On fearlessness

“Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over again to our own annihilation, can that which is indestructible be found in us.”

-- Buddhist teaching

The beginning of November marks the time, a year ago, that I set off for Costa Rica with a map, a backpack and a plan… Luckily, the backpack was well constructed, because the other two items went to hell pretty quickly. The happy ending to the rough start of that story, of course, was that the gravitational pull from Nosara Yoga Institute lured me in like a ship to the Bermuda triangle. I can’t speak for the boats, but I know that I was certainly not lost there. I was found.   

It has been almost a year since I began teaching yoga, and while I feel blessed and deeply nourished by the journey so far, that in no way has made it a completely smooth ride.

My first several months of teaching I was filled with fear. One of the major obstacles to pursuing a teacher training in the first place was that I felt nervous speaking in front of people. With a certification finally under my belt, I now felt even more nervous about what I would say when I finally got the courage to stand in front of a class.

Then there was the logistics of creating a class. Even though my body knew the practice intimately, directing others through familiar asanas felt like learning a new language. Would my directions be clear? Would I be able to discern right from left? Would I forget what I had planned? I would be instructing my students to link their movement to their breath, but would I be able to speak and breathe myself? (The answer to those questions, I would soon learn, depended entirely on the day and the class).

Then there were the familiar pangs of the desire for approval and the fear of rejection. Would anyone come to class? If they came, would they like it? If it was too hard, would my students hate me? If it was too easy, would they be bored? Will they like me? Will they come again? You see, as much as this practice is about dissolving ego, mine still raises hell on a regular basis.

All together, it’s been an incredible year. I feel like I’ve grown tremendously as a teacher and a student. It turns out the lessons I learn while teaching, are just a continuation of my own personal yoga practice. Just as I continue to grow every time I step on my mat and begin breathing deeply, I evolve every time I step in front of a class and ask others to do the same. Just as in my own personal practice, I have gained confidence and clarity, but I also make missteps, have moments and areas of weakness, and so keep myself humble.

I don’t experience the same level of nervousness prior to teaching, but I also remember what those early months felt like.  As another teaching says, “courage is not the absence of fear, but the determination to move beyond it.” And so, I keep moving on.  

If not now, when?

A couple of weeks ago, I attended a four hour long group meditation in the city. (Although 20 minutes might be par for the course for most people in search of enlightenment, we New Yorkers apparently need a bit more warming up in order to find inner peace).

 

Although I like to think I know better than to expect anything from a situation like that (or any situation, really) part of me was definitely hopeful that I would break through to some insanely blissful state at some point during the process. So, I sat. And I waited... and I kept sitting... and waiting. 

 

Ahem. I'm sitting here! Bliss can come find me any minute now.

 

I kept waiting. Nothing happened. And then, something did happen: the torment sunk in. All of a sudden, I was being pulled by my thoughts. I wanted to move; I wanted to stop; I wanted to sit still, but my skin started to crawl. Then the judgements sunk in: "If you only meditated more, this would be easy for you. Why can't you concentrate? Do you really think you deserve to have this be easy?"

 

After roughly an eternity of this, my thoughts then turned to the words our guide for the evening had spoken prior to the start of the session. "Your thoughts and actions are like ripples in a pool of water. Any fluctuations of the mind or body will effect the whole, so be careful with your thoughts and be conscious of unnecessary movement. We are all carrying each other, so be present not only for yourself but for the good of all who are here." 

 

I then remembered a few interesting and intense exchanges with various members of the group prior to the start of the session. These conversations were charged with a negative and heavy quality, and had left me feeling a bit knocked off center. Now knee-deep into the process, I began to place the burden of my emotional turmoil on others. "Oh great," I thought. "These are the people responsible for holding up the ship... I think I want to get in another life raft, thanks. Maybe this isn't even MY stuff coming up. Maybe it's that dude's stress from across the room. Thanks, guy!"

 

Wave after wave, thought after thought kept crashing over me, and it was all I could do stay afloat. And still, somewhere, part of me was waiting. Waiting for the waves to stop; waiting for something better to step in; waiting to be relieved of my misery; waiting for my fellow meditators to get their shit together so that I could shower them with unconditional love and thanks and feel better. 

