe into the pain, stabilize my mind on my breath, and to only do half primary and skip the vinyasas in between right side and left side.  And so I put my full trust in him and did just that.  Sharath said something in one of the conferences (I'll post full notes on those when I get a chance) that despite the ups and downs of life, Guruji always had an evenness about him.  He said life is like the streets of San Francisco, up down up down, you never know what is coming, but to find a steadiness and ease regardless of the terrain, that is one of the gifts and rewards of yoga.  And so I wondered, is it possible to have a great practice when I'm this down and out?  Can I find the beauty in this pain no matter how ugly things feel?  Whenever I've been in pain in the past, I always pick little projects for myself to focus on.  Like with my shoulder injury, since I couldn't work on building strength in the vinyasas, I decided to work on bandhas and lengthening in the forward bends.  With this current injury and sickness, I decided that I would find a steadiness and ease in my breath and mind and have a good practice the next day.  And I did.  To a casual observer, I'm sure I looked hobbled and suffering, but I would say the energetic quality of my practice was as sweet and focused as the days I feel strong and totally rockin.  Each day of practice this past week, I felt marginally better, just enough to renew my faith and not lose hope.  The measure of progress in the practice is not if I can get my legs behind my head or jump back with grace and ease, but it is if I am becoming a better person, more clear, more open, more loving... and I think that I am...

Last night it rained in Mysore.  First rain in many months.  The sun was setting, and I went for a walk to enjoy the thunder and rain.  I realized that the last few days the pain in my ribs shifted.  It feels less like suffering and more like opening.  Big opening, filled with much joy and gratitude.  And I realized that happiness is not coming, it is already here...

Every heart, 

every heart to love will come, 

like a refugee... 

Ring the bell that still can ring, 

forget your perfect offering. 

There's a crack, 

a crack in everything... 

that's how the light gets in,

that's how the light gets in...

~Leonard Cohen

A sleeping turtle in the land of yogis...

First few days in India felt like a whole week.  With a nearly thirty hour trek to get to Mysore, I saw two sunsets and two sunrises in twenty eight hours.  Hours feel like days as I am sinking into the rhythm of things here in Gokulam.

First day of practice.  My start time is 9am, which is technically 845am shala time, and so I arrived at the shala a quarter after 8am since I have heard it's good to be early.  Sharath looked at me and said I was "too early, you come ten minutes before your time, that is all."  Ok, no problem!  I was half expecting my first practice here to be more of a struggle than it was, since I am jetlagged and a little off kilter, but it was actually pretty damn good.  It is hot and humid in that room, good for the sweat and the breath.  Plus the energetic buzz in that room is off the charts.  Made it to supta kurmasana and am still half an inch away from the bind there.  On a good day and with help, I can touch my fingers.  I can cross my feet over my head, no problem.  Sharath stopped me there.  Also, "no backbends until you do full primary."  No problem!  There is work to be done with the asanas I have.  It feels magical and blessed to be practicing at the shala. 

Second day of practice.  Led primary, 6am start time.  Walked to the shala around 5am in the cool pre-dawn air and waited outside on the steps with other folks who arrived early to get a spot.  Even so, I wound up in the ladies changing room with a dozen others who weren't pushy or early enough to get a spot in the main room.  I didn't mind being in there, actually, as we started practice, I became increasingly relieved I wasn't in the main room.  My practice felt heavy, sluggish, sore.  Jetlag and a creaky neck and shoulder caught up with me.  Today is rest day, hoping a deep tissue massage later this morning will set me straight. 

I have been contemplating the lessons supta kurmasana has for me.  Every asana creates a doorway to the inner work.  What is the spiritual lesson for me in this pose of the sleeping turtle?  It is one of the gateway postures of the primary series and opens up an entire universe of behind-the-head postures.  It is a counterpose to urdhva dhanurasana, requiring a strong core and lengthening of the spine necessary for dynamic backbending.  Supta kurmasana also seems to me to be a very receptive and quiet posture.  Meditative.  Every time I get myself into it as deep as I can go, it feels very cozy and contemplative and somehow emotionally restorative.  Safe, even.  I always feel compelled to stay longer than five breaths.

