Re-Stock

January 2, 2012

A year ago, shortly after the winter Solstice and on the eve of a New Year, I blogged about taking stock of my life and my practice. Today I revisited what I wrote.

2011 was not a remarkable year in my yoga practice. My Mysore practice has flatlined – I have not advanced forward a pose since I left California, and I have not found a teacher here with whom I feel connected. There have been no big emotional breakthroughs: my mat has absorbed no blood, no tears, and less sweat than it has in years past. It was a year of stasis.
Maybe that’s okay. Maybe this is the time in my life to focus on the practice off my mat, in the “real” world.

Quoting myself a year ago: “simplify my life; do yoga; get a dog; connect to nature; love; build the foundations so that I can eventually own a home and open my own studio; stop trying so hard. Give myself more time, and cut myself some slack. Acknowledge what is going well and give myself a little credit for the progress I have made: the classes I’m teaching, the invaluable friendships and connections I’m making. Contemplate, clarify, and re-commit to my long-term goals. Create a vision board/goals list and look at it daily for motivation. Be grateful. And, just maybe, allow myself to have a little more fun.”

Simplifying and cutting myself slack has meant a lot of letting go. Acknowledging that I value security more than I value personal freedom, I have stopped judging myself for not taking the leap of opening my own yoga studio. Although I love teaching yoga, I am no longer hustling around trying to teach and sub as many classes as I can. Instead I let myself relax more. Only once or twice a week do I get up before dawn to do ashtanga; my practice has become mostly self-led at home, at my convenience. I also let go, for the moment, of getting a dog; when it’s time for me to nurture another living being as I long to do, the Universe will tell me.

And the rest?

Nature: Yes! Just yesterday I hiked the foothills and paused to watch a herd of 15 beautiful deer graze 100 yards from me. Every drive west into the mountains is still magic.

Gratitude: Each night before bed, I open a journal and write down one thing, no matter how small, from that day for which I am grateful. I believe this is slowly changing how I perceive life.

Fun: Yes!! 2011 was peppered with trips and friends and new activities. It was a year of joy and adventure.

Love: I am blessed with a wonderful circle of friends. I believe I can give more, and that all else is coming.

Extreme Yoga

August 1, 2011

On a recent Monday I awoke sore, with a cramped neck, bruised shins and knees, and a familiar twinge in my sacro-iliac. Was I in a minor accident of some kind? No, it was just the day after I went overboard in my yoga practice.

I love doing (or, often, just attempting) extreme yoga. One level of that is admittedly type-A nature and ego.

A second level, though, is reaching a state of self over body. Occasionally when I balance or bend my body into a challenging pose, the awesome realization hits that my body is not who I am – it is a mere container of bone and tissue, a powerful tool I can control. I imagine athletes often experience this sense of the limitlessness of the human spirit.

A third level is my quest to reach a state of “yoga” as defined in the Yoga Sutras of Patanjalim: namely, the cessation of the wanderings of the mind; a place where the mind is silent and one is completely present. Homo sapiens wander around most of the time with our minds either replaying the past or planning the future. As this breeds unhappiness, many people are chasing a state of “yoga” through various means. I believe it is why people bungee jump, mountain bike, free climb, etc. Those activities force us to become so focused and aware of what is immediately occurring that the rest of the world falls away, and, however briefly, we feel alive.

Some poses can get me to those dual senses of limitless possibility and “yoga.” The problem is the need to continually up the ante. Bakasana once did this for me, but, eight years into my practice, I can maintain bakasana while thinking about my grocery list. Ashtanga, a tradition in which there is a seemingly endless march of progressively more difficult poses awaiting the practitioner, feeds the beast. So it is that I found myself with neck and sacro-iliac pain because that particular Sunday was the day I decided I was going to channel enough energy through my left big toe to maintain my balance in dwi pada sirsasana. And the bruises? A classic karandavasana (if you don’t know it, entertaining hyperlink) injury: I managed to get my legs into lotus, then proceeded to try to lower them, only to hit the mat like a pile of bricks.

I acknowledge that extreme yoga is completely absurd and in some ways my doing may even be evidence that I am un-evolved. My wish for you is that you are able to tap into your own infinite, limitless nature and attain a state of full present awareness by meditating on the petals of a flower. Someday in my dotage (or when I finish second series), I hope I will meet you there. Until then, you will recognize me as the battered piece of apparent roadkill that you’re swerving past along the path to enlightenment.