 

Not surprisingly, this did not happen. Here is what did:

 

Some how I received the message that this waiting was exactly the thing that was keeping me from being in the space I wanted to be in. This waiting was a denial of the fact that joy and love and peace were there, right on the other side of all this darkness, just waiting for me to see it. This waiting was keeping me out of accepting and being in the present. 

 

How often in my life am I waiting for something to happen so that I can be happy?

 

“I’ll be happy when I have a different job.”

 

“I’ll be happy when I’m out of New York.”

 

“I’ll love that person more once they get their act together.”

 

It suddenly became apparent that love, peace, and happiness are not conditional states, although I often try to make them that way.

 

The tables had turned. I wasn’t waiting for peace or happiness. They were waiting for me. 

 

Angels didn't exactly start to sing in ecstasy, but things certainly got lighter from that point forward. Although I didn't reach enlightenment in four hours, I was finally able to accept exactly where I was, and everyone who was there with me, and that was more than enough.

 

Peace.

 

(At last).

Mas Poesia

I've just returned from an insanely amazing trip to Lake Tahoe. Highlights: Love. Yoga. Music. Sunshine. My souvenir:

Summer Hymn 

In the pyres of snow-worn rocks,

a simple alter presents itself:

Sun-warmed stoned, soft

blankets of moss, water falling

from who-knows-where,

from a winter 

who-knows-how-long-

ago.  

What else is there?

What more is necessary to recognize 

the need for celebration?

Praise in the movement of the stream.

Praise in the birdsongs.

Praise in the too-blue sky and 

the green trees. 

Praise! 

And don't get me started on

the wildflowers--

the three brave ones

that grew, like a miracle,

from a crack in the rock. 

So small! So determined to live,

despite all that coarseness and

roughness,

Each unlikely, vibrant petal

respiring softly,

as it rose towards light

sighing,

Thank you,

thank you,

thank you,

thank you.

Life-speed ahead

The last month and a half has been an inspirational one, filled with many new opportunities to teach, to learn, to grow, and most importantly to love. Although I haven't been logging as many hours onto the computer, I have been writing. Here's a little taste of where I am now:

And Other Lightness

1. 

Rain hangs heavy

all day

until a great shift splits

clouds, and splinters of sun

break all of us wide open 

at four in the afternoon.

2.

A silk ribbon of fog

slips like a veil 

across the eyes of evening--

scatters and refracts the glow 

from softly illumined windows.

 

3. 

Fireflies, like fallen constellations,

flashing in the hushed galaxies of grass,

circle in unseen orbits. 

4.

An oven burns, and the

long work of turning 

love to nourishment creates space 

for ceremony in busy kitchens.

5.

A common table transforms

into alter, with candles lit for communion, 

as gently emptied bellies are waiting 

to be filled.

6. 

The last trace of Day

drifts from her long post as guardian,

interrupting such stillness 

only to invite the stars 

into the subtle spread of night.

7. 

Later, in the quiet hours,

in the undeniable darkness,

with senses sharpened to all small miracles,

she sings and spins and asks and prays,

Is there anything but light? 

Guru

A few months back, during a particularly emotional week, I found myself nearly in tears, saying to a friend, "I want a guru!" 

My friend, in his wisdom, looked at me with a calm expression and asked, "Really?" A major pause. "Why?" 

"Well, I don't know..." I responded, imagining living an austere life on a mountain somewhere near the end of the earth, in service of some bald-headed being. "Maybe I don't want a guru exactly. But I need some help! Why can't someone just give me some guidance. Sometimes I just want someone to tell me what to do!" My friend smiled, nodded, and said little else. 

Ten minutes later, as we were meditating on the beach, I found a place of stillness within myself, and the answers I needed flooded forth (along with many tears). I rescinded my statement, ceding to the power of my own inner guide. 

Still, sometimes in life, we need guidance, and sometimes it feels like it really needs to come from something outside of us-- from an objective perspective perhaps, or from someone who has traveled down the same path before. 

According to some texts, the word guru comes from the sanskrit, "gu," meaning "darkness," and  "ru," meaning "light." A loose translation then is a guru is a dispeller of darkness, one who guides another from darkness to light. 

