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WINTER 2008
NAMASTE,
A few years ago, on a flight back home from India, I found myself sitting next to a distinguished looking Indian gentleman whose pleasant demeanor invited me to offer a greeting. We started talking, and it turned out that he was a Hindu scholar on his way to teach comparative religion at a university in the US. When I told him that I had been in India studying yoga, the conversation veered naturally toward the topics of religion and spirituality.
At one point in the discussion, after he had stated that in Hinduism, there was one god, the formless, omnipresent Brahma, who was the ground for all existence, I asked him how that statement coexisted with the multiplicity of Hindu gods and the various representations of those gods that I had encountered in my reading and in my travels to numerous Indian temples: the Elephant God, Ganesha, for example, or Hanuman, the Monkey God. He replied that although Brahma was indeed beyond form or definition, the immature or unsophisticated worshipper usually found it necessary to give God and His/Her various aspects a form or forms. He felt that worshipping a god without form was too difficult for many devotees.
The subject and his explanation were intriguing. The play of form/formless has always been fascinating to me, first as a musician, and then as a spiritual seeker and practitioner of yoga. I have found that what experiences of a spiritual nature I have had have been essentially indescribable because they have been glimpses of something completely beyond form. Phrases such as "the realization of Oneness" and "the interconnectedness of all things" and "the peace of God, which passeth all understanding" and "the fundamental Ground of Being" point toward such experiences but convey very little sense of the actual experience itself. These experiences have been so significant to me, however, that they have guided the direction of my life and have urged me to try to find ways to maximize my access to them and share their possibility with whoever was interested. Music and yoga have been my vehicles in these endeavors.
Although obviously not everyone employs them in that manner, both music and yoga are examples of the use of form to access the formless. The musician utilizes the forms of time, melodic and harmonic structure, and skill with an instrument to express her/himself. The serious musician must explore him/herself relentlessly in order to express that self with passion and authenticity. It is my experience that that sort of intense self-exploration, the deep penetration into the layers of one’s being, can lead - almost paradoxically, perhaps only occasionally, yet very powerfully- to the transcendence of self and the awakening of awareness of the immeasurable, formless Self. The great Sufi mystic, Hazrat Inayat Khan, says, "...in music alone we see God free from all forms and thoughts."
In the play between form and formlessness, my experience of yoga runs parallel to my experience of music. Over the years, I have practiced asana (posture), pranayama (breath), svadhyaya (self study), and dharana (concentration). These yogic disciplines are comparable to the practice of musical scales and exercises and the study of harmony, structure, and rhythm. They foster the integration of body, mind, and spirit and are valuable and interesting in their own right. But they serve the more important function of providing ways for me to dig into the layers of my self and explore who I really am. These layers are called kosas, or sheaths, in yogic terminology, and as the yogi penetrates deeper and deeper, layer by layer, s/he eventually comes to what Mr. Iyengar calls the "unveiling of the immeasurable sky within", i.e., the discovery of the formless Self.
I spoke earlier of the urge to share what I had experienced through music and yoga with whoever was interested. Most of us, when we see or hear or feel something exquisite, when we encounter something powerfully moving and grand, want to share that experience with others. For the musician, performing, playing for an attentive audience, is a way to share the joy of music.
For the yoga practitioner, teaching yoga is a way to share what s/he has learned and felt as a result of her/his practice. The art of teaching, just as the art of music, derives from discovering ways to communicate the joys and insights that one has experienced to another. And whether we are talking about a musician’s performance or a teacher’s teaching, the passion and authenticity with which s/he communicates her/his vision arise from the depth and intensity of her/his self-exploration and practice.
When I teach, my intentions are multifold. I want students to learn the shape of the poses. I want them to learn the actions that lead them to that shape, because from my own experience, the alignment of the body that comes from the particular shape of an asana is very important. I want them to learn the movement of the breath in different pranayamas, because the breath is a gateway to the subtleties of the mind.
For all the emphasis on the importance of technique, however, it is crucial to keep in mind that whatever forms we employ to guide and deepen our practice, as serious yogis we must not mistake the form for the goal. In a method such as Iyengar Yoga, where technique is employed so intensely and constitutes such a major part of the process of teaching and learning, this is an especially potent peril. When we get caught up in the quest for precision, when we get immersed in the intricacies of some subtle physical movement, it becomes very easy to lose track of the forest of formless freedom for the trees of the triceps in Trikonasana.
Therefore, as a yoga teacher rather than an exercise teacher, I want students to learn more than particular techniques. I want students first and foremost to learn to be attentive and receptive, for these are the qualities of mind that differentiate practicing yoga postures from simple physical exercise. Standing on your head is not yoga. Most any kid on the playground will at least take a crack at it and some can actually do it. They are not doing yoga, though, for it is the state of mind that you bring to standing on your head (or doing any other asana or pranayama) that makes it yoga. Developing the attentiveness and receptivity required to transform physical movements into yoga requires setting aside preconceptions and preferences and being open to the experience of the moment. It means in yoga class not lingering over previous instructions or anticipating instructions to come. It means at home on your mat not thinking about your credit card bill or where you’re having dinner. In means in conversation with your friend not pondering what you’re going to say next, but instead being totally attentive to what your friend is saying. It means being completely in the present moment. For it is only in the present moment that the indescribable delight of a beautiful piece of music can lift your spirit and carry you past your definitions of yourself into the formless. It is only in the formless, present moment that, as Al Jarreau wrote in his song, Mornin’, “ I can, like any man, reach out my hand, and touch the face of GOD.” And it is very important for us, as we practice the various methods and techniques that constitute our sadhana (spiritual discipline), to always bear in mind that although these techniques have wonderful benefits on so many levels, that ultimately, through these practices themselves, we can move past their many forms, through the many layers of our selves, and come face to face with our true Self: vast and formless Consciousness.
P.S. Unity Woods has finally signed a lease to officially renew our presence in our current Bethesda location! Form is thus lent to that which has been just a bit formless for a while! Join John on January 20 for a discussion on "Freedom through Form" (details on p.5).
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