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Winter 2000
NAMASTE from Esther,
John’s essays in the last two newsletters (about practice and perception) got me thinking, and he has invited me to share some of my thoughts with all of you. Here are a few (of the many) questions which have arisen from my study of yoga over the last twenty years, along with some stories that help me explore them.
Someone else asked the first question when I was still fairly new to yoga: “Why do you have to keep practicing? You’ve been taking classes for a while. Haven’t you got it yet?”
Why practice at all?
Classes, after all, are structured by a teacher, who knows what s/he’s doing. Doesn’t it make sense to just go to more classes, instead of flailing about on my own?
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For one semester, I taught “Dance Aerobics” at a community college. I became curious about the amount of energy (physical and mental) used up in trying to imitate the teacher versus doing movement which one’s own. Do we move more fully when it’s not some-body else’s routine? So, I experimented. Sometimes I taught the typical “follow me” kind of class; but often I used imagery or improvisational structures to elicit movement. Heart rates went higher and sweat poured more profusely (the official standards for the course) when the students were moving themselves, not copying me. Besides, we had more fun! Something similar happened with my yoga practice. It was only when I took the asanas home that they began to belong to me instead of my teacher.
Why practice regularly?
Does frequency matter if you’re also going to class? (Or don’t have much time? Or just don’t feel like it?)
For years my daily walk has taken me along a wooded path. My relationship with the path has shifted over time. At first, unfamiliar with the route, my focus was narrowly consumed with trying to follow the trail and avoid obstacles or injury. Once I got to know the way, I began to travel by rote. Since I didn’t have to watch so carefully for problems, I barely watched at all, drifting off into my busy brain. Eventually the path seemed the same all the time and my enthusiasm waned. To make it interesting again I needed to stop drifting and start noticing. Looking around me, I began to see how different the experience was each time. Seasons shifted gradually. Sights, sounds, smells and sensations changed with the weather. Plants overgrew, bloomed, withered, died. Birds squirrels, turtles, insects and dogs moved variously through the landscape. The creek rose to fast-flowing or receded to nearly dry. I wondered what caused some of the changes and that made me look even more carefully. Over time I could perceive patterns and cycles. I was different on different days, too—emotionally, physically, mentally—so that I was affected differently by each walk. I began to own the path in a way special to me. If I’d only walked there occasionally, I might have skipped that bored-by-rote phase. But I don’t think I’d have ever reached the stage of really noticing. I needed the repetition to develop my observing skills.
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What should I practice?
In the summer newsletter, John talked about maintaining a “sensible and consistent practice.” I’ve mentioned consistency above. But what does “sensible” mean?
We used to have weekly practices which included several of Unity Woods’ instructors. At first we mostly played “keep up with John” in those sessions (and “catch up with John” in many of our home practices). It took me a while to understand that John’s example (or that of any book or tape) was a good starting place, not a goal. I may admire the style of someone else’s wardrobe, but I’ll have to alter the clothes to make them fit my body. As adept as I’ve gradually become at wearing my own practice, I continue to struggle with my private list of Shoulds, Oughts and Used-To-Be-Ables. I’m still learning the lesson about focusing on what’s actually happening, not on what I assume or wish to occur. After years of aiming at advanced backbends and big kids’ arm balances, a serious illness recently forced me to do no more than a few carefully modified restorative poses for many months. Once I stopped chafing at how limited I felt, I found that a) the restoratives truly restored me, b) I learned lots about muscles, bones, joints, organs and breath by practicing these poses, and c)when I was able to return to a broader practice my understanding had deepened; I came back with more clarity about myself, enriched by the experience of sensing every moment, and trying to stay sensitive to what my body needed. “Sensible” might have something to do with these sorts of sense-abilities.
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Am I getting it right?
This is a question I’ve never heard in one of my classes for young children. After each pose (always a mess technique-wise; Tree pose looks more like Forest-in-a-Hurricane), they grin and shout, “Look! I did it!”
Once, my daughter and a friend decided to make playdough. The recipe called for a cup of flour, 1/3 cup of salt, 1 tablespoon of oil and 1/3 cup of water. (Stir over low heat until it forms a ball, then knead until smooth, in case you’d like to try.) After adding everything they realized they’d used pastry flour; the concoction was so flaky it wouldn’t make playable dough. So they determined to make it into something edible instead. “We added sugar (three cups), an egg, M&M’s, sprinkles and coconut. We made half of it into little balls on a cookie sheet and the other half of it in a loaf pan. We baked it at 350°. When they seemed done, I took a small bite of a cookie and spat it out! Eva only licked hers, but she said she could taste salt for the rest of the evening.” When I got home I inquired about the brick-like object in the trash. “Oh, that’s our Invention” (with giggles). Note that they didn’t call it a failure. It didn’t go where they’d expected, so they went along elsewhere to see what they could discover. Once I gave up on getting the poses right and became interested in the process of experimentation I lost the worry that I was doing it wrong. There isn’t failure, just action and observable consequences.
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But really, how do I know if I’m getting it right?
How can I tell if what I perceive is true?
