You're doing it wrong

Back in my youth -- okay, about three years ago -- Laura had the idea for a kids’ camp at our church that would feature yoga practice.  Lisa and Ginger took turns leading it, involving the kids in a raucous first few minutes, then dismissing them to swim while the grownups stayed behind for a more sedate practice.  On the last day of camp, Lisa ended the practice by singing a very beautiful mantra (which she’d sing for us again, if she really loved us).  For reasons I don’t fully understand, I started to cry, and not pretty, ladylike crying, either.  You should have seen the Presbyterians fleeing the room.

I laid low for some weeks (okay, months), then decided to risk another yoga practice.  I went to the old Lubbock Yoga on one of their $5 nights.  The thought-stream running through my head was something like, “I better not cry again tonight.  Oh, golly, I hope I don’t cry. I really don’t want to cry again. Oh, man, I’m determined not to cry.”  So when the leader started talking about intentions for the practice, of course all I could think was “Don’t cry.”  Even I knew this was a terrible intention, and sure enough, guess what -- more boohooing, even worse than what I’d experienced at church, and this time in front of a large group of horrified/excessively sympathetic strangers.  Nice one, Jen.

I would like to report that I learned from this to ignore the keenings of my own mind and select from the lovely list of intentions often offered at yoga practices.  But no.  Usually what’s in my head is some version of “Don’t!”

Because I am capable of learning, it’s not usually “don’t cry” nowadays, though if I sense that’s about to happen, I do marshal all my energies to combat it.  But it might be “Don’t fail” or “Don’t show you’re scared” or “Don’t be such a loser, curse you.”  If I were Winston Churchill, I’d have “Never, never, never give up,” which is objectively better than “Don’t fall down.” For the record, it’s not exactly news to me that I approach the world this way, but yoga brings it into relief.

And so, it turns out, does piano.  Second lesson last week.  I had worked like a dog worrying a particularly delectable bone on my nice little minuet.  I had fun.  I enjoyed figuring it out, finding out where the hard parts are, understanding what makes them hard, thinking out how to approach them. It’s a pretty little Bach minuet with a couple of lines running up and down the scale in a way that makes me think of overspilling water, if you get it right.  Getting it right at those moments is a little tricky, but I did manage it twice before my lesson.  I imagined that I felt pretty confident about the whole thing, in large part because these piano lessons are really the lowest-stakes thing I can imagine attempting: I’m not trying to improve my chances of a college scholarship, my parents aren’t paying for the lessons and don’t have a stake in how well I do, the best possible outcome is that I have fun, and if I hate it, I can always quit -- no pressure.  So I walk into the room and “Don’t screw up!” is so loud in my head I can’t really hear anything else.  Net result: the piece sounded worse than it had since about the first day I had worked at it.

Lisa’s pencils say “Breathe. Relax. Feel.  Watch.  Allow.”  The breathing one is pretty challenging for me.  Relaxing, let’s face it, basically impossible.  Fine.  Feeling -- well, I would, but I think that might be related to the crying somehow.  Watching I can actually do -- in fact, I do it all the time, but only occasionally in a disinterested way: I’m more usually watching to enable judging. And allowing -- okay, better not even go there.  

Talking to Lisa last week about the infernal headstand: “You’ll just have to trust me to help you,” she says.  She means because my hamstrings are preternaturally short, and yoga keeps introducing me to new ways to experience that.  Trust probably also has something to do with bringing a more balanced or nuanced -- I will not say healthier -- approach to things I try.  But of course I don’t really know how one does that.  For now, I have to rely on what one could call determination, or Winston Churchill’s never-say-die spirit, or just possibly pigheadedness, which I suspect is the more accurate name. I know I’m doing it wrong.  Still, I’m going to keep trying to inch my way toward doing it a little better. 

Taking Risks and Being Zen

I don’t drive over the speed limit.  In fact, I don’t drive as fast as the law allows if I judge that the state has recklessly set the speed limit higher than is really safe for the road.  I don’t gamble, and I don’t in any way understand people who find gambling fun. I am careful and rational, I tell myself, and I don’t take stupid risks.  

