I am reading Dani Shapiro's most recent book Still Writing. It's a strange feeling, discovering a piece of myself on every page. In her adept, practiced hands, Shapiro is laying bare every insecurity I have ever felt as someone who takes up a pen to write. I thank her for giving voice to those idiosyncrasies I have not yet found the words for, but which plague me nonetheless when I sit down to write. Mostly, though, I thank her for making me feel less alone, less like a freak or an impostor, in the habits and quirks that persist when I approach a blank page.
Writing is like any endeavor we devote ourselves to, it becomes better with practice. Shapiro says, in fact, that "the practice is the art." Guruji, of course, said the same thing when he repeatedly spoke the mantra that endures as his legacy to all ashtangis: "Practice and all is coming." I know this; I have even experienced this. How, then, to hold on to this? To trust in this the next time I am plagued by doubts or the setbacks that follow injury? Is my faith really that feeble? The answer, of course, is that we do not hold on. Rather, we surrender. We accept the doubts as part of the practice, and we practice anyway. And we learn to do so over and over and over again. It is our ability, our willingness, to surrender always and again to what we must practice that guarantees our participation in the constantly unraveling mystery that is our art, that is our work, that becomes our life. In the act of doing the thing itself, in our practice of showing up, however imperfectly, we stumble our way into clarity, into an answer, into a moment of truth where, like Gibran's lotus of a thousand petals, our soul unfolds itself, the veil drops away and we get another peek at who we are.
It sounds easy enough, "practice and all is coming." Practice, we tell our children learning to play the piano or soccer or baseball or tennis. Practice, I tell my students when I assign homework. Practice, I remind myself when I find that I am impatient once again because things have not gone as I had planned. I fight against practice because sometimes practice means starting over. At least it feels that way sometimes; and the idea of starting over, again, can feel downright herculean. Starting over: I hesitate, I doubt myself, I grow ever more certain that this time I will fail. And sometimes I do just that. I fail. But so what? Failure is not the problem. Failure, indeed, is inevitable and necessary. The real problem is that I stop believing in the practice. I stop believing in the experience. I stop believing in the mystery.
When Albert Camus interpreted the myth of Sisyphus--the eternal laborer, cursed by the gods to toil ceaselessly in rolling a stone up a mountain only to have to begin again at the bottom--he concluded that Sisyphus, and not the gods, was the true victor. Why? Because the absurdity of the incessant labor made Sisyphus stronger and not merely physically stronger. Life happens, and it happens with regularity, and some of what happens in life is difficult and unfair. Indeed, it can be absurd. According to Camus, we will always find our burden again, and yet there, within our burden, is where "the hour of consciousness" lies. Our ability to climb the mountain once more, like Sisyphus, makes us superior to our fate. Camus used Sisyphus to illustrate our fundamental conflict with the universe. We want order, reason, success. We find disorder, the irrational, failure, in other words, chaos. For Camus, Sisyphus prevails because he accepts his fate. He accepts the difficulties, the absurdities, the fact that he will begin again tomorrow. Rolling that stone becomes his practice, and because Sisyphus is able to embrace that, he can live with passion.
Absurd? Perhaps. But what is the alternative?
"The practice is the art," I now remind myself when I face the blank page. "The practice is the art," I intone when I unroll my yoga mat again. "The practice is the art," I repeat when a a new class files in at the start of another semester. And there I'll be at the foot of the mountain, like Sisyphus, and I'll see the sun peeking over the top--yes, that means the shadow will be there, too--and it will be lighting my way.
Writing is like any endeavor we devote ourselves to, it becomes better with practice. Shapiro says, in fact, that "the practice is the art." Guruji, of course, said the same thing when he repeatedly spoke the mantra that endures as his legacy to all ashtangis: "Practice and all is coming." I know this; I have even experienced this. How, then, to hold on to this? To trust in this the next time I am plagued by doubts or the setbacks that follow injury? Is my faith really that feeble? The answer, of course, is that we do not hold on. Rather, we surrender. We accept the doubts as part of the practice, and we practice anyway. And we learn to do so over and over and over again. It is our ability, our willingness, to surrender always and again to what we must practice that guarantees our participation in the constantly unraveling mystery that is our art, that is our work, that becomes our life. In the act of doing the thing itself, in our practice of showing up, however imperfectly, we stumble our way into clarity, into an answer, into a moment of truth where, like Gibran's lotus of a thousand petals, our soul unfolds itself, the veil drops away and we get another peek at who we are.
It sounds easy enough, "practice and all is coming." Practice, we tell our children learning to play the piano or soccer or baseball or tennis. Practice, I tell my students when I assign homework. Practice, I remind myself when I find that I am impatient once again because things have not gone as I had planned. I fight against practice because sometimes practice means starting over. At least it feels that way sometimes; and the idea of starting over, again, can feel downright herculean. Starting over: I hesitate, I doubt myself, I grow ever more certain that this time I will fail. And sometimes I do just that. I fail. But so what? Failure is not the problem. Failure, indeed, is inevitable and necessary. The real problem is that I stop believing in the practice. I stop believing in the experience. I stop believing in the mystery.
When Albert Camus interpreted the myth of Sisyphus--the eternal laborer, cursed by the gods to toil ceaselessly in rolling a stone up a mountain only to have to begin again at the bottom--he concluded that Sisyphus, and not the gods, was the true victor. Why? Because the absurdity of the incessant labor made Sisyphus stronger and not merely physically stronger. Life happens, and it happens with regularity, and some of what happens in life is difficult and unfair. Indeed, it can be absurd. According to Camus, we will always find our burden again, and yet there, within our burden, is where "the hour of consciousness" lies. Our ability to climb the mountain once more, like Sisyphus, makes us superior to our fate. Camus used Sisyphus to illustrate our fundamental conflict with the universe. We want order, reason, success. We find disorder, the irrational, failure, in other words, chaos. For Camus, Sisyphus prevails because he accepts his fate. He accepts the difficulties, the absurdities, the fact that he will begin again tomorrow. Rolling that stone becomes his practice, and because Sisyphus is able to embrace that, he can live with passion.
Absurd? Perhaps. But what is the alternative?
"The practice is the art," I now remind myself when I face the blank page. "The practice is the art," I intone when I unroll my yoga mat again. "The practice is the art," I repeat when a a new class files in at the start of another semester. And there I'll be at the foot of the mountain, like Sisyphus, and I'll see the sun peeking over the top--yes, that means the shadow will be there, too--and it will be lighting my way.
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