India made me fat

"I got fat in India?!" My jaw drops. I look from one face to another, hoping for some reassurance. I find none.

Go back about one month. I am sitting on the floor with Pete, who has just arrived. I turn to him.

"Pete, I am going to ask you something. I know you're not going to like it and you're going to think I'm weird, but I want you to be completely honest with me," he looks at me perplexed, I look down to the floor. I can't believe I already put this out there, without stopping myself in time. "Pete, seriously now, you see me every day. Have I gotten fatter?" His eyebrows raise, I can feel the panic and dread start to rise. He thought more of me before this moment. "I'm serious, I'm not being silly, but I really feel like I have and I just want to know if I'm crazy or not."

"You're crazy," he says. I can't figure out if he is being honest or if this is the natural reflex of a 30+ year old man who has been asked this very same question over 1,000 times since he was 12 years old. "You aren't fat and you haven't gotten fatter." The timing of his answer was somewhere between trained reaction and contemplation. I couldn't tell if he was serious.

"I think you've gotten skinnier," Petra says.

"No way," I counter. I don't believe them and I feel embarrassed to have asked. I can sense the question hovering in the air long after they've forgotten my insecurities.

Go back fifteen years. I am about seven years old, maybe younger. I am walking around the edge of the Paradise Hills community pool. It is a clear, sunny, summer day. I can still smell the chlorine and the thick air of the locker rooms with slick floors decorated with fallen hairs and the toilets with wet seats. I can hear the water slide and the loud splash as each child is flung out the end into the water. I am walking around the pool toward something I cannot remember. I am thinking something I cannot remember. A group of boys not much older than myself are walking towards me.

"Why do you think you can wear something like that?" One asks as he points to me and snickers to another who is laughing. I look down to see what he is pointing at. I'm wearing a little bikini. Maybe it is pink.

"Your belly sticks out!" Another says. this could have been the end of the conversation, this could have been the beginning. I don't remember. What I do remember is that I had no idea that my body was not okay until that moment, at an age consisting of a single digit, with the round belly of a healthy child.

I'm standing in the small room with the tailor, his wife, and two friends. I decided to have a couple of shirts made before I left India.

"You have old measurements?" I ask the tailor's wife. The tailor had just finished measuring me while she recorded the results. She was now thumbing through the pile of old measurements trying to find the receipt of a friend's commission made two months ago ( I am trying to recreate this same shirt). She doesn't answer. I ask again. She finds the measurements for the shirt I had made in July.

"Bust three inches...waist one inch...hips two inches...shoulders same," he says all this with a smile and head wobble. I look to my friends who are laughing. I finally close my mouth. Was it hanging open or was I laughing?

"No way!" We all seem to be saying. He takes out his measuring tape once more and measures my arm.

"Half inch arm," we are all laughing now. He adds, "Height same." My eyes are wide. I'm somewhere between hysterics and tears. I keep laughing. Is it forced?

"I got fat in India?!" My jaw drops. I look from one face to another, hoping for some reassurance. I find none.

Did I really get fat in India? I don't know. Maybe I gained more muscle. Maybe I gained more fat. Everyone seems to agree that the tailors usually measure loose. They don't want to get too close to your body (especially when the tailor is a man) and you have to really convince them that you want something tighter, or shorter, or more low cut, or sexy.

Here in Mysore, the women look beautiful. They wear long flowing saris, or these long, thigh length blouses with pants and beautiful scarves. Everything is loose and flowing (except the sleeves which, as a rule, are always tight as a drum). You see these women and the grace with which they all carry themselves from the upper class woman in silk to the woman gathering garbage in beautiful vibrant green and purple.

So the first few days in India, you decide to integrate Indian pieces into your wardrobe. Nothing fits right. Everything is up to your neck and too long and boxy. You feel like you're wearing something somewhere between a mumu and a hospital gown. You buy these things anyway, of course.

Later that evening we (my two friends from the tailor and I) are sitting around the living room getting ready to watch the L Word.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks. "What's wrong?" Its about an hour after we visited the tailor.

"You know," I say as I flop back onto the cushion, my eyes staring up at the ceiling.

"Do you think its because we were raised in America?" She asks.

"Yes," I reply quickly. No one says anything.

In India, having a little extra weight is a sign of good health and prosperity. A friend told me that she was talking to her cleaning lady who told her that she had never tasted a fruit before because they were too expensive. She only ate rice, chapati, curd, and dhal (I think). You'll notice that generally, those of the lower classes are thin and those of the upper are heavier. But those of the upper class who can afford to be exposed to western culture and lifestyle are thinner.

Something else you'll learn in month two or maybe three is that "people go crazy when your hair is down and especially if it is curly," as my friend says. I hadn't noticed up to that point, but all the women indeed had their hair in long braids or ponytails. There was very little variation. I don't really understand why this is. My friend went on to explain how when they see your hair like this, they don't know what to do. "Not even the police will touch you." He adds.

This morning in practice I felt light and strong. Some days you really connect with yourself during practice and this was one of them. It was "steady and sweet". I didn't feel heavier or that I was moving more weight around, despite the information to the contrary.

Yesterday Pete and I walked into the Badsha by the big vegetable market so he could buy gifts for family. Our friend Shoab works there and he greeted us happily at the door. The first thing he says is, "You have gotten so skinny!" I turn to him and laugh. I look at Pete and he's laughing (he already heard the tailor story). I give Shoab the abbreviated version. He replies with a smile, "I guess we always think the ones we love are too skinny because we worry about their health."

The tailor's wife is quiet. In the midst of all the hysterics, I think she said, "but those original measurements were for the tight shirt..."

A confession: I slept in

It had to happen eventually, I suppose.

I remember setting my alarm last night. I remember waking up half way through to talk to my boyfriend in the US. I remember I could not get back to sleep. I remember hearing an alarm. I remember hitting snooze. And yet somehow, when I woke up, it was 5:15 and my alarm was set for 12.

I didn't believe it. But there are no other clocks in the house to reference, so I embraced the wave of shame and then went back to bed. I could have stayed awake and practiced on my own (and I still might sometime today), but since I didn't, I'm remembering how incredibly difficult it is to have the motivation to do a regular home practice.

I've met quite a few people here who are from places around the world where there is no ashtanga teacher and home practice is their only option. It is so incredibly inspirational to me to see their practice because it is built on nothing else but their own inner strength. Yes, it takes effort to get up an hour earlier so that you can take the subway or drive to class before work, but it is something totally different when there is no one waiting for you except yourself. You've got to peel yourself from the comfort of your bed, not because you paid for a card, or because your teacher will think less of you, or because you might get a pose, but because that's what you do. Because you know its time to practice and that is it. Because you are keeping your word to yourself.

For my own piece of mind, there is also strength in being able to let go. I remember that my teacher used to talk about learning to be soft and compassionate towards ourselves. When I first heard this I was like, "what kind of flowery, hokey, sentimental bullshit is this?" and "can we get on with the poses?" Really, that's what I thought. But she explained that she is usually really hard on herself, getting mad when she didn't do something "perfect" or setting unrealistic goals. It was then that I realized that she was also talking about me.

That is the challenge, isn't it? Learning that we are not our own worst enemy and to make friends with ourselves. Yet, at the same time balancing the compassion and softness with courage and strength instead of self-loathing disappointment.

No horse is better or worse than any other even though most people want to be the best horse. And who can blame us? The worst horse looks very impressive. But, why not have the courage to look inside and see who we truly are. Why not have the strength to be okay with whatever we find? As Pema Chodron explains:

"What I have realized through practicing is that practice isn't about being the best horse or the worst horse. It's about finding our own true nature and speaking from that, acting from that. Whatever our quality is, its our wealth and our beauty; that's what other people respond to."

I feel like it is entirely possible that there is no afterlife, no reincarnation, no heaven or hell, and when you die you are simply dead and that is it. It is entirely possible that the lives that we are now living are the full expressions of our existence. I feel like the sooner we are honest with ourselves about who we truly are, the sooner we can live to our full potential. I feel like our whole lives should be rich and full like we were living the "one year to live meditation".