I might even describe myself as a person who is governed by fear: I look at the world and have a pretty clear understanding of the many ways in which it just isn’t very safe.  I pass this on, without meaning to, to my daughter.  When she was about five, we were having a discussion about some kind of undesirable behavior she had observed and found fascinating in one of her friends.  I asked, “Do you know why that’s a bad idea?”  She said, “Because I might die.”  This answer wouldn’t have bothered me if in fact there had been a risk of death associated with the bad behavior, but as a default response, it did give me some concern that perhaps I talk a bit too much about worst-case scenarios.

Is it just a coincidence, then, that friends, loved ones, and total strangers often encourage me to relax?  For some years before I ever practiced yoga, various people had been encouraging me to try it on grounds that it would help relieve  my habitual tension.

So I take some pleasure in the irony of how anti-relaxing yoga is for me, especially lately when I show up at the Yoga Shala wondering what crazy scheme Lisa has this week.  The week we did Crow, I listened innocently enough while she described various body parts that might feel...she wouldn’t say pain, but you could kind of tell what she  meant.  It wasn’t until she was a pretty long way along the path of guiding us into the position that I realized she meant for us to be perched on our hands with our feet off the floor -- that, apparently, was Crow.  The idea that someone could imagine that I could do such a thing -- fat, uncoordinated little me -- struck me as pretty hilarious.  Guess what she had in mind for the next week, though -- a headstand.  I couldn’t even laugh at that, just shake my head in disbelief.

I can also say that I was genuinely frightened at the thought of doing either of these things: frightened I’d get hurt, frightened I’d fall, frightened I’d humiliate myself in front of people I might have occasion to see again (such as, for instance, myself).  But what’s a little abject terror between friends?  I certainly wasn’t going to let being afraid stop me from trying.

You won’t find line drawings of my attempts in any yoga methods books any time soon, and I don’t have an inspiring story of triumphing over my fears.  I don’t have the kind of courage that laughs in the face of danger.  But I did try, and I managed an approximation of Crow and the abominable headstand. Given that I only manage an approximation of Down Dog, what more could one ask?

I did  jump right into another kind of risk, though: I started taking piano lessons.

Okay, I had an offer that was too good to refuse, a chance to study with Carla Cash, who’s way too good to be messing around with the likes of me.  And I have been realizing for a while that my seven-year-old already has better technique than I do despite my having had years of lessons, albeit during my childhood in the Dark Ages.  And I would like to play for my own amusement in a way that doesn’t hurt my ears: I sound like elephants jumping none too nimbly on the keyboard, not the best effect if you’re attempting a sweet little minuet.  And I had read a rather inspirational essay about the benefits for experienced teachers of being a student in some other field -- the insights that gives you into coaching as well as reminders of what it’s like to be a student.  So I was really excited and looking forward to getting started.

But what I hadn’t reckoned on was fear.  The closer I got to that first lesson, the more worried I was.  What if I humiliated myself?  I have, in fact, fallen off a piano bench -- though there were cats involved in that incident.

In the end, no animals were harmed in the making of that lesson.  Turns out that wearing your shoulders in your ears is just as counterproductive on the piano bench as it is in the yoga studio, so I’ve added  yet another area of my life in which I have to relax, but honestly, at this point, I’ve heard that so many times that it’s no longer distressing. I’m anxious, I’m tense -- what else is new?  

Piano playing, Carla says, is about managing tension and relaxation.  There’s tension involved in striking a note, followed by release of the tension: fluid wrists, not static ones.  The body has to be relaxed, too -- which means I’m going to have to figure out a way to get my shoulders down that doesn’t just create a different kind of tension.  But eventually, she says, you don’t have to concentrate on relaxing: you can just think about what you’re hearing as you play.  Nice.

I often wish that I could be more zen.  It’s not for want of trying.  But I’m not made that way, I think.  Years ago, as a graduate student teaching for the first time, I had to learn that I come into the classroom with myself every day.  It’s no good wishing that I were more like my imaginary ideal teacher or scholar or person. Rather, I had to learn to use the qualities I actually have to give my students the best learning experience I can.  Some of my qualities are good qualities that I like to think any right-thinking person would wish to have.  Some of my qualities suck big time and are an enormous inconvenience to me in all kinds of ways.  But if my compassion comes into the classroom, it’s a pretty sure bet that my anxiety will too.  I can’t change this leopard’s spots; I have to use what I’ve got.  And I’m actually pretty zen about that.  It’s not the worst thing in the world to pass on to your child the idea that you should try, even when you’re afraid, and that failure doesn’t cancel out the virtue of the attempt.

