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Winter 1989

NAMASTE,

I am writing this newsletter only a couple of weeks before leaving for India to study with B.K.S. Iyengar, and join in the celebration of his 70th birthday. Attaining threescore and ten is, of course, a milestone in Mr. Iyengar’s life, and in the last newsletter I described my thoughts and feelings about being able to participate in this event and study with him once again.

At the other end of the spectrum, my granddaughter, Jessica, celebrated her first birthday several weeks ago. There were balloons and toys, cake and ice cream, decorations, all the things to make a child’s birthday festive and special. This, too, was quite a milestone, the end of her first year of life and, hopefully, the springboard to many more.

And to mark the middle of the spectrum, my 25 year high school reunion took place in September, another milestone, another measure of the passage of time. It was amazing to see how old some of my former classmates and how young others seemed, even though we all graduated the same year and were about the same chronological age.

Another, less significant indicator of the passage of time is the ending of the fall session and the beginning of the winter schedule. This January it will have been four years since classes began at the studio in Bethesda. For those longtime students who can still recall classes in frigid church basements and tiny rec rooms it may be surprising that it’s been that long. I find it hard to believe myself. Nevertheless, our current lease expires this session, and since I could not be more pleased with the way everything has blossomed and grown since our move here, I’ll sign a new three year lease before leaving for India. This will entail a 20% rise in our rent in addition to the cost of living increases we’ve sustained each year, so in order to offset these added expenses we’re raising the price of classes by 50¢ a class and the fee for drop-ins from $10 to $12.

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You will also notice as you look at the schedule on page two, that we are continuing the free monthly meditation group and the Taoist study group. The interest shown in these programs has been rewarding. We are, however, canceling the lunch time drop-in class for the time being. There will be, for the first time, a Level IV pranayama class, which is open not only to those who have just finished the fall Level III class, but also to those who have completed previous Level III classes and have maintained a practice. And there will be discussion groups in January and February, the first being concerned with my experiences in India (hopefully I’ll have slides to show) and the second dealing with the student/teacher relationship and the expectations, responsibilities and dynamics involved in it.

In discussing the milestones described earlier in the newsletter, I noted that they were all measures of time. Birthdays, reunions, major achievements, significant events, can be seen as distance markers on the roadway of our life. Instead of miles, we tally in years, of course, so perhaps we should call them yearstones.

At any rate, it’s one way of looking at our life, seeing it as a series of occurrences along a continuum, dots on a line. These markers often serve as focal points, moments when we pay more attention than at other times, when we feel more alive, more present. Anything that acts to awaken us further is, of course, valuable, but these “significant events” are few and far between. What about the rest of the time, the time we spend just carrying water and chopping wood, so to speak, balancing our checkbook and driving to work, the “insignificant events” of our life?

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We so often define our life in terms of the milestones, that it looks like some sort of resumé, when really the listings represent such a small portion of our time. Have you ever looked at your own resumé and felt like you were reading about someone else? Did I really do that? Am I really that person?

What’s not in there is how you interacted with your spouse, your dealings with your colleagues or clients, how you spent your spare time: in other words, the stuff that makes up the bulk of your life, most of who you are in the world.

To be conscious, to be truly aware, means being attentive all of the time, not just when the fireworks are happening. Almost everyone does it then. Almost no one does it the rest of the time. In yoga we’re learning to be present all of the time. In the beginning of asana practice, for example, we move in and out of the poses quickly which helps us be more attentive. Later we start to hold them, which deepens them and gives us the time, if we can continue to be present, to see their subtleties, to be aware even when “nothing” is going on.

Working with the breath is much the same. In the beginning we observe the movement of the inhalation and the exhalation. Then we slow that movement, once again observing the subtle aspects of what was, at one time, just breathing in and out. And then we come to the spaces between the movements, when “nothing” is happening, and our awareness becomes even more refined, sharper and clearer still, until movement and stillness blend into an unbroken flow of being, neither coming from nor going to.

The winter is like the space between the exhalation of autumn and the inhalation of spring. Colors are muted, animals hibernate or migrate, and in a way, “nothing” is happening. But just as the space between the breaths can reveal a richness that eludes us at first glance, so the silence of winter, like the quiet magic after a snowfall, can usher us into a chamber deeper within the temple of ourselves.

A wonder-full winter to you and the happiest of holidays.

Shanti,

       

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