"All rivers flow home," my teacher says, tilting back his head, gently closing his eyes, and with his hand resting ever so lightly at his solar plexus, I watch as the breath enters and exits, expansive in both measures. "Ah, yes," I say because I can see how this river comes home--straight to heart center--filling lungs and rib cage until it brushes up against the outside world. This, I think, is how we know we are in the world, our spirit coming and going endlessly in the river of the breath.
In the context of the Mysore room, my teacher's words and gestures are not dramatic. It is early morning dark and silent; so, his instruction is entirely authentic. Like stage direction in a dark theater, it is intimate, urgent, vital.
I am reminded of a radio interview I heard in November of the dancer and choreographer Twyla Tharp. At 74, Tharp sounded quite feisty, but sure of herself in a way that only age can grant. Naturally, I caught myself thinking throughout her interview how I would like to sound like Tharp when I reach that age. Able to say, like her, "Good for me!" in recognition of an observed truth shared with an audience that paid attention and understood.
While I am no dancer, I practice a discipline that keeps me close to this "art form with no artifact," as Tharp explained of dance and human movement. It occurred to me that Tharp's confidence--the sound of it that came across the airwaves--comes from an intimate awareness of her body in motion and the many other bodies in motion she has had some hand in training. But it is more than merely the body Tharp is addressing when she acknowledges that "human movement is the basis of all art." She knows very well the sound of her own breath and the unique beat of her own heart. This is what 50-plus years of dance have taught her. She knows the sound of her own independent heartbeat, which means that she knows who she is, her place in the world, and her responsibility as an artist.
At the beginning of her dancing career, Tharp danced in silence with a small band of dedicated, like-minded dancers. Women all, these young students of dance had very few extra funds and--in the earliest days--no place to practice. One of the women of the troupe turned out to be quite resourceful, and this resourcefulness translated into a fierce determination to find a room somewhere where these artists could practice their art. This art that leaves no tangible trace.
What this intrepid dancer found was a list generated by the city of condemned buildings. Naturally, no one would come looking to kick them out from such a place. So, it was in deserted and condemned structures across the landscape of the city where these dancers--in the early dark hours of the morning--practiced and attempted to perfect their art. For five years, they danced in all manner of condemned building and in silence. This, Tharp noted, is the best technique for learning how to listen to the beating of one's own heart, which in turn teaches a dancer about movement in her body. A good technique, but difficult to do day-after-day in silence, Tharp admitted.
When I heard this admission from Tharp, I thought of my ashtanga practice and my fellow tribe of ashtangis. While we do not have to practice in condemned structures, I imagine we would if there were no other available space. Like this troupe of dancers, we come together morning after morning in the darkness--and cold when it comes--to practice for two hours in silence. It is a room of human movement--the basis of all art according to Madame Tharp--and we are in training. We are learning to follow the river of our breath. We are learning how to listen to the beating of our hearts. Our focus is on the breath, and we learn slowly, incrementally over time, the sweet reward of such persistence and diligence. Tharp says, "It is your own determination that evaluates what you do," and I think, yes, determination is its own reward. There are other rewards, both subtle and profound; we pay for them with our silence, which is also the currency that allows the miracles to enter our lives. Like these dancers, this work teaches us what lies beneath our feet, how we stand in the world and what it feels like to occupy our rightful place even as the river of our breath--the bridge between our inner and outer worlds--flows constantly onward.
As far as I know, Norman Maclean did not practice yoga, and he was not a dancer. He was a writer, and pushing a pen across paper was the human movement of his art. During his career, he wrote a semi-autobiographical coming of age story called A River Runs Through It, and Robert Redford eventually made a movie out of it. Both these men, it turns out, have learned something about listening to the sound of their heartbeat. Maclean for writing these words in his story in the first place, and Redford for keeping every last one of them in the screenplay where we hear the author at the end of the film say:
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”
In the context of the Mysore room, my teacher's words and gestures are not dramatic. It is early morning dark and silent; so, his instruction is entirely authentic. Like stage direction in a dark theater, it is intimate, urgent, vital.
