Sometimes, when life interferes and I am prevented from practicing yoga as much as I would like to, I have to remind myself: This is why there are eight limbs on this path. Balance, as it turns out, is about more than the practice of postures. In yoga, the creation of a balanced life--Artha--is one of life's primary aims.
I recently went with my family to the Eastern Sierras for a backpacking trip. We hiked with a group of friends out of Lake Sabrina, which is located approximately 14 miles from highway 395 off Main Street in downtown Bishop. It was a great trip. My youngest daughter caught her first fish--a very small trout that was thrown back into the lake. Catch-and-release, another first for my daughter. Joining us on our trek was our nine-month-old puppy, a Chihuahua-Jack Russell mix we adopted from our local shelter at the end of March. Señor Chico, the runt of the litter, mind you, completed a 10-mile round trip hike and camped out like a seasoned vet (no pun intended) under the stars. One of my good friends was part of the backpacking troupe. In the past few months, we had spent little time together. The trip, then, provided the opportunity, the wide-open space, and the freedom from those routines that have kept us moving in other circles and out of each others lives.
It was a great trip. Still, a part of me would have been happy to have stayed home. A part of me did not want to miss my yoga practice.
I have always been one of those bodies in motion types. I spent years as a disciplined runner, racing occasionally, but mostly just plain adamant about getting my daily dose of runner's high. When I took up rock climbing a couple of decades ago, I incorporated this new passion into my established runner's routine. The running, in fact, complemented my climbing skills and helped to keep me in shape for the long approaches to many a climb of distinction. When the seasonal cold or flu would strike, I would be miserable, and not so much from the visiting malady, but because I was kept from my habit of running or climbing. Naturally, there were the physical discomforts. However, the psychological discomfort--always self-inflicted--was infinitely greater. As my better nature prevailed, and the symptoms waned, I would count my blessings and acknowledge my long list of good fortune. Every so often I would imagine, with enormous humility, the challenge I would face if I suddenly lost a limb or became terminally ill or quadriplegic. Who would I be then if I could not say I was a runner or a climber? How did my identity become so much a part of what I could do?
And now I see how I have been attempting to do this again with my yoga practice. Ashtanga yogis are prone to this, or so Itay, my teacher, has told us, his fellow ashtangis. According to one of Itay's earliest yoga teachers, Erich Schiffmann, ashtangis are hard of hearing. (I believe Erich Schiffmann was referencing deep listening here.) On a not-too-distant Sunday morning before our led practice began, Itay also shared the following with us from Richard Freeman: "Ashtanga yoga is pranayama for the restless." I heard that one, loud and clear, like a bell, or a knock on the side of the head.
Beware your restless nature (or be aware of it). This is the mantra I have since adopted for my yoga practice. Or maybe I should say, this is the mantra I use to stay respectful of my yoga practice. After all, Newton's First Law of Motion instructs: An object in motion stays in motion until a force acts upon it. And act force does in the form of children, jobs, partners, and the countless quotidian obligations life imposes. Not to mention the other responsibilities that descend upon us unexpected and uninvited.
Yoga teacher and author Rolf Gates writes in his book Meditations from the Mat, "Yoga is the practice of celebrating what is." I like this. It is a balm for my restlessness. I am learning to carry it with me like the mantra I noted above. It is the yoga "mat" I can unroll anywhere. Because.... Life interferes. And. Life teaches. The lesson is: I am always practicing yoga.
I recently went with my family to the Eastern Sierras for a backpacking trip. We hiked with a group of friends out of Lake Sabrina, which is located approximately 14 miles from highway 395 off Main Street in downtown Bishop. It was a great trip. My youngest daughter caught her first fish--a very small trout that was thrown back into the lake. Catch-and-release, another first for my daughter. Joining us on our trek was our nine-month-old puppy, a Chihuahua-Jack Russell mix we adopted from our local shelter at the end of March. Señor Chico, the runt of the litter, mind you, completed a 10-mile round trip hike and camped out like a seasoned vet (no pun intended) under the stars. One of my good friends was part of the backpacking troupe. In the past few months, we had spent little time together. The trip, then, provided the opportunity, the wide-open space, and the freedom from those routines that have kept us moving in other circles and out of each others lives.
It was a great trip. Still, a part of me would have been happy to have stayed home. A part of me did not want to miss my yoga practice.
I have always been one of those bodies in motion types. I spent years as a disciplined runner, racing occasionally, but mostly just plain adamant about getting my daily dose of runner's high. When I took up rock climbing a couple of decades ago, I incorporated this new passion into my established runner's routine. The running, in fact, complemented my climbing skills and helped to keep me in shape for the long approaches to many a climb of distinction. When the seasonal cold or flu would strike, I would be miserable, and not so much from the visiting malady, but because I was kept from my habit of running or climbing. Naturally, there were the physical discomforts. However, the psychological discomfort--always self-inflicted--was infinitely greater. As my better nature prevailed, and the symptoms waned, I would count my blessings and acknowledge my long list of good fortune. Every so often I would imagine, with enormous humility, the challenge I would face if I suddenly lost a limb or became terminally ill or quadriplegic. Who would I be then if I could not say I was a runner or a climber? How did my identity become so much a part of what I could do?
And now I see how I have been attempting to do this again with my yoga practice. Ashtanga yogis are prone to this, or so Itay, my teacher, has told us, his fellow ashtangis. According to one of Itay's earliest yoga teachers, Erich Schiffmann, ashtangis are hard of hearing. (I believe Erich Schiffmann was referencing deep listening here.) On a not-too-distant Sunday morning before our led practice began, Itay also shared the following with us from Richard Freeman: "Ashtanga yoga is pranayama for the restless." I heard that one, loud and clear, like a bell, or a knock on the side of the head.
Beware your restless nature (or be aware of it). This is the mantra I have since adopted for my yoga practice. Or maybe I should say, this is the mantra I use to stay respectful of my yoga practice. After all, Newton's First Law of Motion instructs: An object in motion stays in motion until a force acts upon it. And act force does in the form of children, jobs, partners, and the countless quotidian obligations life imposes. Not to mention the other responsibilities that descend upon us unexpected and uninvited.
Yoga teacher and author Rolf Gates writes in his book Meditations from the Mat, "Yoga is the practice of celebrating what is." I like this. It is a balm for my restlessness. I am learning to carry it with me like the mantra I noted above. It is the yoga "mat" I can unroll anywhere. Because.... Life interferes. And. Life teaches. The lesson is: I am always practicing yoga.
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