I realize this seems unrealistic to most, but I see more and more that it is exactly what people are asking for. From dream job coaching to self help books. Counseling to xanax. Pain relievers to pain seekers. Are we really trying to numb ourselves, to check out, to sleep? Or are we all trying desperately to wake up?

Confession: Yes, I slept in today. Ooops. And now everyone knows. I am okay with it.

Life as a prayer

I watch the news in the morning after my practice and nap. There was footage of protests at the UN in New York City. At the Millennium Summit in 2000, 192 countries agreed to 8 "Millennium Goals" to achieve by 2015. One of these was to eradicate extreme poverty and hunger. Unsurprisingly, they haven't made much of a dent as a protester noted, "every three seconds someone dies of hunger". Of HUNGER. Of not having enough to eat. Of not having enough nutrients from what they are eating.

At breakfast I had 3 whole meal rotis, sauteed vegetables, a banana soy milk smoothie, a spirulina drink, half a fruit salad, and a cup of hot water. I prayed over my meal.

The things that we see and the things that we don't.

In the book I am currently reading, Shantaram, the main character is amazed as he watches men taking barrels of water up the stairs of his hotel. He stands to the side as they take one barrel after another. His tour guide explains that the water from the shower comes from a tank on the roof and that these men are filling the tank. Upon hearing this, he felt incredibly guilty because he was taking three showers a day. So when he told the guide that he was vowing to not shower for the rest of his stay, he was surprised when the guide told him that he didn't understand and that it was a "people-job". It is because of the tourists that these men had a job. "You should have three showers, four showers, even five showers every day..." And as he watched the men go about their work, he began to notice how much strength they had, how proud they were of the work they did, and how favorably the ladies reacted to their presence.

As I tugged at the latch on our front gate, the moon caught my eye. I can't always see it here as it is usually quite low. But at 4:45 am, it was right in front of me, nestled between a house and a tree. It was full and bright and almost creamy like a piece of cheese. The outline faded into the sky so that a haze surrounded the bright, glowing moon. I nodded my chin so as to say my respective "hello", and turned to walk down the street to the shala.

When Sharath was here, the Shala was full of people, a sea of mats organized along huge floor rugs. Now the shala is a huge room full of floor rugs with mats scattered throughout. There are trains on the middle rug. Trains like "choo choo". Ever notice that?

I was amazed today when I received a supta kurmasana adjustment from Saraswati today. That is practically unheard of if you can bind on your own. (Binding means crossing your legs over your head AND reaching your arms underneath your thighs, wrapping them around your back, AND clasping the opposite fingers/hand/wrist). See pic of supta k on right...

On the back of Petra's bike, my gaze slowly drifted up to the sky (staring up at the sky is just about the best thing to do when you are sitting on the back of a bike). It was so blue. "It is such a beautiful day!" I yelled to Petra. I don't know if she heard me.

Today I'm off to the center with Krista for laughs, smiles, and overall good times...

Tomorrow its led class with Saraswati...

Working your edge

Jason writes:

"u recently spoke about how your teacher would talk about 'working your edge'. Do you have new any insights on how that is done in Mysore style since you have now been in Mysore for a while?"

Response:

I remember once when she said that. She had just gotten back from Mysore. She was darker than before. She was wearing a tank top that was supposed to be tight, but she was so fit it almost looked loose. I remember seeing her arms and being in awe with how fit she was. Before class she told us that she was completely inspired--

No, that's not it. That was a later time that she said it.

Guruji was in New York. She was going every day to practice. It was a vinyasa class and beforehand she told us that she was feeling completely inspired by Guruji being in town. We didn't know what that meant at the moment, but as we moved through sun salutes, she mentioned how you do what you need to do to save energy. So we tried not to fidget in the downward dogs. We tried to use an economy of movement in the vinyasas. Some people would drop their knees and sink their hips back in a child's pose to rest in downward dog.

As we clumsily tried to move with grace, she was asking us to analyze what pain is and to find our edge. (It felt like a class full of hippos trying to do yoga.) What could we work through or past? What could we breathe into? What were we capable of? What was the difference between good pain and bad pain?

Sometimes it feels like there is a line in the sand between those who are flexible, strong, those who seem to easily perform the poses without breaking a sweat and those who struggle and pant and sweat and give up and shake. I remember this line was drawn when she asked us to jump from downward dog, through our arms, to a sitting position. I bawked at this. Everyone in the room did except my friend Susan who is one of those ex-dancer, super fit, beautiful and amazing types. My teacher laughed and asked us to watch as she demonstrated a jump through. She was so light and soft as she floated effortlessly though the air, landing in a seated position with her legs straight in front of her. "How do you know that you can't do this?" She was asking. "Find your edge." She kept saying this, "find your edge?" I kept asking myself what that meant.

(Watch the jump backs and jump throughs in this video. For a second, he his hovering, suspended in the air like a balloon. A Jivamukti teacher once compared the jump throughs and the hovering balloon effect to dance a similar experience in dance. "Ballon [is] the appearance of weightlessness and of being airborne. A dancer is said to have ballon if (s)he seems to be in the air constantly with only momentary contact with the floor.")

This phrase has stayed in my head ever since. Like a mantra, it echoed in the back of my mind when I started to back out of a pose, or to tell myself something was not possible.

It seems funny imagining me being able to find my edge here in Mysore where my practice has been shortened significantly. It seems like it would get boring like I was repeating 5th grade, three times. And on some days, I admit, it was. I would run through my practice, doing the things I was always comfortable with doing. But then, I started to watch other people and to see how far you can take things. The edge means a different thing for everyone. For me, it comes up often in regards to strength. It took me so long to even be able to do a bad chaturanga dandasana (see picture on left). Really, I mean like a whole year. And even then, I was not looking forward to struggling through it.

So here in Mysore, finding my edge was seeing people fly, and being able to believe that it was possible. It was. It is. All I had to do was try and keep trying. And it has been so hard, but for me, that is the edge. How can I make this vinyasa soar? How can I maximize this stretch or this extension? How high can I lift up and how softly can I jump back? How closely can I get to the edge without falling over?

Working just in primary has been ideal for this transformation. I'm comfortable in primary. I feel like I've explored all the nooks and crannies and then discovered that there is a secret passageway leading here or there and there are more nooks and crannies to explore. That's the edge. Being brave enough to follow the passage into the unknown. To be willing to be surprised.

It hasn't just been physical. The edge has also been being able to leave the comfort of daily life to come here in the first place, alone. It has been getting up every morning and not giving up. Finding the edge has been about exploring what I've got inside and opening my eyes even when I don't see what I like.

Ever heard of parkour? I love this quote that describes parkour as "a playground for strength, freedom, courage and discipline". But its also so much about finding the edge of what we think is or isn't possible. Like walking on walls. Or jumping from roof top to roof top.

So, back to the original question: "how have I found my edge in mysore style?" I have made an effort to do everything full-blast, even if I haven't done it before or thought I couldn't. Like literally looking at my nose in nasagrai drishti. Why not? Or trying to work towards (and sometimes succeeding in) jumping back and forth in sun salutes with straight legs. Or lifting up between navasanas with the left leg on top even though its my weak side and I can't lift as high as with the other side. I've been looking for my edge by asking "why not?" and really understanding that here, everything is possible.

I think more and more about what my teacher said about how she came to ashtanga yoga because she wanted to learn how to fly. Finding your edge is about seeing your body and your capabilities and limitations and saying you're going to try anyway. It is about jumping out of the nest and trusting that your wings will work, because that's why you have them. It is about not seeing your body or your past or anything else as a limitation. It is about seeing possibility and making small or big steps toward it. It is about returning to your practice every day and noticing that you have a clean slate and that maybe today will be the day where something impossible will happen.

Flying dreams

News from Mysore:

It is official. A new heir to the ashtanga throne has been born! Today after the opening mantra, Saraswati announced that Sharath is the proud father of a baby boy!

On to the blog:

We often forget our dreams. The dreams that we remember sometimes stick with us, especially those where we are flying. I've read that dreams of flying are categorized as "lucid dreams", which are dreams where the dreamer is aware that they are dreaming. We are aware that we are doing the impossible, we are soaring through the sky, or hovering over the earth, or gliding above the ocean. When we are flying, everything is possible. These dreams are often described as carrying a feeling of freedom and joy.