If You Paint It, They Will Come (?)

June 30, 2011

I’ve been reticent in yoga blogging these last few months. Samsara, as it often does, intruded. A new full-time job, a new apartment, and a move into Denver have kept me so busy that and I’m pleased to report that I managed to maintain my asana practice a few times per week.

Now that I am settled and work is poised to mellow in July, I know I will find myself at loose ends and with the energy and drive to teach more yoga. This means once again doing the yoga studio hustle: the (in my experience) exhausting process of doing drop-in classes at studio after studio, emailing studio owners, schmoozing instructors to get them to choose me to sub their classes, and taking on classes in the time slots no one else wants until I prove myself in another new market.

Having seen this crossroads coming, I planned ahead with a different vision in mind. I splurged and rented a two rather than one bedroom apartment in Denver, and turned the smaller bedroom into my yoga room. For five long nights in April I labored over painting its three clean white sides and one bold purple accent wall. I have placed nearly every sacred object I own in it: my rose quartz, my mala beads, my little Buddha statue, my jasmine incense from Mysore. On many evenings after work, I’ve diligently practiced there alone. The plan, though, was to claim freedom and control over my own schedule while still having the joy of being a yoga teacher by teaching privates at home. A great idea – in theory.

How does one gather private clients? I am flummoxed. The day I finished painting, I had the ridiculous urge to stick my head out the window and yell, “Hey, everybody! I have a yoga room! Who’s coming?’” Probably not the most successful marketing idea anyone has ever had. I know few people in Denver, and even fewer with the assets and inclination to take private yoga lessons. Should I pepper neighborhood coffee shops with business cards? Print fliers and wander the streets, stuffing them on windshields? Spend a bunch of unearned $ to have one of those web guys drive traffic to my page?

Until I figure it out, all I know to do is build my reputation via the safe, familiar yoga studio hustle; meanwhile, I will quietly meditate on it before the peaceful little Buddha smiling at me serenely from his place against my pretty purple wall.

In Memoriam

March 29, 2011

This is a shout out to Larry Schultz, whom I oddly picture rolling out his mat on cloud somewhere in his afterlife to do sun salutations, waving at the god(s) in which he believes and explaining, that “I do yoga so I won’t be so miserable to be around.” (Forever my favorite quote of his, for its unabashed honesty.)

In 2003 I was a yoga beginner, bouncing around San Francisco as I tried different yoga styles and studios. Nothing felt like it fit. Then I stumbled upon It’s Yoga’s crazy cheap 3 months for $180 deal. I got hooked on my 7:30 p.m. post- law office “Beginners’ Rocket” routine. Three years later I was a yoga teacher.

Larry Schultz, the founder of It’s Yoga and the leader of my 2006 teacher training, died suddenly in late February 2011. He was a San Francisco icon who taught his spin on ashtanga yoga to thousands of students. Many of his students went on to become teachers, and spread Larry’s legacy all over the United States and beyond.

Larry, once the private yoga instructor to the Grateful Dead, made for an unlikely guru. He was spiritual yet irreverent. Though I may not have agreed with everything he said and did – since completing It’s Yoga’s teacher training, my practice wandered to classical Mysore ashtanga, over to free-form vinyasa, and back again, and my teaching likewise continues to change – I cannot criticize, because I believe that had I not found It’s Yoga, I would not still be practicing yoga today. In It’s Yoga, Larry created a space where yoga could be both challenging and fun. A place where students felt free to make mistakes; to fall down, laugh, then get back up and try it again.

In the wake of his recent death, I have been reflecting on how much of Larry’s teaching I absorbed. How often do I unintentionally quote him (“Where you feel it is where you need it.” / “You have to learn to fall to learn to fly.”)? How many times have I analyzed someone’s downward dog by beginning with their hands and feet? My branches may change, but It’s Yoga is where I grew my roots.

So thank you, Larry. See you on the other side.

Kali Durga

February 28, 2011

As yogis, many of us spend a lot of time being good. We aim for that calm, centered, Buddha-like state. We do pranayama (breath work), sit in meditation, and remind ourselves about ahimsa (non-violence).

