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Spring 1989

NAMASTE,

So much has been happening since the trip to India last November that many of the images, striking as they were at the time, have already begun to dim, as if viewed from a hazy distance. Still vivid, though, are the impressions in my mind and body of the classes with Mr. Iyengar.

More than six years had passed since the last time I had studied directly with him, and I’m a little ashamed to admit it, but I had forgotten just how powerful an experience it is. The combination of the incredible insight he has into the workings of the mind and body, the power of the poses as he presents them, and the intensity of the man himself creates an experience that strips away so much of the extraneous and self-indulgent and replaces it with a glimpse of the possibilities open to me if only I would work a little harder, let go a little more, pay more attention. He demands so much, by command and by example, and even attempting to meet his demands brings such growth, such a heightening of awareness that, difficult as it is, I’m convinced that the effort is worth it. This conviction, this inspiration is perhaps the greatest gift I receive from Mr. Iyengar, because that is what helps carry me through the rough times, the low moments in practice and teaching, when doubt and exhaustion begin to drain the life and the joy from it all. At those times, I remind myself that surely he, too, has suffered through this, persevered and grown through the experience, and so, I tell myself, why shouldn’t I. It does make me wonder, though, from where he drew his inspiration at times like these. Who or what was there for him to look to, to lean on?

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For me, being in India is always a tumultuous experience. Certainly the classes, the being stripped down, rebuilt, emptied, filled, berated and encouraged have a lot to do with the emotional upheaval I always feel when I’m there. But the difference of the culture, the pollution, the constant barrage of the sounds, sights and smells of the city, and the tremendous distance, physically and psychologically, from home contribute significantly.

Having many good friends and colleagues on this particular trip mitigated the turmoil noticeably, but the biggest reason that this was by far my most comfortable and enjoyable trip to India was having Susan with me. She arrived ten days after I did, the delay required by the demands of her nursing job and other matters at home. The difference between those first ten days and the subsequent three weeks was remarkable. The sense of distance I mentioned before subsided, and although I still swung between apprehension and elation regarding the classes, having her there to soften the former and share the latter took the edge off. I resisted less and opened more to the entire experience. And watching her observing everything with such wonder and excitement, this being her first trip to India, rekindled some of the wonder and excitement I had felt on my first trip. It was a little like listening to a familiar piece of music with someone who has hearing it for the first time and being drawn into the freshness of their perception, noticing things that were there all along, but had just been overlooked before.

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In many ways, this analogy is apt in describing my relationship with Susan for the past two and a half years. Through the growth of our love together I have begun to hear some of the music of life that I had been missing, to pick up some of the softer parts of the melody.

The difference, though, is that here I am not just a listener, but a composer and player as well, and the music is a collaboration, a commingling of the knowledge, abilities, and creativity of the two of us. I am finding that it means that I must listen more carefully, not just to my own ideas, my own feelings, but to hers, too, to keep the harmonies sweet.

My tendency when the sound gets too unpleasant or disturbing has been to shut it out, to listen to something else. But because of the steadfastness of Susan’s love and our commitment to forging a profound and deep relationship with one another, I am beginning to see that when there is dissonance or disharmony, if instead of turning away from it I try to listen with an open heart and mind, it takes me to a place where the music is even richer, more powerful.

This is not easy, though. Just as with Mr. Iyengar’s classes, I oscillate between apprehension and elation at the challenge of it. But as it did in India, Susan’s strength and love soften those edges and show me that, again, by working a little harder, letting go a little more and paying more attention, so much is possible.

What seems possible in this relationship with Susan, and what I catch a hint of now and again, is a life that is more full, more complete; that keeps reflecting what’s right and what’s true; that reveals the shortcomings, the weaknesses and the illusions and uses that revelation to move on, to grow. It involves faith and surrender, pain and joy and the persistent effort of a lifetime (at least). It is learning, often with trembling breath and fumbling fingers, to play with the music of the heart. It is Yoga, union, joining together, wholeness. Realizing this, with apprehension and elation, in the loving company of family and friends, on February 18, Susan and I were married.

With joy,

       

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