Lying in bed after class, I was taking an extended savasana (rest). I stared from underneath the blanket, up into space. I was daydreaming of birds. (Maybe the sound of the early morning tweeting and squawking planted some images.) I dreamt of trees towering above the ground with warm nests filled with the anxious, flapping wings of baby birds ready to figure out what they were made for. The mother bird pushes them out one at a time. There is no lesson, just a push, and the confidence that the little creature will be able to figure it out. Yes, there is technique involved, but really, the point is just to stay in the air, the point is to fly and it doesn't matter how the little creature does it, so much as he or she does.

I saw Rachel standing up from urdhva dhanurasana today. She did it for the first time yesterday. I watched as she negotiated the weight distribution between her hands and feet. I watched as she inched her way to the very edge. For a second, I thought she would give up even though she was so close. I wanted to shout across the room, "go for it! you got it!" And then, all the hesitation washed away and she stood up, just like that.

What I love about ashtanga (and what a lot of people don't like) is that it is so much about just doing it. Just stand up. Just lift up. Just jump back. Just fold. Just...fly. Over time, as you soar, you figure out that you can twirl and dive and spin and a million other things once you conquer everything that tells you "no" and you are doing it--you are flying. It is like constantly looking into your own face as a child when you figured out how to do something. Little you gazes warmly up at current you and exclaims, "I did it!" Maybe, big you can do the same thing. Sometimes in practice, we are all like happy little children shouting, "I did it!" As I write this, I can honestly say that I'm smiling because it is so simple and because this little drop of happiness is such a gift.

I've found myself in a few conversations recently about how people wish they were birds, and in particular, eagles.

Sometimes in flying dreams, we feel like we are beginning to lose altitude or that we will crash into something. This happens to me when I realize not that I'm flying, but that actually, I can't usually do this in real life. For me, its the "possibility" or lack there of that I cling to and allow to weigh me down all the way to the ground.

I want to remember a dream in the back of my mind where I begin to lose altitude but then, I do the impossible and I "pick it up!" "Pick it up" just happens to sound familiar because that is what Saraswati and Sharath will tell you and those around you who begin to lose altitude in flying poses such as headstand or uthplutih. Today I had the feeling that Saraswati was pushing all of us out of the nest and now it is up to us to fly.

Daniel Johnston

Worried Shoes - Yip / Jump Music (1983)

I took my lucky break and I broke it in two

Put on my worried shoes

My worried shoes

And my shoes took me so many miles and they never wore out
My worried shoes
I made a mistake and I never forgot
I tied knots in the laces of
My worried shoes
And with every step that I'd take I'd remember my mistake

As I marched further and further away
In my worried shoes

My worried shoes

And my shoes took me down a crooked path

Away from all welcome mats

My worried shoes

And then one day I looked around and I found the sun shining down

And I took off my worried shoes

And the feet broke free

I didn't need to wear

Then I knew the difference between worrying and caring

'Cause I've got a lot of walking to do

And I don't want to wear

My worried shoes

Links to dream dictionaries (when is the last time you tried to analyse a dream?):

http://www.mysticalblaze.com/DreamsFlying.htm

http://www.dreammoods.com/dreamdictionary/

http://www.dreamdoctor.com/dictionary/

No fearing

Saraswati and I had a moment today and its possible that she didn't even know it. (Sometimes I feel like a stalker that develops this entire relationship with someone without even knowing their name. Hmmm.)

Back bending. As I hung, suspended in the air, for a split second I thought to myself, "no fear". ("No fear" is one of Sharath's favorite sayings. He repeats it a lot. For a while I thought, "maybe this guy needs some new material". But actually, by repeating it, the simple lesson gets stuck where it needs to in our heads so that when we are in moments like this, it happens without even thinking about it. Imagine if fearlessness became a part of us all...)

Saraswati grabbed my left hand and took it to my leg. I think I grunted. I was up on my toes leaning my pelvis against this 60+ year old woman, trusting that she wouldn't drop me as she reached over to take my right hand to my leg. For a moment, my body seized as the nerves running through my body began to pulsate, vibrate, and ring. And then, peace. I planted my heels firmly on the ground. I engaged my legs and began to straighten them as if I were standing. I drew my elbows toward one another and felt my chest melting in a large arc toward the ceiling. I could feel all the bones in my body, my pelvis, my sacrum, my femurs, Saraswati's hands. And I breathed. And right when I usually spring up to stand, I rode the wave to the next breath. I was still there breathing. It was like crossing over to another lifetime. Saraswati let me stay there for a while. I was relaxing. With a little twitch of her hands I could tell that it was time to come up, and I did. My whole body vibrated intensely. I even wiggled a little from the electricity. I sat down and Saraswati ironed out my back with her hands like a shirt. She stayed with me longer than ever before. I think I groaned and smiled and still she stayed. We had a moment and I'm not sure that she knew it.

The last few weeks of back bending have been very interesting. As Saraswati put it, "that arm no good". The right side of my body feels open and clean. In a back bend, the entire side feels smooth like the energy is sweeping up and down then entire length of my body. But on the left side, it feels like a knitting project gone bad. All the yarn is knotted up and needs help being untangled. But today there was some real progress. I could feel the difference even if there was a visible discrepancy between the placement of my hands on my legs. At the coconut stand a friend said, "back bending twist!"

The practice is a lot like this. Things are good. You're doing it. Maybe it even feels easy or (gasp) fun. And then one day it all shatters to pieces. I remember that in David Byck's book, he explains how he tackled this a couple of times in asanas. Maybe you experience it in just getting into a schedule to practice. I know I have. So, sometimes everything shatters to pieces and it feels like it will always be that way until one bright sunny day or gloomy grey one, you discover to much surprise and great amazement that the pieces have miraculously been glued back together.

I got salambasana today. There is always an energy between the teacher and student. I think that we can both sense when we are ready for the next thing or when we need to work. Today I had a feeling that she would give me salambasana. I did pasasana and krounchasana (the first and second poses of second series, but also the last two that I practice before starting back bending and finishing postures), but didn't hear from Saraswati as I went into back bending. I did three back bends (also called wheel or urdhva dhanurasana), each one walking my hands closer to my feet until the third wheel when I touched and grabbed my legs with my hands. After my last exhale, I stood up on the inhale. Saraswati was helping the person in front of me with supta vajrasana (see picture on left from ashtangayoga.info).

"Your last pose, " she asked.

"Krounchasana, " I said.

"Huh?"


"Krounchasana," I repeated.

"Salambasana." She instructed. Even though I knew that she wanted me to back track and do it now I still said, "right now?" Obviously, she didn't respond. I knew the answer. (see pics of Salambasana a & b on the right from ashtanga.info.)

Mysore Book Club. I just finished Lolita and have just started Shantaram. It is really big, but is a Mysore must-read. EVERYONE is reading it right now... I also heard that maybe there will be a movie coming up...Something about Johnny Depp?

Video of Supta Vajrasana with Guruji in New York:

Road trip recap

Yesterday, we loaded up a van (thanks for organizing that guys!) and went on a road trip. The first stop was 30 Km South of Mysore at a small town named Somnathpur (see picture on left from travelblog.org). I had no idea where we were going, and neither did one of my friends, who ended up taking a road trip to temples she had already visited a month ago. On our way, she mentioned how road trips are very different here in India because you never get on an open road. Its true. In the states, you drive through town and then suddenly its only open road in front of you and you think, "Wow, here we go!" In India, you are driving slowly down roads, through ride fields, through back allies in obscure towns. I couldn't help but wonder how anyone could find there way to the same places we were going because there were so many unmarked ally ways that seemed to make up a substantial number of roads we travelled. The roads aren't always paved, are often muddy, and include many passersby and obstructions with a heart beat or many heart beats if you get caught in a heard of goats. I noticed on the windshield that there was a sticker that declared that this vehicle was adjusted to not go faster than 60. Really, it could not go faster than 60. Not that there was much of an opportunity with the cows and the muddy holes.