Earlier this month, at the apex of a particularly bad day, I completely wigged out in the face of a mere parking ticket – there was a grand stamping of my feet, flinging of my handbag, informing the parking attendant that he needs a new job because he is an “agent of evil,” and cursing aloud to the world at large. Afterward, I began to wonder if years of doing this yoga thing is actually bringing me any genuine calmness, or if instead I am just more deeply repressing my inner Kali.

Since you asked (wink), Kali is a manifestation of the Hindu goddess Parvati: Shiva’s wife, mother of Ganesha, and all-around essence of femininity, creativity, love, and devotion. Kali is her dark side, known for her impassioned, furious slaying of demons, becoming drunk on their blood and dancing on their corpses. She is often depicted toting cups of blood, wearing a garland of skulls, and brandishing weapons and a severed head.

The day after my parking ticket outburst, I attended David Stringer’s kirtan in Denver. I was enjoying it, pleasantly uplifted. Then they began to lead the “Kali Durga” chant (which rarely gets chanted, languishing on the B side of such chart-topping hits as “Genapati Om” and “Om Namah Shivaya”). As the music accelerated and I opened my voice in celebration of Kali Durga, a fraction of the pent-up fire I bottle deep in my gut and in my oft-clenched jaw released. It was liberating. When the chant wound down, I felt spent and relieved.

For those of you for whom anger isn’t among your issues, this blog entry may not register. For those of us within whom lies a Kali ready to impale some heads, I say: stop denying her existence and give her release! Skip a yoga class every week or two and go kickboxing instead. Find a secluded place and scream at the top of your lungs. Because Kali has her time and place; she is a protective goddess with the power to slay demons others cannot. She represents triumph over death, control over time itself, and the creation and destruction of worlds.

Then, having practiced channeling Kali (in a constructive way not offensive to unsuspecting meter maids going about their daily rounds) and having set her aside to be summoned only when she is truly needed, sit back down as your softer Parvati self and breathe peace.

Moon Daze

January 31, 2011

On the night of January 18, I was wide awake and suddenly looking forward to getting up at 5:30 a.m. (not normal for me) for my Mysore ashtanga practice the next day. My calendar revealed that would not be an option: it was a full moon.

Ashtanga is traditionally not practiced on “moon days” – the days corresponding to the full and new moons each month.

So it was that after work on January 19 I did a home practice. As often occurs for me on full moons, it was fantastic: bandhas engaged, mind focused, inversions stable.

This led me to wonder, for the umpteenth time, why moon day Mysore is forbidden. The explanations I have heard go something like this:

(1) Humans are ~70% water. The moon affects water, as in the tides, and likewise affects us. The full moon makes us energetic but not grounded; the new moon vice versa. Not practicing on the moon days therefore places us in harmony with nature.

I do tend to feel spritely around full moons and sluggish around new moons, and there are statistics on the higher numbers of crimes committed, babies born, etc. on full moons. Ergo I accept the notion that the moon can affect us, though I question the watery body rationale. Supposing acceptance of that proposition, how does it lead to the conclusion that we should not practice on moon days? If we are more energetic on full moons, why not channel that energy into a vigorous asana practice? If we are lethargic on new moons, why not engage in a slow, uplifting practice? I just do not think that the moon-water argument holds water.

(2) Something to do with Brahmin rituals performed around moon days, and a related Brahmin belief Pattabhi Jois (founder of ashtanga) may have held that the mind waxes and wanes in time with the cycles of the moon, so teaching on moon days depletes knowledge.

Without any disrespect to Pattabhi’s beliefs, suffice to say I am not a Brahmin, and this bit of ancient wisdom does not ring true to me.

(3) Because Pattabhi didn’t practice on moon days.

A segment of the ashtanga community contends the lineage requires that we practice and teach only exactly as Pattabhi Jois did. I personally have an aversion to dogma, and I am disinclined to follow tradition for its own sake. I need more reasoning than “do it because Pattabhi did.”

Can anyone offer me a clear, persuasive explanation for the moon day prohibition? I am open to it. Absent that, I plan to roll out my mat whenever I please, be it a new moon, full moon, or waxing gibbous.

