Monday, I walked out on my yoga practice. Like a disgruntled lover, I rolled up my mat and left right after completing the opening sequence. Nadi Shodana-Nadi Schmodana, I thought. I even told Itay, "This isn't fun anymore." The surprise registered. I saw his eyebrows go up. And because Itay is a good teacher, he offered the following wisdom without passing judgment, which was a good thing because I was judging myself most harshly at that moment. He put his hand on my back and said, "Take it one day at a time."
Then, I left. That's when the surprise I had seen on Itay's face, just a flash, mind you, registered with me. Only mine was like a blow to the gut where I do believe the ego goes to hide out from time to time. What had I done? I love this practice. What was I doing walking away from it? Why was I so upset? In those first moments, it felt as though I had removed an anchor, and I had, really, only I didn't see it that way just then. I had made a decision to cast off, but where the hell did I think I was going? Was I, like Columbus and his crew, sailing toward the end of the world or into a broader future?
There's a reason the Greeks believed the circle to be the perfect form. It's everywhere in nature: seasons, cycles, stages, birth and death; and this big blue marble, turning ever so slowing on its axis in space, is not flat, but round. Why? So that we have the opportunity to meet ourselves again and again, and if we're lucky with more humor upon each new encounter. As I descended the stairs after my aborted practice Monday, I knew I was not leaving for good. I would circle back, but I was confused. I knew I liked this practice. I still did. Ashtanga continually challenges me physically, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually. I recognize my growth; I relish the expansiveness, particularly the physical feelings of expansiveness that occur during practice. On a physical level, the practice can feel downright--shall I admit it--joyful. There, I said it, and I do mean it. Yes, the practice is also physically demanding, but practiced routinely, I do sense the physical opening, the momentary clear channel that allows the joy that resides within us to peek out and whisper its subtle hello. However, during the past month, I had been missing that physical joy. My lower back was still sore. While I was not pushing myself to do the new poses I had been given--the poses that had resulted in a sore lower back--I was also not reconciled about not incorporating them. Underlying my practice of late was the sense that I had to get back to these poses, otherwise, what, was I surrendering?
I was, and it turns out, that is exactly what I needed to do. Again. Right? Monday, when I stood up to leave, I surrendered. I heard myself say out loud, "This isn't fun anymore." Du-uh!, responded my lower back. I finally admitted it. I might have been confused, but guess what, my lower back was relieved. Literally. It stopped hurting. No joke.
When I returned to practice Wednesday, my lower back still in its state of relief, I was hopeful yet cautious. I had not yet determined what to do when I arrived at "those poses." "Decide not to decide," Itay has counseled on more than one occasion, meaning, go inside, listen, see what your body instructs you to do when you get there. In other words, trust the practice. It felt good to be moving again minus the dull ache that had accompanied me for the past month. Without pain, I sensed the joyful whispering of release return. As I approached what I had begun to identify as the back-compressing sequence of the second series--eka pada sirsasana A, B, C and dwi pada sirsasana--Itay observed, "Ah, so we're going to compress the lower back again." He was reminding me that I had options, and I was grateful and relieved. The surrendering continued. One of the most advanced practitioners of our Shala, also a student of Itay's and an exemplary yoga teacher in her own right, piped in. She suggested I ask Itay for a "game plan," a means of easing my way into the newest poses, a path into and through the subsequent asanas that would bring me and my awareness, and the physical murmur of joyfulness, along for the ride.
Itay is fond of telling us, "Trust will take you a long way." This axiom of Itay's is rule number one in ashtanga, only it sounds a little different. Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, the founder of Ashtanga Yoga, said it like this, "Practice and all is coming." In other words, be patient. This also happens to be a good rule for life, and that, of course, is no coincidence. My assigned game plan, therefore, begins with patience or trust, and comes in the form of Kasyapasana, as a research pose. This is the asana that will take me a long way, even if that also involves considerable time, as in, maybe even a year. But so what, right? Is not that the cost of surrender? Or, I should ask, is not that its benefit?
Kasyapa is a sage, a saint, a rishi from Indian mythology. Legend tells that Kasyapa is the father of Surya (the sun god) and all living beings. He is represented in the constellation of the Big Dipper and is often called Prajapati, the Progenitor. I like the idea of researching this pose, waiting for the necessary opening in hips and heart to move on. It is not so surprising to me that I come face-to-face with Kasyapa at this time in my life, and my practice. Many changes are in store for me in the coming months, and some feel long overdue or long postponed. These changes have to do with creation and career, so I am grateful to receive both blessings and guidance from Prajapati in the months ahead. I will need both.
In his book A Path with Heart, Jack Kornfield writes that we stop opening to the truth when we begin to either grasp at or resist any experience. I have, at times, grasped at and resisted many experiences in practice and in life. However, with all that practice, some wisdom has accrued, and I have learned a little bit about the reason for the resistance and the grasping. You see, trust can lag behind the fear and the ego. Sometimes for years. But what happens when trust catches up and decides to lead? If Itay is right, I'm thinking it's going to take me a long way.