Somnathpur is the name of the very small town that people travel to in order to see the Keshava Temple. When we saw a sign that marked the entrance, my temple-veteran companion said, "we took a rickshaw here and back." The rest of us stared at her in horror. When she added that there were three of them crammed in the back, she had to scrape us off the floor from the impact of her words. Immediately after we got out of the bus, our bodies stretching into mangled standing positions from sitting for so long, we were surrounded by children asking for money and selling souvenirs. I didn't buy anything and felt terrible about it.

Entrance to the temples was 2 rupees for Indians, and the equivalent of $2 US dollars for everyone else. In their conversion, this equalled 100 rupees. (I read that the rupee has fallen again to 40:1 US, when I got here it was 38:1). Inside the gates was a large manicured lawn and a very large stone wall that looked like the outside of a fortress. I could see people going inside, so I followed. Shoes off at the steps. Give ticket to man holding out hand. Walk inside.

Temples are like volcanoes. They can be active, dormant, or extinct. An extinct temple is a temple you see that is completely abandoned. You have to look closely, however, because even if a building has gone to pieces, if there is still someone performing pujas, the temple is still active. An active temple is one in full use. People are coming and going, incense burning, music, etc. Dormant. That's a tricky one. I'll have to think about it. The temples we saw yesterday were extinct because for whatever reason, no one performs pujas there. People visit purely to see the architecture as it is in very good condition. Maybe a dormant temple is one that looks like it could still be used, but isn't at the moment.

A friend commented that the place did feel a bit empty and didn't hold the same sense of the spiritual for her that other active temples had. For me, monuments whether natural or man made almost always have a sense of the spiritual, if not because of the immense size of the undertaking, then for the intention behind it. Although, when we were sitting on a ledge surrounding the main temple, basking in its beauty, someone commented that the smell that everyone was complaining of was indeed urine coming from the puja rooms lining the ledge.

The next stop (not counting snack and pee stops) were the waterfalls. Yeah, I have no idea what they are called. We stood on a ledge, dodging monkeys, taking photos, eating strange side-of-the-road snacks, laughing at the signs, and staring at the waterfalls. They were beautiful but so far away. It seemed odd to have driven so far only to visit something that we couldn't actually interact with, only look at. If I couldn't touch it, was it even really there? Some journeys are like that.

I'm browsing the Rough Guide to South India, and in the Highlights section for Karnataka, it says that Mysore is the "sandalwood city". Guidebooks always talk about the sandalwood. I remember that once at an ashram in New York, I met someone who wouldn't stop about the sandalwood incense and that it was the best there and its all she uses and you can only get it there... I imagined Mysore overflowing with sandalwood. I imagined from day to night I'd be covered with the stuff and that after returning from New York, I'd carry the scent with me for at least 2 months, at least. I've seen some sandalwood, yes. I've seen some.

I had a new spot in led practice today with Saraswati, in the back by the women's dressing room. I realize this doesn't matter at all to the average reader, but to a veteran or current "Mysorian" you know what a big deal it is to try a new spot in the room. You see, every spot has its own energy. By the doors, there are people walking in and out which is quite distracting. OR maybe you're by a window and get a draft. Maybe you're where the carpets overlap and that is not fun. I try to avoid places with too much movement around them like breezes, or people, or doorways because I find they have too much "vata" which can be really distracting.

Since Sharath's last day, despite the few prophecies that he may return, he hasn't made any appearances in class. Nor has Guruji.

Looking over edges

Earlier this week I was standing on a balcony with two other people waiting for a table at a certain recommended punjabi restaurant when we turned to hear a real racket coming up the road. We all three leaned over the railing to get a better look. My companions scrambled for their cameras, hoping to capture a piece of the action. As the sound grew closer, we could see that it was a parade with many men in front pounding on instruments. We saw that some men toward the middle were carrying a large altar. My friends were very excited, craning to get a good picture of what they thought was Ganesh (the elephant-god who removes obstacles). (The photo on the left is from a Ganesh Festival in Mumbai that I found on google). Men from the crowd were pointing up at us and shouting something, I couldn't make out what. But something did seem strange, and I realized my feeling was right when I saw that it was not Ganesha at all that they were carrying, it was a dead man.

"Its a fucking dead man!" I said.

"what?"

"huh?"

"Its a fucking dead man!" I said again. Their cameras lowered. One of them really began to freak out.

"I've never seen a dead body before!" He shouted as I tried to shrug off his chin that was now resting on my shoulder as he tried to hide from the grey, sinking figure and the condemnation of an angry crowd.

"Its okay," the other girl said. I think she just kept repeating this.

As we watched, the old man sat under a canopy of flowers. He was covered from head to toe with garlands with only his sunken face peaking out from beneath.

Today we had the day off (its Saturday). We decided (slowly and unreliably until the last second) to pile into a van and drive to some waterfalls somewhere. From behind the window, at this safe distance, I feel like I'm watching life go by like a viewer in a cinema.

I thought about how there are so many things I can't tell you about what its like to be here. Its not just that I don't have the words to describe it; its that there aren't enough words. Sometimes you have to paint a picture, even if it means not everyone will understand the work. So much of being here is more than seeing and trying new things or interacting with new people. So much of it is an indescribable journey through what it means to be alive and in this world. My teacher used to say that in our yoga practice it is good to get right to the edge, right to your edge, and to keep pushing until you get there. This place is like that. Always confronting you with edges.

There are moments that freeze in time, moments when for just a second, you can see your body and realize that there is so much more. A man squatted on a small dirt hill in the middle of a bright green rice field overlooking more rice fields. He just sat there watching the sun and wind dance and flicker over the tips of green green blades of grass. Things can be so simple, so obvious, but we fail to see them.

In the Yoga Sutras translation by Satchidananda, he tells a simple story that I hope I get mostly right. I think that there is this guy who is trying to achieve enlightenment but he's having a hard time. So the God that is helping him suggests that he chant "Mara Mara" because he is standing in front of a tree (mara means tree). So he does. And before he knows it, "mara" transfoms in to "rama".

Empty product and full emptiness

The product of zero numbers is one.

I've got 17 more days left here in Mysore, that's roughly two weeks. I think that maybe, just maybe I've figured out what I'm doing out here. Without asking it, this is THE question on most days.

What am I doing here?

Starting easy, I'm sitting in front of a laptop (my house mate's) (she's sleeping and didn't go to practice...) at the living room coffee table. I can hear animals outside. It is exactly 7am and practice has been over for a half hour. I didn't have a coconut. I can't be bothered by it really. Its cold outside and I'd rather be sitting in the comfort of my house.

We can now leave the present moment and move to the practice. Led with Saraswati this morning. She gives the longest leds out of the bunch. My shoulders, neck, upper back, and belly are quite sore. Very grumpy in the morning before class. Tried not to be too obvious that I was annoyed that people were taking up two spots where normally one would go. Little things can be annoyingly BIG things that early in the morning.

On to the future. I had this fleeting feeling that I was ready to go home this morning. Right when its all coming to a head and I feel like I'm finally getting to the root of all this.

So back to the question. What is all this? I told some people I was coming out here to study yoga, to practice yoga, to go to India. I told my boyfriend and others it was to learn how to be alone ( this was after my bf said he wouldn't be joining). I told myself I had to go and that's it.

What am I doing here?

Learning that I'm on the right path and that its okay to question and think about where we are on it. Learning how to be with myself in this world with no distractions. (I feel like I've got a crush on a girl that hardly looks at me and I keep driving by her house hoping one day she will run out.) Saying goodbye to all the things I've collected in life that do not really bring me happiness but that I gathered anyway because I felt that I had ought to.

Can that really be all? Is it as simple as that?

Or how about just, "I'm here to practice."

The distractions are less and less everyday. There are no trips to palaces, classes, courses, amazing exotic new dinners, crazy new mishaps, ridiculous misunderstandings, or out of the ordinary undertakings. I've slowly been emptying out my toy chest, and now there is nothing left. My hand digs deep, gliding along the sides, skimming the floor. Wait there is something! No, its just lint. I guess it is just me in here. (Sits down, back to trunk, arms crossed over knees, looks around. Realizes how incredibly large the space she is sitting in is and how small she is compared to it.)

Zero is nothing, null, nil, nada, naught.

Zero is a number.

Zero is a placeholder.

