Current Letter | John's Letter Archives

Summer 2002

NAMASTE,

Suzie and I live in a very lovely house. It has everything we could ask for and more -- except closets. Because of the lack of closet space, we stash stuff in whatever nooks and crannies we do have. Sometimes that means putting things in places that are not all that accessible. In order to reach some of the shelves in our home office, for instance, I have to climb up on a chair. Mostly we keep reference books up there and a few other things that we don't have to get to very often.

The other day, however, I needed to get a book out of the reference library, so I slid my office chair over to the shelves. Usually I get the folding chair from the next room. The office chair is not a great chair for climbing on. It doesn't really have legs; instead the seat sits on a curved chrome bar that supports the front of the seat from below. The back of the seat is held by the bar as it arches its way upward to become the seat back, so it has some give to it. But it is right there in the office, handy and easy to move, so as often as not, I use it to get to the high shelves. Because it's not all that stable, I'm usually pretty careful when I stand on it. On that day, I stood a little farther back on the chair than I should have, and as I reached up for the book, I could feel the chair seat shift under me. Without even thinking, I reacted by adjusting my body slightly and caught my balance before I fell. I steadied and repositioned myself, got hold of the book I wanted, and stepped down off the chair.

It occurred to me that the main reason I had avoided what might have been a very unpleasant accident is that after more than thirty years of doing yoga postures, my sense of balance is pretty good. When the chair moved, I was able to immediately make the necessary adjustment to keep from falling. It was a little like doing a variation in headstand, losing the balance for a moment, and correcting the position without toppling over, all in an instant.

Even more important, because I am practiced in paying attention to what my body is doing and where it is in space, I was able to preceive the subtle shift of the chair beneath my feet immediately. As well as physical dexterity, it was that quick movement of attention that saved me.

Return to top

When we teach yoga in the classes at Unity Woods, we are teaching a lot of things: what the alignment of a pose is; how to breathe while going into, being in, and coming out of the pose; how to relax certain parts of the body while exerting other parts; how different things affect the body and mind; how to organize a practice; how to quiet the mind; and on and on. But perhaps the most important thing we teach is how to pay attention.

So often students have asked me why their experience in their home practice isn't quite as deep or powerful as their experience in class. They follow the same sequence, they say. They try to work with the same intensity, try to remember the instructions they received in class, but it just doesn't feel the same. I think the main reason is that in class the teacher is constantly directing the students' attention, keeping them focused on what they are doing, and continuously helping them to remain present. It is the quality of being present rather than going through the motions that makes the practice so powerful.

In the very first class of Level I, I spend some time talking to the new pupils about what yoga is, what distinguishes Iyengar yoga, and how they will most benefit from their classes. I always tell them that I am not so concerned with whether they can touch their toes or bend over backwards, but rather whether they are present or not. One way that they can be present, I say, is to carefully follow the instructions I give. I liken it to the child's game of Simon Says. The whole point of the game is to pay attention and not slip into automatic pilot.

God knows much of our culture compels and depends on a certain level of inattentiveness. The noisy hustle and bustle of our cities, the constant bombardment of media images to which we subject ourselves, the deceptions and hypocrisies of so many of our politicians, the incessant flow of communication on cell phones, faxes, e-mail, regular phones, snail mail: who could pay attention - really pay attention - to all this stuff without going completely bonkers? We learn to tune out at an early age, as much as a tactic of self-preservation as anything else. And many of us get more out of tune as we go along. I'm not so sure that much of what we call attention deficit disorder isn't a disruption of the nervous system resulting from the endless tsunami of sensory stimulation in which so many of us find ourselves awash.

Attention is at the heart of yoga. Attention is, after all, energy, and where we put our attention, that's where our energy goes. In the beginning stages of our practice, with the help of our teachers, we learn how to recongize the movements of our attention. Then, as we become more sensitive and alert, we gradually develop the ability to direct our attention - to the teacher's instructions, to various parts of the body, to the flow of the breath, to the orientation of our senses, to the activity of the brain.

Return to top

But paying attention is one thing and being attentive is another. To pay attention there must be someone who is paying attention, the process of directing attention itself, and that to which attention is being paid. That means then, that a struggle, subtle though it may be, takes place when we pay attention.

Struggling is not inherently a bad thing. Almost everything worthwhile in life involves some struggle - from being born to learning to walk to being in relationship with others and on and on. Practicing yoga is also a struggle. It requires effort (abhyasa), in which struggle is implicit. Yet there comes a time in one's practice for struggle to subside, for an end to effort (prayatna shaithiya).

So too with attention. In yoga, the real aim isn't to learn to pay attention. Paying attention means to force one's attention to where it isn't. Instead, we can simply be attentive, open to it all. Much like an improvisational ensemble musician who, in order not to be left behind, must hear what is being played in the moment rather than being busy making the effort to pay attention, so we can be attentive in the moment, in our practice, in our lives, rather than struggling to catch up, always a step behind.

When I'm in class with my teacher, Mr. Iyengar, as he gives an instruction in a pose (asana), in my best moments, my body responds to that instruction without my having to identify the body part, the direction of the movement, and the sensation intended. All of that just happens. His words seem to bypass my ears and brain and penetrate straight to my body and I move. Not always, of course, but often enough that while I am always exhilarated by it, I am no longer surprised by it. And I see that happen in some of my own students. It is as if we were dancing, and although they are following my lead, like a skilled couple, we are moving in the dance as one.

In that moment when the chair seat shifted, if I had been busy paying attention, I might not have been quick enough to respond in time to avoid falling. But since I was fortunate enough to have been attentive as I reached for the book on the shelf, when the chair moved I was able, like a dancer responding to her partner's lead, to respond without missing a beat. Now if only I had had the good sense not to get up on that wiggly chair in the first place. But that's another story.

       

Correction: In the last newletter I attributed the phrase "The road to hell is paved with good intentions" to the Bible. An alert reader who is very familiar with her Bible wrote to ask where this quote came from, since she couldn't find it. One of my apprentices, Lori Lipton, was kind enough to do some research for me and discovered that, in fact, Samuel Johnson authored similar words, in 1775. Suzanne then discovered that Johnson was preceded by John Ray in 1670 who was preceded by St. Bernard of Clairvaux around 1150, but none of them actually wrote the quote as we now know it. That quote's author is still a minor mystery.

Return to top