One of the primary physical benefits of the posture is that it increases blood flow to the heart and lungs.  I find this especially interesting when considering supta kurmasana as a counterpose to backbending.  Backbends open the heart and, for me, have been purging old sadnesses which Chinese medicine says reside in the lungs... Coincidence that this is where my work is right now, highlighted and underscored and asterisked, a door I must figure out how to unlock before I can walk through?  I think probably not. 

Out of curiosity and a hope to be inspired by the symbolism, I looked into the mythological underpinnings of the asana, and of turtles in general.  I'm fascinated at what I found.  In general cross cultural symbolism, the turtle shell is a symbol of heaven and the square underside, a symbol of earth.  Turtle represents a union of heaven and earth and a temporary dwelling place of souls making their way to nirvana.  Turtle is also a shore creature, a gate keeper between land and water.  Turtle is easy going, patient, wise, steadfast, and tranquil.

In Hindu mythology, there are various accounts of world-tortoises, that is turtles who hold up the world on their back.  One of them, Akūpāra, meaning unbounded, is a turtle who carries an elephant that carries the world on its back.  The elephant is the masculine; the turtle, feminine.  Another tortoise, Kurmaraja, is the second avatar of Vishnu.  In an epic battle between the gods and the devils, the gods were losing strength.  Vishnu suggested they drink the nectar of immortality to regain what was lost, but it had been hidden in the milky ocean of the universe.  They began churning the ocean to recover the nectar, but the mountains began to sink.  Vishnu assumed the form of Kurma to bear the weight of the world in order to recover the nectar.  As the churning continued, halāhala (poison) was thrown out and threatened the existence of both the gods and the demons.  Shiva drank the poison to save the gods.  The nectar of immortality was recovered, and the gods regained their strength.

As the Hindu proverb goes, you have to digest halāhala (poison) before you get amrita (immortality).
And somewhere, Ganesha is looking over, laughing...

The places you fear to go....

"No fear, no fun."  One of the things I love about Ashtanga, is that it requires me to confront some scary places.  I started working on dropping back and standing up from urdhva dhanurasana (backbends) a few weeks ago.  My teacher came up to me as I was going into the finishing sequence and asked if I wanted to try it.  It hadn't even occurred to me, much like many parts of the practice that at one time seemed so inaccessible I wouldn't even attempt it.  It's one of the gateway postures in the primary series.  Once I get to Mysore, I'll need to be able to stand up on my own in order to move on to the intermediate series.  He explained how we can work on it with him spotting me.  I said it sounded really scary and that I was afraid.  He said it was indeed terrifying.  And I replied, "let's do it!" with enough mock bravery to convince myself that maybe I could do it, or at least not break myself in half trying.  We've continued to work on it in class, and it's still pretty much as scary as it was that first day.  But I'm getting more comfortable with the fear, and that, if anything, feels like progress.  Pain is a guru, a gift.  And so is fear.  How can I unwrap it? 

There's all kinds of stuff packed into fear, but as I'm fond of saying or being reminded of as often as needed, "where there's fear, there's power."  That power cuts both ways.  If I do not confront my fear, that thing will have power over me and will be an obstacle and limitation, often amplified into something monumental and insurmountable.  But by confronting fear, I come to embody that power and open up those spaces that I feared to go.  Those places are often the most fertile territories we can colonize within ourselves, and the rewards of such an endeavor echo into every area of our lives.  We become empowered in all we do when we confront our fear.  In addition to confronting the many layers of fear, there is a tremendous amount of trust I must give my teacher to not have me do something I'm not capable of doing, and of course, to not drop me on my head.  The teacher is an archetype, a mirror in which the student glimpses previously unseen possibility.  The most important gift a teacher can give is to be a clear reflection that allows the student to see what they are capable of, to help navigate and facilitate the student's own self-discovery.  And when it comes to backbending, I am not only trusting my teacher, but also myself.  I have to trust I will stay focused and aware and not get all turned upside down and around and try to come up on the wrong count - which is precisely what happened a couple weeks ago.  I got ahead of myself and all turned around (it's hard to tell which way is what when you're upside down) and I came up a count too early and damn near made us both wipe out.  Luckily no one was hurt.  It rattled my nerves a bit, but I got right back up and did the rest of my five drop backs.  This made me realize that the trust cuts both ways too.  It's like mountain climbers tied together, even though the more advanced one leads the way, if either one falls, they could both potentially go down.  