In sanskrit, zero comes from "sunya"( शून्य ), meaning void or empty. "Sunyata" can be translated as "emptiness" or "voidness. According to Wikipedia:

"Śūnyatā signifies that everything one encounters in life is empty of absolute identity, permanence, or 'self'. This is because everything is inter-related and mutually - never wholly self-sufficient or independent. All things are in a state of constant flux where energy and information are forever flowing throughout the natural world giving rise to and themselves undergoing major transformations with the passage of time. This teaching never connotes nihilism - nihilism is, in fact, a belief or point of view that the Buddha explicitly taught was incorrect - a delusion, just as the view of is a delusion. In the English language the word emptiness suggests the absence of spiritual meaning or a personal feeling of alienation, but in Buddhism the emptiness of phenomena enables liberation from the limitations of form in the cycle of uncontrolled rebirth."

In tarot cards, zero is represented as the fool. According to Wikipedia, some of the frequent interpretations are:

Beginning, Inconsequence, Innocence, Freedom
Spontaneity, Originality, Happiness, Non-criticism
No attachment, Initiative, Adventure, Irresponsibility
Inexperience, Immaturity, Optimism, Boldness
Carpe Diem, Creative Chaos, New Beginnings, Foolhardiness

"The Fool is the spirit in search of experience. Many symbols of the Instituted Mysteries are summarized in this card, which reverses, under high warrants, all the confusions that have preceded it.

The Fool represents the mystical cleverness bereft of reason within us.

The number 0 is a perfect significator for the Fool, which can become anything when he reaches his destination. Zero plus anything equals the same thing. Zero times anything equals zero."

Tarot cards aren't just used for "divining the future" or getting a quick $5 from a tourist, there is also a game of Tarot, which is often referred to as, "french tarot". From my understanding, it is a card game that you can bet on like poker or blackjack. In this game, the fool has a very interesting role, as "Playing the Fool momentarily exempts the player from the rules of the game".

"Another issue surrounding The Fool is his definition. Who is calling him The Fool?

The archetypal potency of the Fool as zero embodies the enhanced potential and summation of all Major and Minor Arcana: as is denoted by 'fool', the near English homonym of 'full'. The Fool is the period, the pregnant pause."

Back in the saddle again

Its funny how from one day to the next my complete outlook on life and mood in general can completely change. A couple of days ago, I was ready to rip some one's eyes out at the breakfast table (don't worry I didn't) and today I feel like the world is my oyster and we should all just love each other, etc. Is this what happens when I don't practice? Maybe. Does a child stop crying when you give it what it wants? Most of the time. Does a junkie look "happy" when they finally get their fix? I'd say so.

When we are really in the thick of that nasty little emotional cloud of negativity and sadness, there really is nothing else. And then I pick up the yoga sutras and the whole thing is like "wake up!" and I say "well, but..." and the sutras say, "just wake up!" and I reply, "hold on, but..." and the sutras say, "WAKE UP!" and I say, "I heard you, but just listen for a second..." and so on. I can be looking at logic, see it, internalize it, and not feel a shift at all. It is so silly. It is like watching yourself perform on a stage and you think to yourself, "I can't believe she messed that up! We practiced that so many times!" Or perhaps, "No don't worry about messing up, just carry on, no just carry on like it didn't happen...come on!" Or maybe, "I know you forgot your lines just look up and read the cue cards!"

And then, just like that, I wake up, go to practice, and the beast is gone. Or maybe just sleeping.

How about some updates from Mysore?

The weather feels like monsoon finally. When I first arrived, I admit there were some occasional showers, but really it was just humid to the point where your towel and clothing never seemed to dry and clung on to this icky mold smell. Then there were a few weeks of dry, clear, sunny skies when I went to the pool a lot and got a really beautiful tan, if I do say so. Since then it has gotten a bit colder, greyer, cloudier, and rainier. We started with afternoon showers around maybe 3ish. They didn't last very long. Then we had late evening/early morning showers. Now the rain has been fierce from about 4-6pm. But even with all this rain, the clothes are drying just fine. The rain doesn't last very long. I don't have an umbrella, or rain shoes, or anything of the sort. I have a TV and a couple of books, and I sit here in my house and wait for the rain to stop just like everyone else!

Practice in the shala has been wonderful with Saraswati. Before Sharath left, people said that she gives a lot of poses and that probably everyone would be doing third series in a month, but that Sharath would take them all away come January. Actually, I've found that she hasn't given many people poses, and the people she did give them to were definitely ready for them. The doors still open around 4:30, but maybe 1 person still goes and waits at the gate. Most everyone else trickles in until about 5 after. There is no waiting at the door at all during class. There is room for everyone and often there are spaces open the entire class. Many of the long term people have left to Goa, Thailand, to travel India, or home. A few have stayed. A new batch of people have arrived who seem to be staying a few months and will be practicing just with Saraswati. Yes, there are way too many women in the shala.

You know there aren't that many students at the shala when Tina stops making her famous millet bread. Yes folks, the worst has happened! Tina has broken our hearts and discontinued the Millet Toast until more people come. And now I can leave Mysore.

Some thoughts from the sidelines

I took a break from the world the last few days. A friend here calls it "caving", back home, I used to call it "going into the bunny hole", because a friend of mine that reminded me of a bunny used to scurry away to hibernate.

The first month in Mysore is all about getting frustrated, feeling uncomfortable, being excited, seeing the sites, spending rupees, eating food, meeting people, getting sick, and learning the head wobble.

The second month in Mysore is all about feeling settled, getting poses, slowing down, relaxing more, becoming a "regular" at local establishments, and settling into a routine.

The third month in Mysore is all about getting tired of saying "goodbye" and "hello" to people coming and going to or from Mysore, getting bored by the same restaurants that you frequent, being sad when that same restaurant is closed because of a holiday, being surprised to end up somewhere new, feeling rooted where you are, officially having a spot for your mat at the shala, not wanting to admit that you know how many days until you go home, not wanting to go home, and feeling reluctant to spend rupees on things hiked up to what you know and have seen is an inflated tourist price.

The buzz in my ears from my senses being overloaded by all that is India has slowly decreased over the last few months. I hadn't noticed this change until recently when I looked back with enough distance to notice that it was buzzing in the first place. But now that the noise has diminished to a quiet rumble, I've crawled out from beneath my pillow to see what the world looks like.

A useful tool when we are learning to meditate is instead of trying to focus on clearing the mind of all thoughts, you focus on one thing. For example, as a Catholic, when you are praying, you can use a rosary to keep your attention steady.

So what do we do when there is no longer something to focus on. How do you play soccer when the purpose is not to score a goal or win a point?

In practice, when you're not trying to show your practice to anyone (including yourself?), what do you focus on? Take into mind that when showing your practice, you are paying careful attention to technique. What then do you focus on? You've been running toward the beach, and then the water touches your toes and you stare across the vast stretch of sky and ocean. Your eyes jump from ship to swimmer, to bird. But when the waves have slowed and in that slow moment, there is nothing to focus on, how long can you stay in that state before the next distraction comes?

Here in Mysore, the social fire has cooled, the culture is now the norm, the weather has dulled, what then? Eat food. Watch TV and badly copied movies. Read books.

Yoga Sutra Satchidananda translation, of course:

Yoga Sutra 1.30:Vyadhi, styana, samsaya, pramada, alasya, avirati, bhrantidarsana, alabdhabhumikatva, anavasthitatvani, chittavikshepah, te antarayah.

Disease, dullness, doubt, carelessness, laziness, sensuality, false perception, failure to reach firm ground, and slipping from the ground gained--these distractions of the mind-stuff are the obstacles.

Yoga Sutra 1.31:Duhkha,daurmanasya, angamejayatva, svasa, prasvasa, vikshepa, sahabhuvah.

Accompaniments to the mental distractions include distress, despair, trembling of the body, and disturbed breathing.

Yoga Sutra 1.32: Tat pratisedha artham eka tattva abhyasah

The practice of concentration on a single subject [or the use of one technique] is the best way to prevent the obstacles and their accompaniments.

Its back to practice at the shala tomorrow from my 3 day holiday, although in many ways, the practice is never on holiday...

