Breathing fast and slow

Spanish moss and resurrection fern carpet an oak tree on Saint Catherine's Island, Georgia. By William D Bone - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=35261473    And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away from wherever you are, to look for your soul?                         Mary Oliver,  excerpted from "Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?"                  Last January, I was driving to Long Beach for my ashtanga practice where I was fortunate to work with teachers Aimee Echo and Sati Ah. It was an indulgence, driving that distance for practice, and one that I would not be able to sustain for long. While it lasted, I soaked up every last routine: the silent walk from my car to the studio along ...

Prolong not the past Invite not the future Do not alter your innate wakefulness Fear not appearances There is nothing more than this.                                        --Ram Dass A  friend of mine asked me about a year ago if I had any interest in starting a spiritual book club. The idea immediately intrigued me. In 2003, roughly about the time of the U.S. invasion of Iraq, I started a book club with a group of women. Some of these women were good friends of mine, others were women I wanted to know better, two were sisters. Over a period of 10 years, we managed to read and discuss together 50 different books. I still marvel a bit at this. Naturally, some discussions were better than others as were some of the books; and, some of our discussions lasted beyond the scheduled gathering a...

O n my way to practice this morning, while watching the nearly full moon suddenly emerge from the fog over the ocean like one of those immense battleships on display in any one of the films in the Star Wars franchise, there is more bad news. It is difficult to reconcile what comes across the airwaves from the radio in my car turned to low and the small miracle that has just surprised me outside my window. In another ocean, far from me, where the very moon I stare at in a brief state of wonder not so many hours ago hovered above this other body of water, forty-two people have died. Seventeen of the dead are children. All drowned in the Aegean Sea. A modern Greek tragedy. With too many Acts.  The Aegean Sea is described as an embayment of the Mediterranean Sea, which makes it sound navigable, safe, a sure harbor worth trusting with one's life. It sits between the mainlands of Greece and Turkey. Across this deep blue, peaceful, ancient sea approximately 850,000 Syrian refugees sai...

This is how most mornings begin. It is dark outside and very early, and I am already outside in the dark with the dog. It is too early even to admit to the time. I try not to think about it. Instead, I encourage my dog in soft, sharp whispers, to get to the business at hand. Hurry go, I repeat. It is a command I picked up in the puppy papers we were given when we first brought our young dog home almost four years ago. I convince myself that it is a useful command when our dog dispenses with matters quickly. When he is stubborn about getting the job done, I feel foolish. And annoyed. Hurry go, hurry go, hurry go. After so many times, you have to laugh at yourself and the dog and your situation. More often, and unfortunately, I do not because I begin to feel pressed for time, which seems the more laughable notion, really, because, as I have mentioned, it is very early. This is how most mornings begin before I leave for practice. They begin with this ritual with the dog. It is the...

"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 h...

There is a new teacher in town, and we all fell in love with him immediately. I mean this in the kindest, most respectful way. How could we feel otherwise? He is a disciplined and elegant practitioner. He knows his way in and out of poses and is able to clearly articulate their execution to his many students wherever his students happen to be in their individual practice. He is not showy or boastful of what he has learned. He has studied Sanskrit and chanting and can chant in Sanskrit like a scholarly Brahmin without the aid of the Roman alphabet translations. He would like his students to learn something of this part of the lineage, too; so, he chants with us weekly for half an hour before class begins. Every Saturday. For free. He is reverent of his teacher, Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, and our teacher by extension, and we learn daily to be more grateful to Jois for keeping this practice alive. Our new teacher even brings us coffee to enjoy after practice, using Pattabhi Jois's recipe a...

One of my favorite scenes in the 1985 movie Out of Africa is a quiet moment shared between actress Meryl Streep, playing Danish writer Isak Dinesen who penned the memoir for which the movie is named, and Dinesen's head servant Farah, played by actor Malick Bowens. Dinesen, Farah and several servants from Dinesen's home and coffee plantation in Kenya have set out across the African plains to bring much needed supplies to Dinesen's husband Baron Bror von Blixen and British troops fighting in the East African campaign during World War 1. The journey for Dinesen and her servants is arduous. They travel on horse, by foot, and in wagons laden with food and gear that are pulled by oxen. On one particular evening, Dinesen and her servants are seen preparing for bed. The campsite is quiet and all are engaged in their evening rituals. Out of the evening calm, a pair of lions rush the oxen and take one down. Meryl Streep is shown in her tent, and upon hearing the uproar, she sprin...