The marathon that has become the holiday season is spent, and the new year has arrived a bit like Aesop's tortoise, slow to clear the starting line. Give it a few weeks, and it will be difficult to remember that we were anything but the hare. Speed does its best to define us, making us feel by turns über-efficient or woefully behind. And by speed, I do mean technology, all those gadgets we have learned to carry with us so that we never have to miss what might happen. Because I come from a time before so much technology forced its way into our lives, I do my best to adapt. I accept a certain amount of wireless connectivity, but I prefer more tangible encounters. I accept, too, that there is much that I will potentially miss in the way of networking. Nevertheless, I confess that I am not fond of technology's 24-hour "noise," and the distance it is intended to fold has failed to bring me closer to those I care for in the ways that reflect what closeness means to me.
It has taken time for me to learn that life is a journey and not a race. Getting older helps, but in no way is age a talisman for averting the sense of living in a state of perpetual urgency. The remedy I found most effective this holiday season was slowing down. On purpose. Even a small amount helped like a tap on the brakes when I felt myself moving toward overdrive. Sure, this meant that I was making choices. By deliberately, consciously choosing certain activities, I was inevitably canceling others. And still, it felt as though I had time for everything. Writing notes on Christmas cards, baking, more baking, making a Christmas dinner with all of the extras, enjoying dinner at home with friends, going to the movies, twice, hiking eight miles on New Year's Day with a close friend, planting a tree with friends and dogs in tow, shopping with my daughters, getting to my yoga practice, enjoying conversation with my daughters the morning after Christmas when it really is possible to feel time stand still. This is undoubtedly what is intended by the term "making time." It requires some consideration and deliberation to make things happen, just as it always has, only now we need a reminder. There's room enough still for the serendipitous and the happenstance. Perhaps even more.
I have written many times here in this blog about the mantra invoked time and again by the founder of the ashtanga yoga discipline Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, "Practice and all is coming." In the current issue of The Sun magazine, which also happens to be the 40th anniversary edition of the literary journal, founder, editor, publisher, writer and all around wise guy--in the sense of guru--Sy Safransky is, aptly, the interview subject of the month. In the interview, Safransky reveals the story of The Sun's origins and the secret of its longevity. The secret, it turns out, is the same for anyone who has ever tended to the care and feeding of any living thing: lots of hard work, perseverance, and a whole lot of love for the thing you are laboring over and into existence. During the interview, and as a way of attempting to explain why The Sun has been able to survive, Safransky shares a recent essay he has read by Buddhist scholar Norman Fisher. Fisher's essay is about Zen Master Suzuki Roshi. Suzuki Roshi was one of the first Japanese Zen teachers to come to the U.S., like Jois who was the first ashtanga yoga master to bring his teachings to the U.S. Also like Jois, Suzuki honored his practice every day regardless of what was happening in his life. As a result of this allegiance to his practice, Suzuki was able to teach that through steadiness and faithfulness, routine, and repetition, and by being as present as possible without any expectation of result, that something subtle would happen. In other words, practice and all is coming. Practice, and you shall find your way. Practice, and we might understand that we are already where we are meant to be.
According to Fisher's essay, Suzuki did not routinely travel all over the world to lecture and teach. Instead, "he just stayed around the temple taking care of things--and, you know, taking care of his practice." This picture of Suzuki tending to what needed tending around his temple reminded Safransky of his own constant, unerring devotion to his practice as the creator and editor and publisher of The Sun. For Safransky, the office of The Sun is his temple, and he practices there daily.
The winter solstice celebrates the return of the light. We light our houses and our trees at Christmas, I believe, in part, in honor of this celebration. We turn on the lights, and the darkness recedes. With a little bit of light, we can find our way back or a way out. I stayed close to home this holiday season. I tended to the hearth, where I duly labored over the many tasks involved in making meals and crafting desserts. I sat at my desk and devoted my writing time to the task of connecting with friends by sending out our routine holiday wishes, which never seem routine to me. I cleaned the garden, walked the dog, and did all of the things I already wrote about above. There was repetition and routine. There was some tedium and fatigue. But, I will also admit, there was a subtle happening, a sense of peace, like a deep, relaxed exhale, and the notion of all things unfolding as they should. In other words, things felt very merry, indeed.
It is worth remembering that the tortoise in Aesop's fable did, in the end, win the race and not through swiftness or guile or trickery. The tortoise made his way from start to finish by persevering one step at a time, like Suzuki or Jois in practice, without expectation of any result. I am learning, like the slow and steady tortoise, that patience is rewarded. Even if it is not witnessed in the moment. I have learned this in the kitchen, in the classroom, at my writing desk, and in my yoga practice. In my asana practice, I have learned that it is fear--or the expectation of result, the notion that I will not execute the pose this time--that takes me out of the moment and out of the movement of breath and body working together. Instead, I am back in my head worrying, ego at the controls. Last week in practice, I was reminded of the importance of a subtle pause between movements in an advanced pose, and that pause made all the difference. I am beginning to believe that it is there in that pause--in that place where Suzuki says that something subtle happens--where our wisdom grows.