In the fall newsletter, John gave the example of a student who “felt really crooked” after he adjusted her alignment. Most of us have had that experience. Sometimes it’s been more than physical for me. John quotes Mr. Iyengar as telling him to “Be cautious. Be bold.” But I was never sure whether my caution was just laziness, whether my boldness was really foolhardy. Once, watching me struggle with frustration as my shoulder began to slide out of joint during a backbend class, John said, “Time to quit.” I argued, accusing myself of being too indulgent when I ought to push harder. John’s response—“You’re not capable of being lazy”—stunned me, because his perception of me (not just my alignment) was so different from my own. I can’t ever be sure of what’s true in my perceptions (there is no fixed reality), but I can continuously refine my seeing skills, and check in periodically with others to learn new ways of looking. In my study of Laban Movement Analysis I have several times felt the bottom drop out of everything I thought I knew, and been told, “That’s good—gives you a chance to fill up again.” Recently my advisor said, “There is no objectivity, so the best way of being objective is to look at as many possibilities as you can.”
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When will I…
Be able to stand on my head/get to Level IV/be ready to teach/achieve enlightment? This question is similar to the getting it right ones and my experience with it is related.
Every time I thought I knew what sleep schedule my infant daughter had settled into, it changed. I bemoaned the lack of predictability, but it sure kept me alert and responding to her needs. When I began studying Pranayama John told me that one is a beginner for ten years. I was actually relieved; no deadline to aspire to gave me the freedom to pay attention to whatever was now. (I think the time question has become more urgent culturally as we’ve moved into this age of speed and mobility. When having an auto was a new and exciting thing for most families, going for a drive was a common activity. It wasn’t about getting somewhere; it was about enjoying the car and seeing the scenery.) Having the rest of my life to play with my yoga practice is one of the things that keeps me doing it.
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Why does my yoga practice draw me in so much, but frustrate me as well?
How do my emotions get involved?
A student began one class exclaiming, “The yoga—it’s my life, and it’s staring me in the face!” Encouraged to elaborate, he continued, “Dog pose is hard so I don’t practice it much. But I decided to work at holding it for five minutes. One day I did! I was so proud that the next day, for a reward, I took a break and didn’t practice at all…Working on a relationship with my girlfriend was hard, so I left…The yoga is my life, and it’s staring me in the face!”
What attracts me to practice, but also makes me struggle, is this sense that the yoga is about me. I see how I react to a difficult (or easy or weird or exciting or dull) asana and I notice that I react that way to comparable situations in life. The yoga confronts me with myself and gives me an opportunity to grow.
What is yoga, anyway?
Well, it’s not the asanas. And it’s not the answers. In his Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams posits “Forty-two” as the answer to the “Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything.” The answer is already known; it’s the Question that everybody’s searching for. And it seems that searching is better than finding, since “There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable…There is another which states that this has already happened.”
I’m pretty sure that yoga is not about knowing for sure. My favorite “guru” story comes from an old Procol Harum album. In one song a pilgrim searches for years before finding the old man on the mountain so he can ask about the meaning of life. “Well, my son,” the wiseman replies, “Life is like a beanstalk…Isn’t it?”
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I’m positive that yoga is not about blissful oblivion. My very first yoga class was taught by a somewhat spacey fellow in the downstairs meeting room of the public library. It was winter, and they were drilling a hole through the wall to install a book drop. The snow was blowing in and the jackhammer was blasting away while we sat cross-legged on the floor, palms uplifted on our knees. “Aah,” said the teacher sweetly, “if you’re really into the yoga, you won’t feel the cold, and you won’t hear the noise,” I did not return.
I want my yoga practice to keep moving me toward a more attentive consciousness—in all aspects of my life. One more story: I toured for years with a dance company which performed in elementary schools. I wearied of hearing teachers warn sternly, “You’d better pay attention!” One young boy changed my perspective when he wrote in a thank-you letter, “I liked your show so much that I would even pay eleven-shun!”
May your yoga practice keep you paying eleven-shun so that you find more and more questions to play with. May your questions come to life through your own stories. And none of us ever “get it.”
A joyous New Year to all,
Esther
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P.S. from John:
Colleen began teaching at Unity Woods in the fall of 1996. Before that she apprenticed with me for several years, and she has, before that and all along, been one of my most exceptional students in terms of her dedication to practice, her enthusiasm, and her ability. It has been a great pleasure to have her on the faculty and to work with her both in and out of class. She was single-handedly responsible for the creation and supervision of the Unity Woods web site, and as “web mistress” helped drag me kicking and screaming into sticking at least my little toe into the cyber world of the twenty-first century. She is particularly well qualified to have done so, being the owner of her own software business and an expert in the field. That expertise is what has created a great opportunity for her on the West Coast, and she has decided to take it. She will be heading for California this winter. All of us at Unity Woods will miss her and the energy and warmth that she shares so willingly. I know her students will miss her, too. I am confident that Maggie, who will take over Colleen’s Sunday morning classes in Arlington and Thursday evening class in Bethesda beginning in the winter session, will ease the loss with her own skillful and enthusiastic teaching.
We all wish Colleen happiness and fulfillment in her work and her new home, heartened by the knowledge that our shared love of yoga will surely cause our paths to cross further on down the road.
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