Sometimes I read the sutras or hear something of the sort and think, "the next time that happens, that will be how I react." Or, "Next time will be different." I remember this line in a Pema Chodron book about how a student told her how much she meant to call her, or to see her, but didn't feel it was the right time because she was falling to pieces. Pema Chodron just replied, "Who cares! Come as you are...everything will always be in pieces, so come now!" In this way, its like she's saying to stop worrying so much about the details or about stressing out about being the perfect practitioner. A person could go crazy obsessing about doing right by everything is out there. (I really was a vegan, organic, macrobiotic. It sucked.)

After being here is Mysore, I feel more and more that being here and studying at the shala and really giving my all to practice is the best thing for me. I dabbled in this or that activity just like many of the other shala students here in Mysore, but I admit that I can't be bothered to go to chanting, sanskrit, or music lessons. I'm not interested in a road trip, a transcendental meditation, or a massage course. I don't want to learn how to cook a sambar or to sing. I'm here to practice ashtanga at the shala and that's it. Its funny how simplicity can be so overwhelming.

In that same Satchidananda translation of the sutras he says, "Yoga practice is like an obstacle race; many obstructions are purposely put on the way for us to pass through. They are there to make us understand and express our own capacities. We all have that strength but we don't seem to know it...Once you put an obstacle to the flow by constructing a dam, then you can see its strength in the form of tremendous electrical power."

Good practice or bad? Its just practice.

It is hard being a yoga teacher. A fellow yoga teacher back in New York (you know who you are) said "being a professional is doing something even when you don't feel like doing it". Post-practice, walking up the road toward my front gate, my body pulsating, feeling each bone and muscle in my legs working together to place each foot, avoiding the mud, sensing the effort of my core muscles to keep myself standing, the dull ache in my shoulders, I thought about what it means to practice.

In many ways, we feel like we had a "good" practice when we felt good. The poses came easily, we accomplished something we have been working on, or the practice looked good. On days when we are distracted, bored, forget poses, stiff, tight, tired, etc., we say our practice was "hard" or "bad". In most of the activities in life that we use the word "practice", there is an insinuation that we will be doing this to prepare for something. For instance, in dance, we practice for a recital or performance. In sports, we practice in order to play well at a game. On a foreign language exam, we have to practice and study in order to retain the information.

In most of these activities, there is a difference between the preparation for an act and the act itself. For instance, if you saw a ballerina doing warm ups, she probably wouldn't tell you she was dancing (even if it looked like it), instead she was doing warm-ups to prepare for the dance. In this way, the act, performance, or fruition of the practice appears to demand a certain amount of mastery or perfection of a technique. In ashtanga yoga, one moves sequentially from one pose to the next. It is necessary to "master" one pose before the instructor teaches the student the next posture. However, the "mastered" poses are still being "practiced" by the student.

According to the Oxford Dictionary, "practice" is defined as "the actual application of a plan or method, as opposed to the theories relating to it. 2 the customary way of doing something. 5 the action or process of practising something so as to become proficient in it.

Sometimes when you play an instrument, you are just playing. It isn't practice or performance, is it?

In A Long Way to the Floor (which I finished and recommend to everyone, it is very sweet), David talks about how he went to a workshop where the instructor commented on how the students were "showing" him their practice instead of "doing" their practice.

Sometimes when I put my mat down to practice, if I am completely honest with myself, I am showing my practice to my teacher, another student, someone watching, or to myself. When Sharath was in the room, many times I had this feeling. He is watching. Everyone had this feeling. We don't always get obsessed with it, but sometimes we do. Like when we notice he is watching us in our last pose and think, "maybe he will give me another one today." Conversely, we might be wondering, "Is my teacher watching me? Because I am not advancing, and they don't seem to know that I usually can grab my ankles in back bending..." Since, Saraswati has been the main teacher, the vibe has changed. First of all, the students who are here right now are different than those who came while Sharath was teaching. They are a bit more laid back. There are less students, so there is no longer the 4:30 queue for the 5 am class. Sharath isn't here to give us poses, so we know where we are now, is where we are going to be until he returns. And for some reason, everyone seems to feel very relaxed with Saraswati, like they can undo their top button.

Example: During the first class that she led, on the third back bend, she said, "walk inside your hands!" Which means, "walk your hands closer to your feet." We all know what that means. We all walk when Sharath or Guruji says it. But she said it a few times and then, "No one is walking their hands!" The entire room burst into laughter.

When you have absolutely no reason to go to practice except to practice, it is very very hard to practice. Strange right? I would have thought that the absence of thoughts, of pressure, would make my practice soft, beautiful, easy, I don't know. But that isn't really what it is about. It is about getting everything very quiet, and then looking around inside to see what you find. It is not easy at all, and actually, no one said it would be. In practice today, I thought about how ridiculous it was that I was awake at this hour, I thought about how my shoulders ached from Saraswati's slow chaturangas, I thought about how I was thinking and how I wished it would stop. Was it a "bad" practice? No. You can be doing all the technical aspects of the physical side of ashtanga yoga and still feel unsettled. Perhaps what we are really doing is exploring and investigating our selves physically, mentally, and spiritually.

*I'd love to get in on the labeling of things as "good" and "bad" and the mind and all that. Let's save that for another post. But for now, let's say that my practice this morning was "good" because I did practice. At the same time, I shouldn't be attached to this label and really the fact is that I practice. End of story. No judgements, right John?

This morning I had a very interesting "expedition". We began by practicing this sequence of asanas or postures called the primary series of ashtanga yoga. These acted as a catalyst that propelled my "self' into an internal journey. I explored the outskirts of an enormous cave. There were many jokesters and clowns and sad little demons blocking the entrance. They held out their hands and begged me for attention. "My shoulder hurts!" Cried one. "I am tired!" called another. I was distracted for a while by the jesters. I felt obligated to help them. How could I not? They were so pitiful looking and I have a lot of compassion, perhaps sometimes a little to much. For a moment, I looked up and saw that the jesters were busy fighting over the attention I gave them. The path to the cave was clear. The jesters sensed my distraction and followed my gaze to the entrance of the cave. We looked back at each other, we knew each other's thoughts. And we ran. I ran for the cave, dodging the leaping clowns as they tried desperately to grab at my clothes and my feet. The entrance got closer and closer, just a few more steps to go, I was almost there...

"Nava, inhale head up. Samastitih!"

"Yoga is 99% practice and 1% theory" --Pattabhi Jois (Guruji)

Pain, The Anatomy of

The ceiling was white. A fluorescent light glowed eerily. Rain pummeled the window and the terrace outside.

"AH! Ha ha ha ha... Oh my god!" I yelped giddily. I stared up at the ceiling and then into the eyes of a young Indian woman wielding a rectangular piece of paper.

"Pain." She nodded with a smile. I turned to look at the other woman.

"Hair very thick, much pain..." She agreed with a look that said she felt for me...maybe.

"OOOHHH!" I stared back to the fluorescent light. "Much pain." With each rip, I floated up to the light, up to the ceiling, and then back down again for the radiating pain of the next clump of hair to be ripped out without remorse.

Pain. Two women simultaneously ripping hair from your body is a good time to meditate on the subject. I was getting a bikini and full leg wax. With each rip, I explored what it meant to feel pain. It started with the knowledge that the pain was coming. Then the tension before the rip. Then you feel the hair being pulled from the roots with one quick (or slow, tedious) yank. The skin flies back. The sensation begins. The women slap the area. More hot wax overlaps and burns the last area they waxed. And then again. And again. And again.

No matter where the pain is happening, it manifests to a few different areas. A dull ache in the shoulders. A searing behind the ears. A pressure in the jaw, wedged under the tongue. I keep asking myself "does this really hurt?" And finally, "come on relax! No one has ever died from a bikini wax..."