But that doesn’t mean I want her to be stupid: I’ll never be zen about speeding or gambling.

Mirrors

Last week, during our Easter break at the Shala, Laura and I shared a lovely Ashtanga practice.  There were many interesting aspects about the shared practice…how we started together, moved apart, and came back into sync…how the sound of another’s deep breath evokes calmness…how the pace of another’s movement impacts our own.

Before we began our practice I opened the mirror.  I often utilize the mirror in my own private practice for the immediate visual feedback.  Wow...the left shoulder is higher than my right, the torso is twisting slightly left, the sternum is slightly collapsed, etc.  If you’re working to refine alignment in postures, a mirror is a great tool.

After practice, Laura and I got into a great conversation around the subject of mirrors.  Why don’t I open them up in class?  Well…  for a few reasons.  One, we have a small space and arranging a class of 6 so that everyone can view themselves in the mirror is close to – not completely – but close to – impossible.  Two, mirrors encourage us to psychologically move outward, toward a defined image, rather than inward toward subtly of sensation and witnessing of thought.  Three, it complicates the practice by more directly inviting in the ego.  (This is not a “bad” practice.  Actually, watching the ego is a really fascinating and essential part of the practice.)  Visually opening the physical comparisons between practitioners has the potential for all sorts of fallout…particularly the language of “should,” “can’t,” “I’m not as good as,” “I’m not thin enough,” and on and on.  Now let’s admit it, this language may be going on anyway, but the mirror has the potential to increase its volume.   One of the goals of the practice is to watch this subjective language and begin replacing it with more objective facts – the back is rounded, the right leg is rotated further out, etc. – stating "What Is" instead of our perceptions of what "Should" be. Once this objectivity becomes grounded in self-acceptance, then the mirrors can be really useful. (By the way, this is the primary purpose of the dristi or focal point for the eyes in the Ashtanga system…the dristi keeps the practitioner focused on their own experience rather than gazing around the room at what others are doing.)

You may have come across conversations in yoga related to how everything in our perception of reality is actually a mirror of self.  It’s a pretty deep concept and can be quite enlightening if you’re brave enough to look at your own reflection.

A couple of years ago, I was consciously working with this concept and had a fascinating experience.  Each spring, the TTU School of Music hosts a Scholarship Concert, which serves as a fundraiser and an opportunity to honor donors.  The performance generally involves the entire school performing large works for full orchestra and choir.  (This year on April 28^th at 8pm, the school will present the Mozart Requiem – sorry, couldn’t resist the plug.)  I remember sitting in the concert hall and noticing how packed it was.  The stage of Hemmle Recital Hall was covered with wind and string players and multiple choirs filled not only the back of the stage but also the entire loft.  Add the packed house to this and I was but a drop in a sea of bodies and faces.

Then, I began playing with the idea of the mirror – how each person in this hall was somehow a reflection of me (or my perception at that time of who I was).  It was like being in the fun house at a carnival.  Soooo many mirrors, and some distorted. Wow…that cellist down there who never practices…he’s a reflection of me…hmm.  What does that mean?   What about that student who I know is struggling with the loss of a family member?  And the disrespectful “kid” on the back row of the brass section who really just needs to grow up?  What about that girl who seems more interested in fixing her hair than in warming up?  Gee whiz.  I must be a mess.  But wait…there’s a Grammy Award winning tenor on stage.  And what about that organist who is so funny and kind.  And that student who practices six hours a day? Are these reflections of me too?  How does what I choose to see in others mirror what I see in myself?  It is a choice isn’t it?  Whether or not to look at others with judgment, admiration, and/or compassion?  Whether or not to reflect on ourselves in these ways?  Swami Kripalu’s definition of yoga: “Self Observation with Love.” 

Around that same time, my son and I went with Jen and her daughter to see the new NASA movie, which contained newly released footage from several of the space shuttle missions.  One of the astronauts commented on how dark space was – the darkest black he’d ever experienced.   It was shortly after that, that I had the most amazing insight.   If there were only one source of light in the entirety of existence, that source would not be able to experience it’s own brilliance unless it had something to reflect it’s light from.  Its experience would be one of total darkness, of complete emptiness.  Could it be that the galaxies, solar systems, planets, people, animals, plants, earth, water, air, and ether are all here to reflect the brilliance of the source that created them?  Are we each a mirror for the Divine?  Each of us providing a tiny reflection of the whole?  Is it possible to see each person we encounter as a reflection not only of ourselves but also of Source/Absolute/Creator/God?  Do we have the ability to see God reflected in ourselves?  Just take a look in the mirror.  Namaste!

