Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Mysore
The old shala, 1999.
Guruji was still back bending people on my first trip.
New shala. I guess they were washing the rugs. I wonder if the choo choo train rug will be there still.
Led intermediate at the new shala.
-Tuesday, New York
Ashtanga Yoga Brooklyn Mysore / Led Class 2011 Schedule
No classes on Moon Days .
Classes are held at Go Yoga 112 North 6th Street (Between Berry and Wythe), Brooklyn, NY 11211
Subway L to Bedford Ave
Tuition is $100 for new students (first month).
Beginners are always welcome.
Current Mysore practitioners may drop in.
email: info@ashtangayogabrooklyn.com
more info: www.ashtangayogabrooklyn.com
Friday, August 27, 2010
Skirts, and Shoulders, and Knees -- Oh, My!
If the subcontinent wasn't already on the horizon, it certainly is now. After a brief and somewhat violent preview of the New York climate to come, things are back to normal (high 80s, that is) and I am suddenly reminded that I get one last chance to do what I feared I would not be able (on account of the recent scarfage) -- wear summer clothes in summer.
Explaining to my travel companion what one should pack for such a journey, we thumb through the busy clothing racks in Herald Square:
"How about this one?" I place the vibrant water blue garment with technicolor flowers in front of my torso.
"It looks like a muumuu."
"Perfect!"
For a few days more, the muumuu is just a muumuu, not my muumuu, as it very soon will be.
-Friday, New York
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Where to shop: Food
Greenmarket
Saturdays, Union Ave between Driggs & N 12th Street
Fruit, veg, dairy, meat, flowers, bread, wine, and a clothing drive.
Tops on the Waterfront
89 N 6th St (between Bedford Ave & Berry St)
Good selection of organic and conventional produce, cheese, and excellent bulk section.
The Garden Food Market
921 Manhattan Ave (at Kent Ave)
Organic and conventional produce, packaged goods, deli, cheeses, bulk, bakery...
Sunac Natural
150 N 7th St (between Berry St & Bedford Ave)
Organic produce, products, and packaged goods in a pinch.
Millenium Health
241 Bedford Avenue at North 3rd
Fresh juices, vitamins, packaged goods, small produce area.
Khim's Millenium Market
460 Driggs Ave (between 10th St & 11th St)
Large selection of produce, packaged goods, and juices.
Saturdays, Union Ave between Driggs & N 12th Street
Fruit, veg, dairy, meat, flowers, bread, wine, and a clothing drive.
Tops on the Waterfront
89 N 6th St (between Bedford Ave & Berry St)
Good selection of organic and conventional produce, cheese, and excellent bulk section.
The Garden Food Market
921 Manhattan Ave (at Kent Ave)
Organic and conventional produce, packaged goods, deli, cheeses, bulk, bakery...
Sunac Natural
150 N 7th St (between Berry St & Bedford Ave)
Organic produce, products, and packaged goods in a pinch.
Millenium Health
241 Bedford Avenue at North 3rd
Fresh juices, vitamins, packaged goods, small produce area.
Khim's Millenium Market
460 Driggs Ave (between 10th St & 11th St)
Large selection of produce, packaged goods, and juices.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Personal Pronouns
2.12 Nor at any time indeed was I not, nor thou, nor these rulers of men, nor verily shall we ever cease to be hereafter.
The Self/Soul/Atman is imperishable.
2.13 Just as in this body the embodied (soul) passes into childhood, youth, and old age, so also does it pass into another body; the firm man does not grieve thereat.
These stages are all natural and inevitable and so the wise are not distressed.
2.14 The contacts of the senses with the objects, O son of Kunti, which cause heat and cold, pleasure and pain, have a beginning and an end; they are impermanent; endure them bravely, O Arjuna.
Sensations are relative and their processing as good/bad and tolerable/intolerable are in our minds and therefore, controllable.
2.15 That firm man whom, surely, these afflict not, O chief among men, to whom pleasure and pain are the same, is fit for attaining immortality.
The more one identifies with the connection/oneness of everything, the less the sensations are labeled by the mind.
2.16 The unreal hath no being; there is no non-being of the real; the truth about both has been seen by the knowers of the Truth (or seers of the Essence).
The only permanent thing is the Atman. Everything else is changeable.
2.19 He who takes the Self to be the slayer and he who thinks it is slain, neither of them knows. It slays not, nor is it slain.
2.20 It is not born, nor does it ever die; after having been, it again ceases not to be; unborn, eternal, changeless and ancient, it is not killed when the body is killed.