Taking Stock

December 30, 2010

With the passing of winter solstice and the approach of the new calendar year, it’s a time for taking stock, both of my life in general and of my life through yoga. Did I grow this year? Did I learn anything? What next?

There were three big highlights this year: (1) training/assisting in a Mysore ashtanga environment, (2) developing and working through a yoga-related injury [see my last blog], and (3) relocating and re-establishing myself in Colorado.

The Mysore training was wonderful: much gratitude to Chad Herst, Devorah Sacks, and Catherine Shaddix for the knowledge and the opportunity. Learning how to safely give the often deep adjustments particular to Mysore was a fumbling (and humbling) effort. The experience was fascinating. Teaching a led class often feels like a performance: standing in front of a group of students, speaking in a calming yet compelling voice, being entertaining enough that they have fun, playing the right music to set the mood, sequencing creatively enough that they don’t become bored, etc. In Mysore, with its set sequences in a silent room as the sun rises, there is no performance. It’s all about meeting students one-on-one where they are in their practices, physically and otherwise, and offering them something – a modification, an adjustment, an observation – that will help them. It is simply being useful.

Beyond the adjusting nuts and bolts, much deeper openings and insights happened through my Mysore experience, things that put some of the yoga back in my yoga. But that could be another blog entirely.

Then there was my relocation. Since leaving San Francisco, I have stumbled around my new home state, trying to replace the yoga community I left behind. I moved with clear intentions: simplify my life; do yoga; get a dog; connect to nature; love; build the foundations so that I can eventually own a home and open my own studio; stop trying so hard. Today, I find myself working days at temporary legal job, rushing around trying to pick up more yoga teaching on the side, and generally exhausting myself… essentially, I have re-created the life I had before I moved, with different scenery. If the definition of “insanity” is repeating the same behavior and expecting a different result, I am completely bonkers.

So, what next? Give myself more time, and cut myself some slack. Acknowledge what is going well and give myself a little credit for the progress I have made: the classes I’m teaching, the invaluable friendships and connections I’m making. Contemplate, clarify, and re-commit to my long-term goals. Create a vision board/goals list and look at it daily for motivation. Be grateful. And, just maybe, allow myself to have a little more fun.

Ode to Injuries

November 6, 2010

A few months ago a friend was explaining why she doesn’t believe in a Mysore ashtanga practice. Among the reasons was that Mysore yogis “claim that injuries are part of the process and you learn from them.”

Let me acknowledge that I have known a number of ashtangis who have been injured through yoga. I can see why an outsider would object to the notion of yoga, a therapeutic practice, causing injuries. Does ashtanga encourage injury? No.

Why (other than that rare unsafe adjustment) does it happen? Every day an ashtangi does the same poses, in the same order. Thus, if there’s a pose you are doing with poor alignment, you are doing so repeatedly. Also, you get stopped at the same pose in the series every day until you demonstrate a degree of ability and can move to the next. This often leads a go-getter student who has not yet learned to surrender to the practice to push too hard, trying to force a pose. Until one day… crack/pop/tear/pull.

Then the practitioner is forced to slow down. To re-examine patterns. To correct misalignments. To stop trying to get to the next pose and experience what is already there.

I have now practiced through two injuries. The first was a fractured metatarsal in 2007, through which my practice improved greatly.

Early this year, I was chugging merrily along through my second series. I had been stuck for months on the eka pada – tittibhasana segment (poses where you put your foot behind your head). I was at peace: “all is coming.” Then I saw a comparatively stiff guy across the room master it and progress past me. My ego mind took over and told me that if he could do it, I must not be trying hard enough. So I pushed, yanked, and pulled my feet behind my head with everything I had. Until one day I was suddenly unable to reach down to pick up a pen, and found myself enduring stabbing pain just rolling over in bed. I had damaged the connective tissue at my sacro-iliac joint.

I have spent the last nine months on a recovery path and learning curve. The pain brought my attention to my misaligned hips, my arched low back, and my weak psoas. I learned that I was relying on my s-i joint mobility to do my deep twists, and that I was doing my core work from my upper but not lower abdominals. I have had to rethink not only my practice, but how I sit, stand, and walk. Today I am stronger and many of my asanas are cleaner and safer than they were before the injury. To say nothing of the re-adjustment of my mindset.