Then, I left. That's when the surprise I had seen on Itay's face, just a flash, mind you, registered with me. Only mine was like a blow to the gut where I do believe the ego goes to hide out from time to time. What had I done? I love this practice. What was I doing walking away from it? Why was I so upset? In those first moments, it felt as though I had removed an anchor, and I had, really, only I didn't see it that way just then. I had made a decision to cast off, but where the hell did I think I was going? Was I, like Columbus and his crew, sailing toward the end of the world or into a broader future?
There's a reason the Greeks believed the circle to be the perfect form. It's everywhere in nature: seasons, cycles, stages, birth and death; and this big blue marble, turning ever so slowing on its axis in space, is not flat, but round. Why? So that we have the opportunity to meet ourselves again and again, and if we're lucky with more humor upon each new encounter. As I descended the stairs after my aborted practice Monday, I knew I was not leaving for good. I would circle back, but I was confused. I knew I liked this practice. I still did. Ashtanga continually challenges me physically, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually. I recognize my growth; I relish the expansiveness, particularly the physical feelings of expansiveness that occur during practice. On a physical level, the practice can feel downright--shall I admit it--joyful. There, I said it, and I do mean it. Yes, the practice is also physically demanding, but practiced routinely, I do sense the physical opening, the momentary clear channel that allows the joy that resides within us to peek out and whisper its subtle hello. However, during the past month, I had been missing that physical joy. My lower back was still sore. While I was not pushing myself to do the new poses I had been given--the poses that had resulted in a sore lower back--I was also not reconciled about not incorporating them. Underlying my practice of late was the sense that I had to get back to these poses, otherwise, what, was I surrendering?
I was, and it turns out, that is exactly what I needed to do. Again. Right? Monday, when I stood up to leave, I surrendered. I heard myself say out loud, "This isn't fun anymore." Du-uh!, responded my lower back. I finally admitted it. I might have been confused, but guess what, my lower back was relieved. Literally. It stopped hurting. No joke.
When I returned to practice Wednesday, my lower back still in its state of relief, I was hopeful yet cautious. I had not yet determined what to do when I arrived at "those poses." "Decide not to decide," Itay has counseled on more than one occasion, meaning, go inside, listen, see what your body instructs you to do when you get there. In other words, trust the practice. It felt good to be moving again minus the dull ache that had accompanied me for the past month. Without pain, I sensed the joyful whispering of release return. As I approached what I had begun to identify as the back-compressing sequence of the second series--eka pada sirsasana A, B, C and dwi pada sirsasana--Itay observed, "Ah, so we're going to compress the lower back again." He was reminding me that I had options, and I was grateful and relieved. The surrendering continued. One of the most advanced practitioners of our Shala, also a student of Itay's and an exemplary yoga teacher in her own right, piped in. She suggested I ask Itay for a "game plan," a means of easing my way into the newest poses, a path into and through the subsequent asanas that would bring me and my awareness, and the physical murmur of joyfulness, along for the ride.
Itay is fond of telling us, "Trust will take you a long way." This axiom of Itay's is rule number one in ashtanga, only it sounds a little different. Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, the founder of Ashtanga Yoga, said it like this, "Practice and all is coming." In other words, be patient. This also happens to be a good rule for life, and that, of course, is no coincidence. My assigned game plan, therefore, begins with patience or trust, and comes in the form of Kasyapasana, as a research pose. This is the asana that will take me a long way, even if that also involves considerable time, as in, maybe even a year. But so what, right? Is not that the cost of surrender? Or, I should ask, is not that its benefit?
Kasyapa is a sage, a saint, a rishi from Indian mythology. Legend tells that Kasyapa is the father of Surya (the sun god) and all living beings. He is represented in the constellation of the Big Dipper and is often called Prajapati, the Progenitor. I like the idea of researching this pose, waiting for the necessary opening in hips and heart to move on. It is not so surprising to me that I come face-to-face with Kasyapa at this time in my life, and my practice. Many changes are in store for me in the coming months, and some feel long overdue or long postponed. These changes have to do with creation and career, so I am grateful to receive both blessings and guidance from Prajapati in the months ahead. I will need both.
In his book A Path with Heart, Jack Kornfield writes that we stop opening to the truth when we begin to either grasp at or resist any experience. I have, at times, grasped at and resisted many experiences in practice and in life. However, with all that practice, some wisdom has accrued, and I have learned a little bit about the reason for the resistance and the grasping. You see, trust can lag behind the fear and the ego. Sometimes for years. But what happens when trust catches up and decides to lead? If Itay is right, I'm thinking it's going to take me a long way.
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