And yet, the act of trusting is far deeper and infinitely more subtle than merely knowing I'm not going to get dropped on my head.  Trusting can be terrifying, and all the times I gave my trust and was somehow betrayed come rushing to the surface.  Whether intentionally or accidentally broken, the rupture of trust can be traumatic.  Broken trust, most fundamentally, feels like a self-betrayal because it inevitably comes to the question, "How could I have allowed myself to trust an unworthy person?"  That's a heavy question to have to confront, and, for the faint of heart or meek of spirit, it can undermine the most basic sense of self.  And now realizing that my teacher has to trust me to some degree too, I must rise to the occasion to be worthy of that trust.  Breaking another's trust is perhaps even scarier to me than the prospect of them breaking mine - and most certainly scarier than falling on my head.  And so go the layers and layers of work to be done here, all potent and alive in just this one part of the practice.  And so I breathe into all those spaces, and I acknowledge that trusting is scary, even scarier and more difficult for me than the actual backbends themselves.  I'm sure my teacher sees some of these inner workings as I stand there preparing and trying not to freak out too much, outwardly at least.  He reassures me so that I feel safe and supported.  That reassurance is not just comforting physically, but even more so emotionally.  The emotional dimension of feeling safe is profoundly transformative and healing territory for me, having grown up in a very emotionally unsafe family dynamic.  I have done a lot of deep work to heal those early traumas, and still, when I push myself to the edges, tilting the mirror just enough to see into the darkest of spaces, there are still shadows wanting for the light.  Those shadows cast hard edges, and it's those edges that offer the greatest leverage for healing and discovery.  The heat generated from the practice is purifying, it breaks up stagnation and old traumas and clears the way for the light to shine through.  Combine that with urdhva dhanurasana being one of the most powerful heart opening asanas, and the conditions are ripe for some serious magic to happen.  Dark places are coming into light.  As one of my earliest yoga teachers from my highschool days in Idyllwild was fond of reminding us, backbends place the heart over the head.  "That's the medicine."  She was right, it is medicine, and it's potent.

As I continue to make progress with the physical practice, the emotional dimension continues to open up as well.  As I come up from the backbend, the natural instinct is to lift the head.  It's an automatic reflex like blocking your face if some object is flying at you, but really the head should hang back and be the very last thing to come up.  Lifting the head too soon can actually cause you to lose balance and fall back.  I have to really fight the impulse until it becomes second nature to let it haaaaang back.  Interestingly enough, keeping the head back also keeps the heart open, guiding the movement upwards.  And so I ask myself in what other ways are my impulses and reflexes self-sabotaging and can cause me to lose balance and fall?  Where else can I fight the knee-jerk reaction and train myself to haaaaang back?  Where else do I close myself up instead of staying open?  Where else do I let my head lead over my heart?  What am I capable of when I remain open and trusting, when I surrender to the movement of the heart?  And in practice last week, I caught a glimpse of what I'm capable of.  In the final deep bend of the backbending sequence, I walked my hands in close enough that I could see my own feet from behind.  At first I thought they were my teacher's feet because it is very strange and unexpected and exciting that I'd be able to see my own feet in a backbend.  I wonder what else will come into view in this wild, uncharted landscape.  There is so much to discover, and I am so grateful, every day, for this practice, and the vistas it is revealing.

This is incredibly potent heart opening territory.  And in some moments it is scary as all hell, and some moments it is so full of joy and wonder and discovery.  This is where the work is.  This is the place where I face my fears and see what I'm made of.  This is the inner landscape that holds the kind of power and beauty that cracks the heart wide open.

And the light is dawning there...

 

May your trails be crooked, 

winding, lonesome, 

dangerous, 

leading to the most amazing view... 

where something strange 

and more beautiful 

and more full of wonder 

than your deepest dreams 

waits for you 

beyond that next turning 

of the canyon walls...

~Ed Abbey

When the impossible becomes possible...

