Breathing fast and slow

In Swami Satchidananda’s translation of the Yoga Sutras by Patanjali, the capital “s” sage of the text that explains yoga to the seeker, Satchidananda speaks of the secret of coming together to practice this ancient art. He says, “There is joy in being together, that’s all.” That’s the secret. No attachment, no expectation, and joy. This is yoga. Of course, even joy requires practice. As a dedicated student of ashtanga yoga, I am naturally committed to the physical practice, also known as the asana . While the physical practice has many traditions—Iyengar, Anusara, Yin, Flow, Kundalini, to name a few—it is important to understand that the asana is only one small part—one limb—of the entire eight-limb path that is yoga. The larger journey takes shape as we leave our mats, step out of the studio and into the world. I invite you to join me in a weekly 60-minute exploration of the multiple realms of yoga where we might venture beyond our comfort zones and go Out on a Limb to

On Sylvia Boorstein's webpage , she is described as a meditation teacher, psychotherapist and storyteller, my favorite title, by the way. Added to this list of titles is an ellipsis, indicating Boorstein's many other significant roles: mother, grandmother, Buddhist, author, and founding teacher of Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Woodacre, California. While I have not yet attended a retreat or workshop featuring Boorstein, I have read articles she has written and many more books and articles in which Boorstein's teachings have been shared, cited and offered as valuable lessons learned by others on the path toward awakening, living more peacefully, or seeking a fuller experience of life. In Dani Shapiro's memoir Devotion , Boorstein is featured prominently. From Shapiro's writing, I learned the following, by proxy, from Boorstein. She said, "The whole world is a lesson in what's true." The whole world is a lesson in what's true : I love how inclu

This morning, I begin my day by trimming the wick of the candle that sits on the piece of furniture I have fashioned into an altar for my meditation sessions. It's a plain wooden box with a removable lid, not so very big. It sits in a corner of our guest room where our oldest comes to sleep when she's in town. Inside this box are stacks of the children's books we read to our youngest night after night after night when she was a smaller version of herself. These books--sacred in their own right--give some weight to this altar. And I like to think that the words pressed upon their pages--kind, but mischievous guardians all--will take my thoughts and prayers, my worries and my plans out for a spin, leaving me alone to practice keeping quiet, getting still. I trim the wick and strike the match, today, like yesterday. I light the candle and sit in silence learning, once again, to watch my mind, to let it go, to recognize, even for a moment, what it feels like to be at peace. T

After practice this morning, I met a man named Douglas. Douglas was collecting for a homeless shelter in the city of Compton, and he had set up his chair and table outside a neighborhood drug store where I had stopped to purchase some bandages--you know, the small variety that come with adhesive and cartoon characters for minor scraps and cuts. As I approached Douglas' table, he looked me right in the eyes and smiled, the kind of smile that is difficult to walk past without returning. My first thought: A good salesman. But I also thought his smile was genuine, and his eyes were clear and bright, and I could tell he had something to say. We exchanged good mornings, and Douglas asked me if I were familiar with the shelter he was there collecting for. When I told him that I had seen other people like himself collecting for shelters outside of various markets, he was quick to tell me that all of these organizations are not the same. Douglas wanted to be sure that I heard about this par