To my friend, I can only say that my injuries have been part of my process, and I am grateful for all that they have taught me.

SWF seeks Guru for Inspiration, Knowledge, Possible LTR

September 30, 2010

I harbor what is likely a romanticized notion of a guru: some assuming, wizened little man who, with few words and an enigmatic smile, can tranmsit the wisdom of the ages directly to you. I imagine that’s how it was with John Lennon and the Maharishi, before Yoko gummed up the works.

Occasionally I wonder if I should seek a guru myself. I had this in the back of my mind when I went to Mysore, India in 2008 to practice under Pattabhi Jois, the beloved “Guruji” of ashtanga. Alas, Guruji was too ill to teach and my teacher, his grandson Sharath, though hardworking and committed, was clearly not the sage I was seeking.

A few weeks ago, ultra-famous yogi superstar Richard Freeman rolled into Boulder, where he has a studio. Secretly harboring my modern-day guru fantasy, I attended nearly every class/lecture he offered in September.

Without question, Richard has all the guru qualifications. His knowledge of yoga, meditation, Buddhism, Sanskrit, etc. is remarkable, as is the lineage of teachers from whom he learned. Moreover, he obviously exists on a higher plane than most of us – it’s impossible to imagine him getting wound up over, say, a parking ticket. His asana instruction is fantastic: I’ve gotten some great Mysore adjustments from him, and he gives unique, subtle cues in led classes.

There’s just one problem: 1/3 of the time that he speaks, I’m completely befuddled. At a 2008 breath meditation seminar he led, I hid in the back, pressing my tongue against different spots on the roof of my mouth and generating quiet wheezing noises as I tried to deduce what “circulating the air against the palate to calm the nervous system” meant. At a recent talk he gave, he somehow covered peaches, Shiva’s beheading of Ganesh, and Lady Gaga’s meat dress, among other things. Midway through the talk my logic-driven, analytical left brain short circuited in its search for structure. I stopped trying to process the information and proceeded to just allow the energy of the room to wash over me. Which I supposed worked – I left on an incredible natural high.

Am I a little too western for the whole guru thing? Perhaps I’m the kind of girl who could better seek The Answers via thoroughly annotated books. Or maybe the point of a guru is just being in the presence of someone more enlightened. Or maybe the whole guru fantasy is just a weak desire to have an external force inspire and motivate me rather than doing the hard work from within.

All that said, don’t mistake me. Next time Richard’s in town, I’ll be there.

Yogier Than Thou

August 29, 2010

I am now nearly one month into my stay in Colorado, and still in search of my new yoga home. Where will I practice? Who will be my teacher? Where will I teach? Where do I feel connected? I have been bouncing from studio to studio, using their new member discount deals as a research opportunity.

The road has been a bit bumpy, as I have increasingly realized that San Francisco-style vinyasa and ashtanga may be unique creatures. In response, my instinctive front-line defense mechanisms — anger and judgment — have been operating on full power. In the past month, I’ve gotten angry because so many classes are only 60 minutes. Annoyed at the popularity of highly heated practice rooms. Disgusted that yoga studios are located in strip malls. Stubborn regarding what I think the “correct” names for poses are. Frustrated at the closed subs’ lists. Upset about the vinyasa sequencing patterns used. Irritated at how few hands-on adjustments I’ve been receiving in Mysore classes. And otherwise generally peeved that x, y or z is not how we did it in San Francisco.

I write this with a tinge of shame at the admission. Perhaps as a yoga teacher I should publicly portray myself as having nothing but pure, perfect, positive, Zen-like thoughts. I have chosen to post it because I think it is an important part of my process. Like you, I am just a practitioner on a path of learning. Step 1 in recovery, after all, is admitting you have a problem.

My intention for September is to acknowledge and thereby set aside my Yogier Than Thou attitude in order to open myself to what is available as I continue my search. (1) I will sort through my reactions rationally. (2) Where my reactions are clearly nonsense – e.g. there are some really nice studio spaces that happen to be in strip malls, and I am just being an urban snob – I will set them aside. (3) Where my reactions potentially have valid bases – e.g. firm beliefs I hold about sequencing poses wisely and safely – I will temper my emotional response and process the information. The ultimate goal is that this experience allows me to refine my own teaching philosophy and evolve my own practice.