According to Wikipedia:

"Pain is an unpleasant sensation. It is defined by the International Association for the Study of Pain (IASP) as “an unpleasant sensory and emotional experience associated with actual or potential tissue damage, or described in terms of such damage”. Nociception (sometimes also called nociperception) is a measurable physiological event of a type usually associated with pain. Scientifically, pain (a subjective experience) is separate and distinct from nociception, the system which carries information about inflammation, damage or near-damage in tissue, to the spinal cord and brain. Nociception frequently occurs without pain being felt and can convey information without conscious awareness. Conversely, but less frequently, a sensation of pain can exist in the absence of nociception. Pain is part of the body's defense system: it triggers mental problem-solving strategies that seek to end the painful experience, and it promotes learning, making repetition of the painful situation less likely. The nociceptive system transmits signals that usually trigger the sensation of pain, it is a critical component of the body's ability to react to damaging stimuli and it is part of a rapid-warning relay instructing the central nervous system to initiate reactions for minimizing injury."

In A Long Way to the Floor, the author tells a story of how our "fight or flight" instinct comes into play during practice. Something brings us "pain" and then we begin to breathe fast, our bodies tense, and we squirm to get out of the pose as quickly as possible. But when we can relax, the pose is like a warm bath.

But what is pain? As I lied there, I could decide what to do with the sensation. Fight, or flight? I had to choose "neither". I had to find a way to step out of the instinct. I was paying these women to do this to me. I had to relax. I wouldn't die. But what is pain?

The ceiling was white. The florescent light was...fluorescent. The pain had a color. Down from bellow the navel, the pain had a long way to travel up my brain. Was the color I just felt purple with silver? Was it green with pale pink? My body and mind were lost in a boat in the ocean.

If this excruciating pain was something that I was willing to sit through, why did I panic in situations that didn't bring the same kind of pain? Like in back bends or hamstring stretches? My house mate and I talked about this for a while. She said pain is something that you are taught how to handle as a child. When something happens to you, you react to how your parents teach you to react. When you fall, you don't scream until a few seconds after the fact. As a child, you waited until your parents screamed, "OOOOhhhh!" and then you opened your mouth and yelled. Or, they smiled at you and said, "you're okay!" and you nodded and said, "I'm okay."

According to the Mayo Clinic's website,

"how you interpret pain messages and tolerate pain can be affected by your:
Emotional and psychological state
Memories of past pain experiences
Upbringing
Attitude
Expectations
Beliefs and values
Age
Sex
Social and cultural influences"

We're dealing with a lot of pain here as students in Mysore. There is the physical pain from asanas, sore muscles, injuries, or stomach problems. There is also the emotional pain from missing family, friends, or significant others. The pain of being lonely.

Pain isn't just one sensation. It has many different feels, from a dull pulse, to a cold sliding sensation. In practice, what pain should we stay with, what pain should we shy away from? In uthplutih, I was in so much "pain" that I was convinced I could not stay up more than 10 breaths. Now, I've realized that it is actually being really uncomfortable with working hard that kept me giving up.

Other times, the "pain" is debilitating. A while back, I went to drop back, and I could feel a small rock stuck in my back. All the muscles seized. I couldn't move. I couldn't move. But even this pain wasn't so much a "hurt" as it was paralyzing. But it was so paralyzing that I felt it intensely in everything I did for a month.

The job was three quarters done when I said, "okay, its good...Next time we finish." Did it hurt too much. No. But I think my brain had had enough of trying to relax into the pain. I had no more energy left with which to do it. One of the women leaves to get more strips. The other continues with the one she has left. As she waits for the wax to cool on my leg, she looks at me and says, "Today is festival. You are my puja!" We both laugh, and she rips the strip taking hundreds of hair from the outside of my calf with it.

They had finished the waxing. I lookeed down the runway to see to women threading the tiny stray hairs using thread between their fingers and teeth. "Madam, " they motioned down. "Is okay?"

The reflective post

Yesterday, I looked at my day planner (imagine), and realized that I have just 25 days left here in Mysore (including today). It is hard for me to imagine coming here for just a month. When I think back at my time here and where I am at now, I feel like it is just not enough time to soak up all of this. Even now I feel like it could all still just be beginning.

I made a list of all things I wanted to do and see before I left. Without this, it could be fairly easy for me to wake up tomorrow and realize its time to go to the airport. I'd like to float somewhere in between.

Despite the happy send-off of a particularly sound night's sleep, practice was completely ridiculous. I was all over the place. It was great. I kept thinking and telling myself not to think, fidgeting, farting (I'm so sorry Petra). It was such a mess. I wore a new pair of pants that kept slipping down my backside. I tried to put my hair in pigtails. It was okay in front of the mirror, but in class, it was a whole other game. (You're probably thinking "who could mess up pigtails?" but that is another story). My rug was sliding around and crumpling up. And it was taking forEVER. I kept thinking "how long is this going to take? Am I going slower than usual?" I was getting antsy. Then, i realized that I was waiting for something--back bends.

No breakthroughs, funny stories, or insights.

"Right side good. You do left side wrong." Saraswati really felt it today and so did I. She let me go for it a second time, but it was the same story. Hovering in the half back bend, my right hand catches really high TECK (that's the sound of grabbing). Then my left hand pathetically writhes in the air. Saraswati grabs it and pulls. I move both hands down to my ankles and readjust my feet so they are parallel. Then she moves my right hand into that notch behind my knee. The left hand next-- "UNNNGGHHHH". Breathe breathe breathe breathe don't panic, relax breathe and inhale stand hello Saraswati smile smile sit fold and squish "aaaaahhhhh"...

Then off to the dressing room to get eaten by mosquitoes and do finishing postures.

You might remember my first class in July. My struggle with headstand and uthplutih? (Picture on right of students in uthplutih at Guruji's 2002 San Francisco tour. You might not be able to tell, but they are balancing on their hands with their knees and seats are off the floor.) Well, I am amazed at the "progress". Headstand has actually become a calming place to look forward to. My arms are still burning, of course, but I can do it for much longer than before. And then there is uthplutih. always a challenge, but I am facing it. 22 breaths every day. Like my teacher once said, "I look up to my third eye, think about God, and the kundalini is like woooosh." She stays there for 40 very slow breaths. I think about a meat hook pulling up my pelvis. I think about breathing from my pelvic floor. I think about how there is no reason to come down and that the sensations I feel aren't really negative. I look up to my third eye and to the ceiling and imagine shooting up, up. Today was really hard, but when I came down, my head was swarming with heat and I was felt amazing.

I picked up this book at Tina's today called It's a long way to the floor by David Byck. I don't remember where I heard about it, but recently it was recommended to me. I thought with all this attention I'm paying to the experience of being here, it would be a really interesting to see what he experienced and maybe compare notes.

Other updates:

I've got 25 items on my "to do before I die list". This has been incredibly therapeutic. With it, I feel encouraged to be honest with myself about what I really want in life and the things that I am afraid to try for. I feel now that my path is very clear, and that in many ways, I've always been on it.

Last week, Petra and I pulled out the "Angel Cards", which are similar to tarot cards, but much more soft, sweet, and feminine. (Petra says I need to embrace my feminine side, so this is a step on that direction. So is talking about my feelings and practicing with Saraswati and with the influx of female students at the shala. Shakti power!)

I was very skeptical about the cards, but they were dead on and very comforting. I asked what my life purpose was. The cards told me that it was time to heal worry and fear, to relax and feel safe. They said I was currently learning how to be peaceful and have tranquility in life. Right now is the time to gather information and concentrate on being a student, and that by staying on this path, my life's purpose will be revealed. Wow.

It is not really the same as having someone read your cards in front of you, but, you can get your cards read online for free by clicking here.

Tomorrow there is no practice because there is a festival, I don't remember who it is for. We also have Saturday off, and its back to led on Sunday. I'm off to pay Shala fees today, and there is talk of some craziness tonight, but it could be a good night for more L Word and Grey's Anatomy. Yes, I have succumbed.

An exorcism of my very own

Practice was so sweet today. My intention was to practice as if I were making sweet yoga love to myself, and it was great. In every pose, in every movement, in every breath and drishti I asked myself, "am I being a good lover? What else can I do to make myself really enjoy this?" And so, being as attentive as possible, I took my time and paid attention to all the details. There was no rush, just me, myself, and I. I had come to this breakthrough as I moved through standing postures. My drishti caught the view of some guy's sweat-covered, hairy white leg and I thought, "why am I letting that (imagine a close up of the wet hairy leg) into my experience?" So I mamde the commitment to try to not just take the practice inward (which is what I already do), but to try to make it a gift for myself. It changed everything.

