Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
It is said that when Robert Frost sat down to write what has been called by some his most perfect poem Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, he did so in one inspired push. Frost would likely have said he was merely following delight. But he had the good sense to stay in his chair as delight took form, and surprise followed surprise, until at last he had on the page in front of him something resembling wisdom. Frost says as much in his essay The Figure a Poem Makes, in which the venerable poet attempts to describe the process involved in writing a poem. It could also be described as the process of getting out of the way of the poem that wants to be written.
As any good crafts person or artist or parent will tell you, the process involved in bringing anything into being--whether it be a poem, a painting, a piece of furniture, or a child--is as much a result of practice (or attentiveness) as it is surrender. Practice and surrender: This, too, is the path of yoga. The companion along this path is always surprise, the sense of something unknown being discovered. The idea that something moments before was unknown is suddenly recognized as something you have always known. Patiently, it was waiting for you to arrive. The surrender, then, reveals the wisdom; the practice gives way to surprise.
Some days I resist the practice. I stay in bed longer; I offer excuses--fatigue, work, obligation, fear of the practice itself. Like the eager, indulged child, I still, however, crave the surprise I might have experienced, the wisdom waiting there to lend its clarity to my confusion. And so I set out. I go anyway. I decide to practice imperfectly today, as if there is such a thing. I fool myself all the way into the studio and onto my mat, and suddenly, the practice takes over. On my better days, I follow. Other days, I fight, believing I have to work harder. And I do. Either way, I have practiced, and that was the goal in setting out.
This is how I practice everything, it turns out. Whether it's yoga, writing, teaching, parenting, being a loving partner, I have learned that I must accept practicing it all imperfectly. I begin by setting out, and against my better judgment, because judgment can be oh so tricky, I practice my way back into life again. In my own snowy evening's woods, I have discovered this piece of lovely, deep wisdom: Practice is the promise I have to keep. Simply kept, I imagine it will take me many, many, many miles.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
It is said that when Robert Frost sat down to write what has been called by some his most perfect poem Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, he did so in one inspired push. Frost would likely have said he was merely following delight. But he had the good sense to stay in his chair as delight took form, and surprise followed surprise, until at last he had on the page in front of him something resembling wisdom. Frost says as much in his essay The Figure a Poem Makes, in which the venerable poet attempts to describe the process involved in writing a poem. It could also be described as the process of getting out of the way of the poem that wants to be written.
As any good crafts person or artist or parent will tell you, the process involved in bringing anything into being--whether it be a poem, a painting, a piece of furniture, or a child--is as much a result of practice (or attentiveness) as it is surrender. Practice and surrender: This, too, is the path of yoga. The companion along this path is always surprise, the sense of something unknown being discovered. The idea that something moments before was unknown is suddenly recognized as something you have always known. Patiently, it was waiting for you to arrive. The surrender, then, reveals the wisdom; the practice gives way to surprise.
Some days I resist the practice. I stay in bed longer; I offer excuses--fatigue, work, obligation, fear of the practice itself. Like the eager, indulged child, I still, however, crave the surprise I might have experienced, the wisdom waiting there to lend its clarity to my confusion. And so I set out. I go anyway. I decide to practice imperfectly today, as if there is such a thing. I fool myself all the way into the studio and onto my mat, and suddenly, the practice takes over. On my better days, I follow. Other days, I fight, believing I have to work harder. And I do. Either way, I have practiced, and that was the goal in setting out.
This is how I practice everything, it turns out. Whether it's yoga, writing, teaching, parenting, being a loving partner, I have learned that I must accept practicing it all imperfectly. I begin by setting out, and against my better judgment, because judgment can be oh so tricky, I practice my way back into life again. In my own snowy evening's woods, I have discovered this piece of lovely, deep wisdom: Practice is the promise I have to keep. Simply kept, I imagine it will take me many, many, many miles.
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