Russell Case Interview

Here is a link to a wonderful and fun interview with Russell Case, long time Ashtanga Yoga practitioner and teacher.  Russell happened to be in my classes while I was in Mysore this past fall. You can find amazing video demonstrations with Russell on YouTube.  Enjoy the interview!
Russell Case Interview

The Language of Angels

I often find myself saying, “My primary role as a teacher is to remind students of what they already know.”  If a student is accepted into a university program as a music major, chances are they have had someone teach them the fundamental principles of the instrument along the way.  Even as a professional, I am never free from the need to practice fundamentals: good tone production, quality intonation, rhythmic accuracy, evenness of technique…all layered with a thoughtful yet free sense of musical intention.  But without access any longer to a teacher to remind me of these elements, the responsibility to revisit these fundamentals is fully mine… it is up to me to discover and rediscover what I already know.

This point continues to be emphasized over and over again in my yoga practice.  I’ve searched, yearned, and ached to find a spiritual teacher who could tell me what to practice and how to practice…and perhaps most importantly to hold me accountable for it.  But every teacher I’ve come across, from Christian pastors to Buddhist monks, from Hindu priests to Sikh masters, have all transmitted the same message: Go within.  You already know.  Find the Will (of God).

Intuitively, I do know.  There is a deep and ever-present knowing.  But alas, I haven’t always acted in accordance with that knowing.  Why is it so challenging?

I remember so vividly listening to the sounds my son made as a newborn.  The sounds seemed to be an ethereal language, the language of angels.  I was mesmerized by it.  This wasn’t the coo of a baby learning to speak a human language, but a language beyond human, fully content, fully at peace.  Then the hunger and discomfort of being human would find its way into his little body.  The cry of his human voice would explode in recognition/perception that this new body was somehow separate from the safe haven of angels.  He was suddenly laden with physical and emotional need…primarily the need to survive.  He had been laden with the human condition.

As children explore the world, they do so with such trust and ease, touching and tasting, jumping and bending, running and climbing.  There are no perceived limits…until they become physically or emotionally hurt.  The skin is cut.  The child is scolded.  He is taught, through experience and others, about the fragility of human life.  His number-one goal becomes to guard his survival.  The language of angels is forgotten and the freedom of exploration is replaced with an underlying fear of death.  He slowly forgets that he’s so much more than human.  His adult lifetime is spent seeking to be reminded of what he already knows.

The body imprints survival responses on a cellular level, not only in what is typically defined as the mind, but in the cells of the body tissues as well.  This is the sophisticated intelligence of the entire body/mind.  For example, if a child is bullied, a human fight, flight or freeze response is initiated.  If that response is validated by survival, then the body/mind associates that behavior with success and is more likely to respond in a similar fashion when confronted by a comparable situation in the future.  If the child survived by fighting, he may, over time, develop a beneficial association between fear/anger and survival.  Otherwise, if the child survived through submissiveness, he may develop a beneficial association between fear/depression/physical contraction (protection of the heart and other vital organs) and survival.  Potentially, any perceived threat, whether life threatening or not, can trigger these survival reactions, imprinted early in human life.

Vrtti is the word in Sanskrit that refers to these “loops” of consciousness.  Each human experiences layers and layers of vrtti…from the sensory recognition of what we define as a sunset (the eyes take in patterns of light and categorize them into labeled images) to the emotional content of what we experience as love.  Vrtti also includes loops of behavior associated with survival.  Cultivating the ability to recognize these patterns, and how they have served us (and how they may no longer be serving us), is the first step in re-member-ing the totality of who we are.

Patanjali defines Yoga as “yogascittavrttinirodha.”  Yoga is moderating the loops of consciousness.  Nirodha means to moderate or regulate, not to stop or eliminate.  Yoga is not about ceasing to exist or eliminating the mind, but rather about creating an awareness that allows us to watch our experiences and to moderate our thoughts related to those experiences.  It is through that regulation or moderation of thought that we find peace, that we are re-mind-ed, and that we rediscover the language of angels.