It has taken time for me to learn that life is a journey and not a race. Getting older helps, but in no way is age a talisman for averting the sense of living in a state of perpetual urgency. The remedy I found most effective this holiday season was slowing down. On purpose. Even a small amount helped like a tap on the brakes when I felt myself moving toward overdrive. Sure, this meant that I was making choices. By deliberately, consciously choosing certain activities, I was inevitably canceling others. And still, it felt as though I had time for everything. Writing notes on Christmas cards, baking, more baking, making a Christmas dinner with all of the extras, enjoying dinner at home with friends, going to the movies, twice, hiking eight miles on New Year's Day with a close friend, planting a tree with friends and dogs in tow, shopping with my daughters, getting to my yoga practice, enjoying conversation with my daughters the morning after Christmas when it really is possible to feel time stand still. This is undoubtedly what is intended by the term "making time." It requires some consideration and deliberation to make things happen, just as it always has, only now we need a reminder. There's room enough still for the serendipitous and the happenstance. Perhaps even more.
I have written many times here in this blog about the mantra invoked time and again by the founder of the ashtanga yoga discipline Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, "Practice and all is coming." In the current issue of The Sun magazine, which also happens to be the 40th anniversary edition of the literary journal, founder, editor, publisher, writer and all around wise guy--in the sense of guru--Sy Safransky is, aptly, the interview subject of the month. In the interview, Safransky reveals the story of The Sun's origins and the secret of its longevity. The secret, it turns out, is the same for anyone who has ever tended to the care and feeding of any living thing: lots of hard work, perseverance, and a whole lot of love for the thing you are laboring over and into existence. During the interview, and as a way of attempting to explain why The Sun has been able to survive, Safransky shares a recent essay he has read by Buddhist scholar Norman Fisher. Fisher's essay is about Zen Master Suzuki Roshi. Suzuki Roshi was one of the first Japanese Zen teachers to come to the U.S., like Jois who was the first ashtanga yoga master to bring his teachings to the U.S. Also like Jois, Suzuki honored his practice every day regardless of what was happening in his life. As a result of this allegiance to his practice, Suzuki was able to teach that through steadiness and faithfulness, routine, and repetition, and by being as present as possible without any expectation of result, that something subtle would happen. In other words, practice and all is coming. Practice, and you shall find your way. Practice, and we might understand that we are already where we are meant to be.
According to Fisher's essay, Suzuki did not routinely travel all over the world to lecture and teach. Instead, "he just stayed around the temple taking care of things--and, you know, taking care of his practice." This picture of Suzuki tending to what needed tending around his temple reminded Safransky of his own constant, unerring devotion to his practice as the creator and editor and publisher of The Sun. For Safransky, the office of The Sun is his temple, and he practices there daily.
The winter solstice celebrates the return of the light. We light our houses and our trees at Christmas, I believe, in part, in honor of this celebration. We turn on the lights, and the darkness recedes. With a little bit of light, we can find our way back or a way out. I stayed close to home this holiday season. I tended to the hearth, where I duly labored over the many tasks involved in making meals and crafting desserts. I sat at my desk and devoted my writing time to the task of connecting with friends by sending out our routine holiday wishes, which never seem routine to me. I cleaned the garden, walked the dog, and did all of the things I already wrote about above. There was repetition and routine. There was some tedium and fatigue. But, I will also admit, there was a subtle happening, a sense of peace, like a deep, relaxed exhale, and the notion of all things unfolding as they should. In other words, things felt very merry, indeed.
It is worth remembering that the tortoise in Aesop's fable did, in the end, win the race and not through swiftness or guile or trickery. The tortoise made his way from start to finish by persevering one step at a time, like Suzuki or Jois in practice, without expectation of any result. I am learning, like the slow and steady tortoise, that patience is rewarded. Even if it is not witnessed in the moment. I have learned this in the kitchen, in the classroom, at my writing desk, and in my yoga practice. In my asana practice, I have learned that it is fear--or the expectation of result, the notion that I will not execute the pose this time--that takes me out of the moment and out of the movement of breath and body working together. Instead, I am back in my head worrying, ego at the controls. Last week in practice, I was reminded of the importance of a subtle pause between movements in an advanced pose, and that pause made all the difference. I am beginning to believe that it is there in that pause--in that place where Suzuki says that something subtle happens--where our wisdom grows.
Comments
Post a Comment