In my relationships to the world, I think of my, me, I. This vessel with stuff on the inside and outside, things that I can see and cannot see. Things that I can feel and cannot feel. This case that somewhere inside houses this thing that thinks and feels and plans is different from everything else. Where my fingertips end, something different begins - the computer keys. Where my skin on my back ends, something different begins - a chair. When I cut my nails, the clippings were me, but if I found one on the floor a month from now, I would wonder if they were mine. I would wonder if they belonged to me. My apartment belongs to me and is mine and all the things in it as well. But before they came into my possession, they belonged somewhere else. And my apartment too. When I leave, someone else will move in. It will no longer be mine. And actually, I rent it, to someone else it is not mine at all, but theirs.
With or without possessions, I am still me. With fancy items, my exterior is fancier. With purple pants, my legs are purple. Tomorrow, they could be black, or blue, or green. Without the furniture, the clothes, without my hair, I have skin that covers layers of fat and muscle and a skeleton which houses organs, etc. If my legs were shorter or longer, if I took up more space or less, I am still me. If I sat in the same spot or flew across the world, I would be the same.
Perhaps I am just my brain. A little alien creature sitting in the command center behind my eyes. But in practice, in asana, I am existing in other places. I exist in my sacrum and the joint on my left thumb. If I can exist there, can I exist in the couch? I can exist anywhere I can imagine. If in a place, then why not in a person?
Continuing like this, where do I really begin and where do I really end? If it is all impermanent, is there really an individual me at all or is really just a piece of a greater whole?
In art school the first thing people want to do when they draw is to sketch the outline of an apple. Holding an apple in my hand, it has no outline. None at all.
The world is a collection of teeny tiny things that are vibrating.
I did not make me (that I can recall). I did not pick my color or hair or ethnicity or gender. It all just kind of happened without me knowing it.
The world was here before me and will continue on after I am gone. I am not me, but you.
When I see me and mine and ours as different from you and theirs and his/hers, I become important to myself. Even if it is only to be sad, upset, in pain, I am sad and upset and in pain and that is important to me. When I see me as important, there are rules. I am the center of the universe and my thoughts, feelings, and actions, are the priority even if the thought is that I want to be nice right now. I want to be nice right now. I should be mad right now. I am sad. I am happy. I am hungry. I want this. I don't like that. I am excited. I am nervous. I can wear a lot of different emotions, clothes, professions, friends, ideas, etc.
If there is no me, if I am you and we are everything and therefore nothing, then my hot vomit frustration disappears. A deer stopped cold in its tracks staring straight into really bright headlights. Emotions, feelings, conditions, people-- everything is temporary. If everything is temporary, it not real and I can't really trust it as truth. My permanent state is not angry because it is just an emotion and what is "I" anyway? What can possibly be trespassed if I am everything and I don't exist? If I don't identify with my bike or my writing or my hair or my personality?
But what about if I see someone in pain? What if they trap me in it? Don't speak? Must I speak? Perhaps it is inevitable. Like aging and the impermanence of everything, these situations will come and the wise are not distressed. Yes, the two people are being divided into two people. Separate. The pain of the separate, of the watching pain, of the trap? Also not real.
-Friday, New York
Yellow quotes above from The Bhagavad Gita translation by Swami Sivananda 1995.
The Self/Soul/Atman is imperishable.
2.13 Just as in this body the embodied (soul) passes into childhood, youth, and old age, so also does it pass into another body; the firm man does not grieve thereat.
These stages are all natural and inevitable and so the wise are not distressed.
2.14 The contacts of the senses with the objects, O son of Kunti, which cause heat and cold, pleasure and pain, have a beginning and an end; they are impermanent; endure them bravely, O Arjuna.
Sensations are relative and their processing as good/bad and tolerable/intolerable are in our minds and therefore, controllable.
2.15 That firm man whom, surely, these afflict not, O chief among men, to whom pleasure and pain are the same, is fit for attaining immortality.
The more one identifies with the connection/oneness of everything, the less the sensations are labeled by the mind.
2.16 The unreal hath no being; there is no non-being of the real; the truth about both has been seen by the knowers of the Truth (or seers of the Essence).
The only permanent thing is the Atman. Everything else is changeable.
2.19 He who takes the Self to be the slayer and he who thinks it is slain, neither of them knows. It slays not, nor is it slain.
2.20 It is not born, nor does it ever die; after having been, it again ceases not to be; unborn, eternal, changeless and ancient, it is not killed when the body is killed.