Backbending was playful today. I did three half wheels, three full wheels, three 1/2 way drop backs, 3 drop backs, and then I waited for Saraawati. There were quite a few other people waiting, and so I thought, "why not do some more? this is supposed to be fun, right?" So I kept doing drop backs and halfways until she made her way to me. By the time we did drop backs together, I felt like I was able to step back from the original shock and sensation of the first back bends. I was able to quietly observe what was happening. I could feel all the tightness running up the left side of my body.

half wheel

full wheel

drop backs

ankle grabbing

Last night I had decided that I was going to Kumar to work out whatever was stuck inside me. But then, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that what I was really looking for was permission to explore whatever it is that is in there. I didn't have my own transomatic therapy session last night, but I did realize that I need to create the space and time to do it sometime soon.

I am going to have an exorcism.

I'm not sure what to do, but I was thinking low lights, candles, something to set the mmood. Then maybe force myself to start crying. I might keep a notebook to draw or write, but I think I also need to give myself permission to speak, if need be. (The poor demon has got to go somewhere). Then maybe I'll start with thinking back before I was born, when my parents first met, and just cry about it. And then think slowly about my existence from there, again cryiong about it. I'd like to think of it as an deep emotional massage.

I did something like this unintentionally a few years ago. After High School, I travelled in Europe for a while by myself. One night in a hostel I just started to cry. I was thinking about how all the people around me were the age that my parents were when they got married and had me. And I realized that they were and are just people like me. I took out my notebook and wrote a letter to my dad telling him all thhe things I was mad at him for over the years, but also that I forgave him as a person because althoughh I could never condone his actions, I could have compassion for another human being. For me, that was enough to finally have peace and be able to cultivate a relationship without anger or hate. (My parents had a nasty divorce when I was young and my relationship wioth my father was not fun.)

I can remember now how incredible it felt to lift that weight off me. I wonder what I can dig up now...I might just go to Kummar. We'll see.

Rachel and I were talking about drop backs as an eploration of our inner selves (sometimes I have moments of deep insight and clarity...cometimes.) Dropping back tends to be a little easier for people. Its about being able to go backwards, to look back and face your life's path thus far. ITs about seeing where youa re and facing how you got there. Staning up is really hard. It comes and goes. Standing up is about confidence and letting go. Its about moving forward from where you are. Its a leap. As we rab our ankles, we close the circuit, creating a circle. We hover in that state of both backwards and forwrds without clinging to either. (At first, we find it difficult to straighten our legs, so we are still a bit stuck in the going back part.) Then come the tick tocks, where we are able to play and dance with that cosmic cycle.

I'm working out the kinks on the left side of my body. Sometimes we are able to hide things inside, but eventually we hit a pose that exposes them, and this is it. Today I saw the little demon, and I said, "you're coming out!"

And really, there is an uncanny resemblence between all those backbends you saw above and the lady in this video. (You have to watch this! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uibyXiMhU8

"The power of christ compels you!"

*Disclaimer: there is something wrong with my blogger program right now, so I know there are a bunch of typos and formatting issues, sorry!

Note to self: learn to live

I didn't know what the world trade center was when the planes hit them in 2001. I was sitting at a computer in high school doing a math program while listening to either Pink Floyd "Dark side of the moon" or DJ Shadow "Preemptive strike" ( which is incredibly ironic now that I think about it). All the classrooms had a TV so that we could watch a Pepsi-sponsored news program every morning. On this particular day, one of the other students was up on a chair flipping through static until she had come upon news coverage on the crashes. She was shouting "a plane hit a building!" I took off my headphones, looked at the screen, put the head phones back on and thought, "fuck, this is not going to be good for anyone."

It was such a scary time in the US. Not because of the fear of terrorists, but because of the violent reaction against "foreigners" in the US. Everyone was talking about revenge without even thinking at all about what actually happened. First it was "terrorists", then "Osama bin Laden", then "Sadam Hussein". It all happened so fast, and I just remember how completely helpless I felt against this incredible ignorant anger that was driving the masses so intensely during that time.

I didn't know anyone who passed away. I grew up in the Southwest US, in a city in the middle of the desert. Its easy to stay in that little bubble, and many people never come out. You can read the local newspaper, but the "world" section is maybe a page long and it only has the information that the powers that be want you to know. (Its a red state). You really have to go that extra mile to see and understand the world. Most people really can't be bothered.

When I moved to New York, I met so many people whose lives were touched by that day. Its very difficult to imagine the kind of fear that they experienced.

What you begin to learn is that life is always both happy and sad, pleasant and painful. And maybe in places like India the contrast between things is so strong, that you can't help that it can get in your bones.

Today in Mysore we went to the Muslim Quarter. We were sitting in an herbal remedy shop smelling oils and watching a woman making incense. One of the men who worked there said, "this is a very sad day for people." At first I didn't catch what he was talking about, but then I realized that this man sitting in the back of this tiny dilapidated shop, in the middle of the Muslim quarter, with a tattered shirt and hands that have seen years of manual labor was talking about 9/11. He explained sadly that 3 young men from Mysore were killed in the attacks. He went further saying where they worked, what they were doing, and what floor they were on.

When you sit in a shop, they usually send someone to go get you chai, you don't have to ask for it. It comes in these small shot glasses that are either metal or glass. I didn't want mine, and was happily surprised when they gave it to the woman making incense. The incense "factory" is this old woman sitting on the floor, hand rolling thousands of sticks of incense per day. I was there around 2 o'clock, and they showed me the massive pile she had already finished.

Guruji and his family were visiting New York City in 2001 to teach workshops when the planes hit the twin towers. I wonder how many people were at those workshops instead of at work that day.

This morning at breakfast someone said "hey, does anyone want a puppy?" I said "no thanks, not again." I overheard them talking about how there was a little newborn puppy walking down the street outside with the umbilical chord hanging from its belly.

Some things that you see are so haunting you don't know what to do with the image. It stays with you like a dull, acrid smell. Its like a tickle. It doesn't feel good, it actually hurts, but you don't know how to react so you laugh.

Yesterday I volunteered at a local high school. The volunteer teacher I was assisting explained to me that the students attending the school were those who had dropped out of their original school and were somehow tracked down and recruited to this one. They still have to pay though. (When I told someone what area the school was in, they said that that was "real India", unlike Gokulum which is like the Beverly Hills of Mysore). Waiting in the main teacher's office, I sat on a bench and stared at the ceiling. It was made of corrugated cement. I wondered how they got it up there. The walls had been painted, but were now cracked and peeling and I think they were a shade of pale green or maybe they were pink. There were stacks of paper every where that looked one hundred years old. It was very hot. In the corner was a very old metal fan that wasn't on. There were pictures of men on the wall, one of them was Gandhi. There was one window where two young boys had cupped their hands over their eyes to see in through the netting and bars. They waved at us and were grinning while they shouted "hello!"

We were divided up and walked to the classrooms we were assigned. This was the first time I felt like I was in a third world country. Here I was, the stereotypical westerner standing in a dilapidated classroom teaching English to a group of enthusiastic 13 year olds in matching blue uniforms as the shouted "your name?!" and "your country?!"

You never hear babies crying. A friend said that they saw a family of beggars, a man, a woman, a couple of kids, and a baby on someone's back. The family looked very sad and had their hands out, ready to receive whatever people had to give. The baby was laughing and smiling.

"This baby has nothing, and it is so happy!" my friend recalled. "No toys, no nothing. And still, it is so happy..."

Yoga is not just going inside. Sometimes we crawl up inside ourselves. We walk up the stairs to the top floor and stay there all day examining the contents of each room, briefly looking outside for a moment. But this is not yoga. As hard as it is, we have to get up, descend the stairs, brace ourselves, and walk through that front door where the world is waiting. What makes our lives meaningful are those small moments that we share with each other, and these may never come again. Anything could happen at any moment. If there is one thing that is good about pain its that it teaches us in a simple and direct way that we are here, we are alive, and we are so lucky for all of it.

This is for all those who lost their lives that day, all those who didn't pass but still lost their lives, and those who need a reminder to wake up because we are here to live.