Sometimes, I miss my yoga practice, as in, I don't make it to the Shala for practice. Some mornings, I'm too tired to rise early enough or a family obligation interferes or I accept the responsibility of some extra duty that takes me away from my yoga practice for a couple of days. Of course, I also have a work schedule, and I'm generally pretty diligent about arranging my practice around it. Still, I have never been able to practice the requisite six days at the Shala. Occasionally, I will practice the asanas at home, but more often, my home practice involves pranayama and meditation. From time to time, I am envious of my fellow ashtangis who seem able to practice every day, and sometimes more than once a day. Quickly enough, however, I am able to reign in the envy, reminding myself that this practice is a journey and its path, and the manner of its unfolding, is as unique as the many practitioners who come to the Shala to roll our their mats on the floor.
The practice itself has made me more forgiving of myself. This is a good development because I have a tendency to become strident in my efforts to do, well, to do most anything. Whether it's teaching, practicing yoga, parenting, cooking, writing, being a good friend, I begin always with the grand expectation of myself. And what's wrong with that, right? Isn't it preferable to do a good job, to want to do one's best? Of course, it is, and yet.... I have watched the following happen with my grand expectations: The task, the intention, the will to do good becomes a burden, self-imposed, mind you. So much so that, in a way, everything I attempt is tainted by the anxiety of mastery. Long ago, I was going to be the purest vegetarian. This was before the vegan fad. However, instead of learning about how to eat well without meat in my diet, I learned how to fixate about food. Food became a challenge and a chore rather than a source of fuel or celebration. It took many years before I could appreciate Julia Child's wisdom about food. Time and again, I have forfeited discovery for a sense of certainty, flawed as it might be, feeling as though I had to hide my ignorance, or better, my fears about not being good enough or not knowing enough.
The good news is that this burden I make of everything, I do not have to carry it. Wait, that's not it. This burden I make of everything, I do not even need to create it. The burden is a choice. (Big sigh of relief to be heard here.) The Buddha said that "all true teachings have but one taste, the taste of liberation." When I think of not struggling so against myself, I can sense the liberation.
When Sri K. Pattabhi Jois said "Practice and all is coming," he, too, was offering liberation. No need to struggle. You do, and you learn. You do, and slowly, slowly, you learn not only about the poses, but about who you are. And surprise, surprise, I am learning that I am not these poses; I am learning, slowly, slowly, that I am not even me doing these poses. And here's what I mean. Itay has reminded me on several occasions to be gentle with myself. "This is an advanced practice," he says, and the grasping part of me will attach itself to that word "advanced," and allow it to massage my ego. Then, recently, I was watching one of Eddie Stern's installments of Urban Yogis. (Eddie Stern is the founder of Ashtanga Yoga New York. Urban Yogis are short films showcasing individuals whose lives have been transformed by yoga.) It featured a female artist, an ashtangi, recovering from a cancer that attacked her mouth. At one point during this woman's battle with cancer, she could not practice. And yet, she found a way. She discovered that she could visualize herself performing her practice. She subsequently took up her ashtanga practice again by performing it entirely, pose by pose, by visualizing it. Her aha moment came when she discovered that she didn't even need a body to do yoga. Now I understand what an advanced practice truly is.
At Itay's Shala, I have found a place where I am learning to surrender. My practice there seems to be shining a light on the landscape of my life, and that landscape appears to be dotted with a multitude of little white flags. No wonder Arjuna meets Krishna on a battlefield in The Bhagavad Gita. What better place to meet myself over and over again. What better place to fall and find my wings.
The practice itself has made me more forgiving of myself. This is a good development because I have a tendency to become strident in my efforts to do, well, to do most anything. Whether it's teaching, practicing yoga, parenting, cooking, writing, being a good friend, I begin always with the grand expectation of myself. And what's wrong with that, right? Isn't it preferable to do a good job, to want to do one's best? Of course, it is, and yet.... I have watched the following happen with my grand expectations: The task, the intention, the will to do good becomes a burden, self-imposed, mind you. So much so that, in a way, everything I attempt is tainted by the anxiety of mastery. Long ago, I was going to be the purest vegetarian. This was before the vegan fad. However, instead of learning about how to eat well without meat in my diet, I learned how to fixate about food. Food became a challenge and a chore rather than a source of fuel or celebration. It took many years before I could appreciate Julia Child's wisdom about food. Time and again, I have forfeited discovery for a sense of certainty, flawed as it might be, feeling as though I had to hide my ignorance, or better, my fears about not being good enough or not knowing enough.
The good news is that this burden I make of everything, I do not have to carry it. Wait, that's not it. This burden I make of everything, I do not even need to create it. The burden is a choice. (Big sigh of relief to be heard here.) The Buddha said that "all true teachings have but one taste, the taste of liberation." When I think of not struggling so against myself, I can sense the liberation.
When Sri K. Pattabhi Jois said "Practice and all is coming," he, too, was offering liberation. No need to struggle. You do, and you learn. You do, and slowly, slowly, you learn not only about the poses, but about who you are. And surprise, surprise, I am learning that I am not these poses; I am learning, slowly, slowly, that I am not even me doing these poses. And here's what I mean. Itay has reminded me on several occasions to be gentle with myself. "This is an advanced practice," he says, and the grasping part of me will attach itself to that word "advanced," and allow it to massage my ego. Then, recently, I was watching one of Eddie Stern's installments of Urban Yogis. (Eddie Stern is the founder of Ashtanga Yoga New York. Urban Yogis are short films showcasing individuals whose lives have been transformed by yoga.) It featured a female artist, an ashtangi, recovering from a cancer that attacked her mouth. At one point during this woman's battle with cancer, she could not practice. And yet, she found a way. She discovered that she could visualize herself performing her practice. She subsequently took up her ashtanga practice again by performing it entirely, pose by pose, by visualizing it. Her aha moment came when she discovered that she didn't even need a body to do yoga. Now I understand what an advanced practice truly is.
At Itay's Shala, I have found a place where I am learning to surrender. My practice there seems to be shining a light on the landscape of my life, and that landscape appears to be dotted with a multitude of little white flags. No wonder Arjuna meets Krishna on a battlefield in The Bhagavad Gita. What better place to meet myself over and over again. What better place to fall and find my wings.
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