In my relationships to the world, I think of my, me, I. This vessel with stuff on the inside and outside, things that I can see and cannot see. Things that I can feel and cannot feel. This case that somewhere inside houses this thing that thinks and feels and plans is different from everything else. Where my fingertips end, something different begins - the computer keys. Where my skin on my back ends, something different begins - a chair. When I cut my nails, the clippings were me, but if I found one on the floor a month from now, I would wonder if they were mine. I would wonder if they belonged to me. My apartment belongs to me and is mine and all the things in it as well. But before they came into my possession, they belonged somewhere else. And my apartment too. When I leave, someone else will move in. It will no longer be mine. And actually, I rent it, to someone else it is not mine at all, but theirs.
With or without possessions, I am still me. With fancy items, my exterior is fancier. With purple pants, my legs are purple. Tomorrow, they could be black, or blue, or green. Without the furniture, the clothes, without my hair, I have skin that covers layers of fat and muscle and a skeleton which houses organs, etc. If my legs were shorter or longer, if I took up more space or less, I am still me. If I sat in the same spot or flew across the world, I would be the same.
Perhaps I am just my brain. A little alien creature sitting in the command center behind my eyes. But in practice, in asana, I am existing in other places. I exist in my sacrum and the joint on my left thumb. If I can exist there, can I exist in the couch? I can exist anywhere I can imagine. If in a place, then why not in a person?
Continuing like this, where do I really begin and where do I really end? If it is all impermanent, is there really an individual me at all or is really just a piece of a greater whole?
In art school the first thing people want to do when they draw is to sketch the outline of an apple. Holding an apple in my hand, it has no outline. None at all.
The world is a collection of teeny tiny things that are vibrating.
I did not make me (that I can recall). I did not pick my color or hair or ethnicity or gender. It all just kind of happened without me knowing it.
The world was here before me and will continue on after I am gone. I am not me, but you.
When I see me and mine and ours as different from you and theirs and his/hers, I become important to myself. Even if it is only to be sad, upset, in pain, I am sad and upset and in pain and that is important to me. When I see me as important, there are rules. I am the center of the universe and my thoughts, feelings, and actions, are the priority even if the thought is that I want to be nice right now. I want to be nice right now. I should be mad right now. I am sad. I am happy. I am hungry. I want this. I don't like that. I am excited. I am nervous. I can wear a lot of different emotions, clothes, professions, friends, ideas, etc.
If there is no me, if I am you and we are everything and therefore nothing, then my hot vomit frustration disappears. A deer stopped cold in its tracks staring straight into really bright headlights. Emotions, feelings, conditions, people-- everything is temporary. If everything is temporary, it not real and I can't really trust it as truth. My permanent state is not angry because it is just an emotion and what is "I" anyway? What can possibly be trespassed if I am everything and I don't exist? If I don't identify with my bike or my writing or my hair or my personality?
But what about if I see someone in pain? What if they trap me in it? Don't speak? Must I speak? Perhaps it is inevitable. Like aging and the impermanence of everything, these situations will come and the wise are not distressed. Yes, the two people are being divided into two people. Separate. The pain of the separate, of the watching pain, of the trap? Also not real.
-Friday, New York
Yellow quotes above from The Bhagavad Gita translation by Swami Sivananda 1995.
Work it, honey!
A quick note.
As a teacher, oh man, they forget to tell you that you are a walking target for people hurling samskaras. Most of the time, it comes with some warning and I'm already in a place of love and compassion. And then sometimes, of course, I am absolutely not prepared and maybe in a place of love and compassion but somewhere accidentally leave a door open or something where a large draft riddled with those hurled emotions glides right in. The feeling? Like vomit in my throat. Very hot, agitated, and yeah, vomit in my throat.
God bless primary Fridays. At first it is a whole lot of mentally revisiting the puke and then the body feels it and the breath, bandha, dristhi, asana smooth it out. And then I find myself thinking about how I'm not thinking about it. And then I'm thinking about it again. And it keeps going like this until by the end, it was like the vomit was yesterday.
So, yeah, there is that.
-New York, Friday
As a teacher, oh man, they forget to tell you that you are a walking target for people hurling samskaras. Most of the time, it comes with some warning and I'm already in a place of love and compassion. And then sometimes, of course, I am absolutely not prepared and maybe in a place of love and compassion but somewhere accidentally leave a door open or something where a large draft riddled with those hurled emotions glides right in. The feeling? Like vomit in my throat. Very hot, agitated, and yeah, vomit in my throat.
God bless primary Fridays. At first it is a whole lot of mentally revisiting the puke and then the body feels it and the breath, bandha, dristhi, asana smooth it out. And then I find myself thinking about how I'm not thinking about it. And then I'm thinking about it again. And it keeps going like this until by the end, it was like the vomit was yesterday.
So, yeah, there is that.