When I have broached the conversation of gurus to others, I have often been quoted the popular adage from Confuscious, who says, "when the student is ready, the guru appears." 

Throughout the course of my life, I have had many teachers, but never one I considered my "guru." I thus took this to be a sign that I wasn't ready. Recently however, I've begun to notice a proliferation of people who are enlightening me-- literally bringing more light, wisdom and guidance, into my life on a daily basis-- true gurus, by this definition. These people come from all parts of my past and present-- friends from college who are slowly becoming interested in what I've been chanting all these years and who now have their own amazing insights to share; my niece, whose independent dedication to her faith as a young woman is beyond inspiring; my beautiful and diverse coworkers; my spiritual/religious/zen-without-trying-to-be Mom and Dad! 

David Swenson, in his manual on Ashtanga Yoga asks the question, "What does a yogi look like?" He writes:

The learned sage draped in robes, residing in a cave or mystical temple is the image of spirituality which is sometimes sought by the western student. There are certainly saintly persons residing in such abodes yet it is not the only place to look. In my quest for knowledge I have felt at times to be like a fish swimming in the ocean looking hear and there for the ocean itself. All knowledge is available to us within each breath if we are but aware enough to recognize it. I thank my family [and friends] for exhibiting the qualities of a yogi in their daily life and interactions. 

As I reflect on these words and my own experiences, I see I am literally surrounded by gurus-- that I am daily being lifted from the darkness into light by the people who love, nourish and care for me. 

I am humbled by all of you, and I thank you, with deep recognition of your light and teachings.

Namaste. With love.  

Community

It is paradoxical to think that in a city full of people, a person can feel so alone. But as I navigate through a sea of people on a daily basis, alone is exactly how I sometimes feel. Here in New York, where people walk down the street with blank expressions, avoiding eye contact, and where the only touch is an unwelcome bump or nudge in a crowded subway car, it is easy to feel as though everyone is a stranger. 

Even within the yoga "community," I have often voiced the complaint that we all show up on our mats, do our practice and then leave. "Not much of a community, if you ask me," I always say. "I don't even know the names of the people who put their mats down next to me on a daily basis. Humph!"  (Of course, if you asked me whether I ever took the initiative to introduce myself to my neighbor, the answer would be "no." But it's much easier to project this lack of social skills on others rather than own it, now isn't it?)

When I'm not experiencing that inexplicable sense of aloneness in yoga class, my feeling of isolation in the world at large usually takes the following course: a common thought that pops into my head in a group of people I am assessing (aka judging-the-hell-out-of) is, "none of these people are into yoga/meditation/spirituality..." As these concepts and practices are of utmost interest and importance to me, the follow-up thought to this, recited straight from the annuls of my turbulent teens is, "no body understands me. I am completely alone." 

When something persistent and pervasive appears in my life such as this, and I find myself pointing the finger at everyone else, I sometimes have the good judgment to stop and ask myself, "is it them, or is it really me?" While I rarely like the answer to this question, the same courage that is required to ask the question in the first place is often enough to get me through the answer... "it's me." 

Upon reflection, I've been forced to notice my tendency to pull the curtains around myself and then exclaim into the darkness, "I'm alone!" With recognition of this rather peculiar behavior, I've benefited from a softening of my judgements of others, and with this softening, more light has filtered in...

I can't tell you how many times recently someone I once judged as a-spiritual has surprised me by sharing some aspect of themselves and their spirit that I previously never saw (but am sure was really there all along). Once I let go of my preconceived notions, I was shocked to realize how many people around me are engaged, at various levels, in a deeper inquiry into themselves.

From this realization, I gained another insight, which was that in addition to judging the person as spiritual or not, yogic or not, I was also judging what "spirituality" looks like. 

Although not everyone practices yoga, I've become increasingly attuned to hearing friends and acquaintances describe a spiritual connection to their love of biking, cooking, music, dancing.... One of my dear friends has found a profound connection to Spirit through Narcotics Anonymous meetings, while another has a somewhat secret, strong family background in a certain faith that they hold most dear. A busser at work shared with me the meditative aspects of his life back home in Nepal, while a few days prior, one of our managers held a positivity circle during our staff meeting. 