I am reminded of a radio interview I heard in November of the dancer and choreographer Twyla Tharp. At 74, Tharp sounded quite feisty, but sure of herself in a way that only age can grant. Naturally, I caught myself thinking throughout her interview how I would like to sound like Tharp when I reach that age. Able to say, like her, "Good for me!" in recognition of an observed truth shared with an audience that paid attention and understood.
While I am no dancer, I practice a discipline that keeps me close to this "art form with no artifact," as Tharp explained of dance and human movement. It occurred to me that Tharp's confidence--the sound of it that came across the airwaves--comes from an intimate awareness of her body in motion and the many other bodies in motion she has had some hand in training. But it is more than merely the body Tharp is addressing when she acknowledges that "human movement is the basis of all art." She knows very well the sound of her own breath and the unique beat of her own heart. This is what 50-plus years of dance have taught her. She knows the sound of her own independent heartbeat, which means that she knows who she is, her place in the world, and her responsibility as an artist.
At the beginning of her dancing career, Tharp danced in silence with a small band of dedicated, like-minded dancers. Women all, these young students of dance had very few extra funds and--in the earliest days--no place to practice. One of the women of the troupe turned out to be quite resourceful, and this resourcefulness translated into a fierce determination to find a room somewhere where these artists could practice their art. This art that leaves no tangible trace.
What this intrepid dancer found was a list generated by the city of condemned buildings. Naturally, no one would come looking to kick them out from such a place. So, it was in deserted and condemned structures across the landscape of the city where these dancers--in the early dark hours of the morning--practiced and attempted to perfect their art. For five years, they danced in all manner of condemned building and in silence. This, Tharp noted, is the best technique for learning how to listen to the beating of one's own heart, which in turn teaches a dancer about movement in her body. A good technique, but difficult to do day-after-day in silence, Tharp admitted.
When I heard this admission from Tharp, I thought of my ashtanga practice and my fellow tribe of ashtangis. While we do not have to practice in condemned structures, I imagine we would if there were no other available space. Like this troupe of dancers, we come together morning after morning in the darkness--and cold when it comes--to practice for two hours in silence. It is a room of human movement--the basis of all art according to Madame Tharp--and we are in training. We are learning to follow the river of our breath. We are learning how to listen to the beating of our hearts. Our focus is on the breath, and we learn slowly, incrementally over time, the sweet reward of such persistence and diligence. Tharp says, "It is your own determination that evaluates what you do," and I think, yes, determination is its own reward. There are other rewards, both subtle and profound; we pay for them with our silence, which is also the currency that allows the miracles to enter our lives. Like these dancers, this work teaches us what lies beneath our feet, how we stand in the world and what it feels like to occupy our rightful place even as the river of our breath--the bridge between our inner and outer worlds--flows constantly onward.
As far as I know, Norman Maclean did not practice yoga, and he was not a dancer. He was a writer, and pushing a pen across paper was the human movement of his art. During his career, he wrote a semi-autobiographical coming of age story called A River Runs Through It, and Robert Redford eventually made a movie out of it. Both these men, it turns out, have learned something about listening to the sound of their heartbeat. Maclean for writing these words in his story in the first place, and Redford for keeping every last one of them in the screenplay where we hear the author at the end of the film say:
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”
Full
body breathing is an extraordinary symphony of both powerful and subtle
movements that massage our internal organs, oscillate our joints, and
alternately tone and release all the muscles in the body. It is a full
participation with life.
- See more at: http://www.gaiamtv.com/article/anatomy-pranayama-understanding-our-breath#sthash.yublFhcZ.dpuf
- See more at: http://www.gaiamtv.com/article/anatomy-pranayama-understanding-our-breath#sthash.yublFhcZ.dpuf
Full
body breathing is an extraordinary symphony of both powerful and subtle
movements that massage our internal organs, oscillate our joints, and
alternately tone and release all the muscles in the body. It is a full
participation with life.
- See more at: http://www.gaiamtv.com/article/anatomy-pranayama-understanding-our-breath#sthash.yublFhcZ.dpuf
- See more at: http://www.gaiamtv.com/article/anatomy-pranayama-understanding-our-breath#sthash.yublFhcZ.dpuf
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