-New York, Friday
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Asanas you start
I found myself plugging to-do items into my computer's calendar, realizing that really, takeoff is right around the corner. Diligently typing items into each day's allotted square, I also realized that I had succeeded in completely distracting my mind from what had just happened.
(This reminds me of a movie I saw not long ago about a supercomputer that went evil (of course) and the only way to stop it was to shut it down. Like any typical story, the beast had a weakness and the characters figured out a way to have one person get its attention while someone else pulled the plug.)
...What just happened was my daily asana practice. It started tamely enough, but as I waded deeper I swear I could feel something undigested from yesterday and my arms just burning, burning, burning. My mind paused for a moment to take note "sore arms are the worst kind of sore" and then I continued on to debate whether or not that was true. Perhaps the stomach was the worst kind of sore instead?
Next, I promise you that my thighs were melting off my femurs. They really were. Like runny Jell-o right onto my rug.
I carried on with practice -- breathing, moving, bandha-ing, etc., but with this really cumbersome backpack of "observations". Sometimes the bag is all one can think about. How heavy it is. If it were possible to take just one thing out, how much less suffering one might have. How ours is the heaviest pack, and wondering a) when will the bag get lighter and b) what if it never does?
And that is when the panic sets in-- "if I don't stop now, I will surely die or some equally horrific fate will certainly befall me and even if I do stop now, it will still be a disaster of the worst kind, but at least not the certain death of continuing my full practice. Maybe I should just start finishing or just rest and call it a day". Of the times where that was what I chose, I never felt half as awful as how I pictured I would. I try to remember this when the panicky freak-out moments arise.
Perhaps the scariest part is not the fatigue or soreness, it is of not knowing where to find the willpower to keep going. It is more and more clear that it is actually more simple than we make it out to be and the answer was there from the beginning: tristhana.
Defined as "three places of attention", this is a mainstay in the ashtanga yoga method. Breathing/bandha, dristhi, asana. So, when these thoughts come up (such as "oh, here comes that really tough posture that I really do not enjoy") if I keep these three things going, my mind goes there instead of to the thing(s) that are troubling my body or mind.
At first I think it is more like "distracts" the mind from the troubles, which implies that the mind places priority on the chase of unpleasant sensations. Over time, I feel that this has changed significantly. It is more often that the tristhana is the priority and the troubles attempt to distract. It isn't easy to not follow the troubles. They are sweet and salty and the sensation is something I am used to so it almost feels comforting ("I miss the comfort of being sad" -Nirvana) and I gravitate toward it until I'm stuck in it again and wondering how I got here.
I have the opportunity everyday to walk over to that edge and decide whether or not to jump and gradually, I start to remind myself of the day, week, month, years before.
Yes, this is scary.
Yes, I'm sore.
Yes, this is hard.
Yes, I'm tired.
Faith. I grab onto that tristhana and jump!
Without knowing it, I am placing my mind on something bigger than "myself" (immediate experience/the list above). I am now the possibility, image, fantasy, or dream of "me" jumping. When this lesson starts to integrate, I can apply it in order to make something happen (such as keeping the vinyasa or not succumbing to the freak-out/dropout).
And then maybe, sooner or later, it is not so much about the pleasant and painful, the can and can't, the good and bad, the backpack, Jell-o legs, or the come on just jump. Maybe it starts to become something else entirely.
(This reminds me of a movie I saw not long ago about a supercomputer that went evil (of course) and the only way to stop it was to shut it down. Like any typical story, the beast had a weakness and the characters figured out a way to have one person get its attention while someone else pulled the plug.)
...What just happened was my daily asana practice. It started tamely enough, but as I waded deeper I swear I could feel something undigested from yesterday and my arms just burning, burning, burning. My mind paused for a moment to take note "sore arms are the worst kind of sore" and then I continued on to debate whether or not that was true. Perhaps the stomach was the worst kind of sore instead?
Next, I promise you that my thighs were melting off my femurs. They really were. Like runny Jell-o right onto my rug.
I carried on with practice -- breathing, moving, bandha-ing, etc., but with this really cumbersome backpack of "observations". Sometimes the bag is all one can think about. How heavy it is. If it were possible to take just one thing out, how much less suffering one might have. How ours is the heaviest pack, and wondering a) when will the bag get lighter and b) what if it never does?
And that is when the panic sets in-- "if I don't stop now, I will surely die or some equally horrific fate will certainly befall me and even if I do stop now, it will still be a disaster of the worst kind, but at least not the certain death of continuing my full practice. Maybe I should just start finishing or just rest and call it a day". Of the times where that was what I chose, I never felt half as awful as how I pictured I would. I try to remember this when the panicky freak-out moments arise.