"Practice, and all is coming," as Guruji was fond of saying.  And it's true.  The thing I love, well one of the many things I love, about practice is that it continually reveals new things and opens up previously closed or inaccessible territory.  It shows me the places I fear to go, the places where I feel comfortable, the places where I struggle, the places where I feel vulnerable and weak, the places where I feel strong and empowered, the places where I try to take the easy way out, the places where I hold myself accountable.  Today I went to a mysore class with a teacher I've never taken a class from.  I keep a solid, consistent practice at home every day, but I am ready to step things up and get more regular feedback from a teacher, so I've been checking out some teachers in town.  And the class was great.  Lots of little minor corrections here and there.  My balance was off more than usual, but that's ok.  I'm fasting and get dizzy and it's hard to balance, and so I am patient with myself.  And as I'm working through the seated postures, the teacher keeps an eye on me.  I get to the marichyasanas and bind just fine in all of them except marichy d.  He comes over to assist me, and with a little help, I bound marichyasana d for the first time ever.  And it felt so damn good.  And it was like a huge sigh for my spirit, having struggled with it for so long.  It is, arguably, the toughest posture in the primary series.  It is considered a gateway posture and is the peak of the primary series crescendo.  When I first started my ashtanga practice, I thought I'd never be able to get fully into that posture.  It seemed like totally off-limits territory for me.  There are a lot of postures like that, especially as you venture into intermediate and advanced series.  But after working at it every day for a while, I finally did it!  I also did chakrasana for the first time with help from the teacher.  I can't help but wonder what else I can do that I thought was totally impossible!  I like this teacher, it's like he knows what I am capable of more than I know.  I'll be going back to his mysore class twice a week.  The rest of the week, I'll keep working on my practice at home to integrate the feedback I get in class.  It's kind of amazing how much progress can be made with daily practice.  And it's remarkable how off I feel when I skip a few days.  There are no shortcuts or easy ways out.  There's no way to fake it.  It is a spectacularly awesome feeling when the once impossible becomes possible.  There is only practice, and through practice, all is coming...

Ashtanga practice lights my way...

Natarajasana on Musselman arch, Canyonlands, Moab UT

I've been rockin my Ashtanga practice hard lately.  I've flirted with the practice off and on for a long time now, with varying degrees of commitment.  But I've recently come back to a place where I feel so dedicated to it that it is the highest priority for me every day.  I'm practicing 6 days a week (I have to even convince myself to take a day off) and look forward to it with more excitement than I look forward to breakfast!  I go to bed at night thinking about the next day's practice.  I get up and have my coffee ("No coffee, no prana," as Guruji would say) and then step on the mat.

I recently listened to one of Kino MacGregor's old podcasts, and she talked about in the old days when people used oil lamps for light, they'd have to clean the soot off the glass every day to be able to see the light from the lamp.  She describes the Ashtanga practice in similar ways.  The heat we generate in the practice cleans our body (not just physical, but mental, emotional, spiritual bodies) so that our light can shine clearly, brightly.  This metaphor really resonates with me, and I've been using that visualization to guide my practice.

Yesterday's practice was tough for me.  I'm currently on a green juice fast and have, in general, been feeling absolutely terrific.  But yesterday I was tired, weak, unfocused, unbalanced, hungry, easily distracted.  And I practiced anyways.  It was a struggle, I encountered a lot of internal resistance and excuses as to why I should just skip practice.  But I didn't.  I hit the mat and did the entire primary series anyways.  And when I got to navasana, I bargained with myself that I'd just do three instead of all five.  But I did all five anyway.  No short cuts, even on off days.  And I think it's off days that are most important to step on the mat.  And it's those days you get to see what you're really made of.

The practice is a reflection of my own inner state of things.  And this is the thing I love about Ashtanga.  It's the same sequence of asanas every time.  The thing that changes is me, and so it is a great gauge and reflection of my own awareness, lack of awareness, conflict, harmony, laziness, excitement, etc.  Some days I'm resistant until I start the first sun salutation, the hardest part is stepping to the top of the mat.  Some days are a struggle all the way through, and I give myself a hundred million justifications to let myself out of my commitment.  And it's important, crucial!, that I never capitalize on those justifications.  I do the practice with everything I've got on those days, even if I don't have much.  Some days are fun, easy, energetic, just plain joyful.  The harder I work, the more joy it brings.  Most days are like that for me, actually.  It is becoming more and more rare that I have a major off day like I did yesterday, which to me indicates the practice is really working for me.  And so I am able to tune in to the subtle nuances that shift day to day, and this provides valuable insights into the practice and into myself.  And this is how it illuminates my way.