When I stop expecting Spirit to look like a certain thing, or belong to a certain type of person, I realize it is everywhere. When I stop seeing myself as separate from the sea of people swirling around me, I recognize we are all moving in the same tide. When I pull back the curtains I've drawn around me, I see I'm a part of an 8 million person-strong community. I begin to see that there are no strangers, just seekers I haven't met yet. 

City Scriptures

I would be lying if I said the transition from beach to city has been easy. I’ve been home for a week and so far I’ve experienced a rollercoaster of emotions almost every hour. A typical monologue of mind stuff goes like this:

“YAY! I’m so happy I’m home. I get to see my friends and my family! I missed you guys! I love you so much! And WOW! There are so many good yoga studios here and so many inspiring teachers to learn from…. “

“AGH! Why is everybody pushing me? I’m walking fast enough. I’m sweating for gods’ sake! What’s the damn rush, people?? I hate this… “

Inhale. Exhale.

“Ok, but seriously I’m so grateful to be here. What a great test of my ability to be present. Being here makes me stronger. I’m a spiritual gangster!! And there’s so much good food. Good music. Good art….”

“Oh my god! There’s the subway. RUN! The train’s delayed. I’m going to be late for work. RUN! Why are all these tourists walking so damn slow? RUN!!! I hate it here… Screw the music. Screw the art. I never have time to go see any of it anyway… my schedule is already full for the next three weeks. I’m overwhelmed. I can’t breathe…”

Inhale. Exhale.

Continue this chatter ad infinitum… wash, rinse, repeat… You get the idea.

So what is a culture-shocked yogini to do? Back her bags and go back to the beach? Succumb to the mind stuff and search for an escape in old habits (staying out too late, stretching herself too thin, drinking more martinis than tea)? Or better yet, figure out a way to quit her job and stay within the cozy confines of 24/7 yoga classes in the myriad studios throughout the city? Tempting. But, no.

 Because I am a spiritual gangster. Being here, feeling the vrittis pile up in my mind like  a midtown traffic jam on a Friday at six, I feel increasingly determined to take my yoga with me everywhere I go.

I’ve been meditating on the J train as it rattles over the graffiti-riddled low-income housing of deep Queens and Brooklyn. I’ve been breathing deeply on my walk through the rambling hoards of window shoppers that stop without warning to ogle overpriced Prada while I’m trying to get to work. I’ve been trying to plan less and be present more.

And I fail. And I lose focus. And I realize it. And I try again.

The yoga sutras, the bhagavad gita, all of the poems of Rumi and Hafiz—they are all powerful tools for learning about yoga. But the scriptures of New York City make you live it.

Case in point:

Saturday, I spent the morning sweating it out in an amazing yoga class, only to realize, I still felt funky and somewhat blue. Despite being on my mat, I couldn’t get my mind away from all of the things I was thinking I wanted to accomplish in the weeks ahead. I tried the usual tricks to no avail. I felt stressed, depressed even.  Where was the panic button, I wondered? I wanted off the ride.

I went to work, put on a smile and repeated the sacred mantra, “fake it ‘til you make it.” As I polished glasses and set up my station, my mind was still running a thousand miles a minute, trying to schedule and squeeze me into every possible activity and goal over the next stretch of time. Unable to be in the moment, I was even scribbling my schedule for the next two weeks on cocktail napkins stolen from the bar. And then, the dinner rush came.

Two hours into the nonstop movement and on-the-spot problem solving that serving our guests, requires, I realized that I had become completely engrossed in what I was doing, right there, right then. I had stopped planning for the unknown. And despite my quickening pulse, the crowd and the chaos all around me, I didn’t feel stressed at all. Quite the contrary, I felt in my element, fully present, and actually invigorated. If I was still on a rollercoaster, I wanted to let go of the safety bars, throw my hands up and scream, “WOO HOO!”

 That night, my gurus weren’t wearing robes or reciting sacred chants, they were wearing skinny jeans and speaking with bad Jersey accents. Although I couldn’t find my yoga while doing asanas that morning, my yoga found me while I was in the weeds, at the height a Saturday night rush in a busy restaurant in the West Village.

Lesson learned. Om mane Prada om…..