Perhaps the scariest part is not the fatigue or soreness, it is of not knowing where to find the willpower to keep going. It is more and more clear that it is actually more simple than we make it out to be and the answer was there from the beginning: tristhana.
Defined as "three places of attention", this is a mainstay in the ashtanga yoga method. Breathing/bandha, dristhi, asana. So, when these thoughts come up (such as "oh, here comes that really tough posture that I really do not enjoy") if I keep these three things going, my mind goes there instead of to the thing(s) that are troubling my body or mind.
At first I think it is more like "distracts" the mind from the troubles, which implies that the mind places priority on the chase of unpleasant sensations. Over time, I feel that this has changed significantly. It is more often that the tristhana is the priority and the troubles attempt to distract. It isn't easy to not follow the troubles. They are sweet and salty and the sensation is something I am used to so it almost feels comforting ("I miss the comfort of being sad" -Nirvana) and I gravitate toward it until I'm stuck in it again and wondering how I got here.
I have the opportunity everyday to walk over to that edge and decide whether or not to jump and gradually, I start to remind myself of the day, week, month, years before.
Yes, this is scary.
Yes, I'm sore.
Yes, this is hard.
Yes, I'm tired.
Faith. I grab onto that tristhana and jump!
Without knowing it, I am placing my mind on something bigger than "myself" (immediate experience/the list above). I am now the possibility, image, fantasy, or dream of "me" jumping. When this lesson starts to integrate, I can apply it in order to make something happen (such as keeping the vinyasa or not succumbing to the freak-out/dropout).
And then maybe, sooner or later, it is not so much about the pleasant and painful, the can and can't, the good and bad, the backpack, Jell-o legs, or the come on just jump. Maybe it starts to become something else entirely.
-New York, Tuesday
Sunday, August 15, 2010
High Range Dosa Mix
A fluffy dosa.
When combining water and mix (rice powder and lentils), the smell of dry dal in the back of the cupboard from 2008. A bit like the fresh, cool part of the smell of potting soil. 10 (?) hours later, smelling tongue-sucking sour and I'm ready to pour. The iron skillet seems to produce the fluffiest, tastiest dosa. I flick water at the "seasoned" pan and when it jumps and pops, I ladle a palm-sized amount of the sour stuff onto the center. Little Swiss cheese pancake holes appear across the surface and my heart quickens...
I wait. My feet tap, head sways, hands roll on hips.
I wait until the edges have me absolutely convinced that the underside is burning. I grip the spatula and shuffle it under the crispy edge, careful to keep pressing down toward the pan and I peek. Not burned at all. Barely golden brown. I smile smugly and flip.
-New York, Sunday
When combining water and mix (rice powder and lentils), the smell of dry dal in the back of the cupboard from 2008. A bit like the fresh, cool part of the smell of potting soil. 10 (?) hours later, smelling tongue-sucking sour and I'm ready to pour. The iron skillet seems to produce the fluffiest, tastiest dosa. I flick water at the "seasoned" pan and when it jumps and pops, I ladle a palm-sized amount of the sour stuff onto the center. Little Swiss cheese pancake holes appear across the surface and my heart quickens...
I wait. My feet tap, head sways, hands roll on hips.
I wait until the edges have me absolutely convinced that the underside is burning. I grip the spatula and shuffle it under the crispy edge, careful to keep pressing down toward the pan and I peek. Not burned at all. Barely golden brown. I smile smugly and flip.
-New York, Sunday
Friday, August 13, 2010
Another Go
First post. Newish blog. Hello.
Today I start a diary; it is against my usual habits, but out of a clearly felt need.
One advantage in keeping a diary is that you become aware with reassuring clarity of the changes which you constantly suffer.
I do not keep a diary. Never have. To write a diary every day is like returning to one's own vomit.
The notes I have made are not a diary in the ordinary sense, but partly lengthy records of my spiritual experiences, and partly poems in prose.
Today I start a diary; it is against my usual habits, but out of a clearly felt need.
-Robert Musil
One advantage in keeping a diary is that you become aware with reassuring clarity of the changes which you constantly suffer.
-Franz Kafka
I do not keep a diary. Never have. To write a diary every day is like returning to one's own vomit.
-J. Enoch Powell
The notes I have made are not a diary in the ordinary sense, but partly lengthy records of my spiritual experiences, and partly poems in prose.
-Edvard Munch
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
New Photos
New photos of Ashtanga Yoga Brooklyn mysore practice on the website by Matthew Spiegelman. Here are some more:
Thursday, August 5, 2010
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