The Movie Life

It has been two weeks since Mysore and I'm nestling back into New York City life.

I'm baking, reading, walking around looking at tall buildings while listening to saxophones in cafes.

I haven't gotten out of the city because living in a movie is too intoxicating.

Yesterday at a studio's "teacher meeting", I sat in a circle with other teachers and staff. We filled out questionnaires and shared them with the group. One woman said that she always talked about leaving the city because she loves nature so much and here all you get are house plants and house mice. But once she was standing amongst the trees she realized that what she missed were all the people.

Drop Dead

Since returning from Mysore/the mountains of California, my entrance strategy has been to stay as soft as possible. I think of drunk driving and how the driver doesn't often get badly injured because they are so relaxed, there is no resistance. That's me. Walking the path of least resistance down the streets of New York.

Its around 8am. I just taught my first class of the day, and am softly filing into a subway car. I feel a stead round of pointy jabs in my arm. I ask the stooped old man next me if that is really necessary, the elbowing me in the side. He tells me to "drop dead". I laugh out loud.

I am equal parts drowning and rising to the surface in a body of thick blue water.

A few days earlier, that same train was delayed. It stood in the station long enough for people to start making eye contact with each other. Some one did drop dead, sort of. They had an epileptic seizure on the platform. Were people running to help, to watch, or to find a different mode of transport to get to wherever they were going?

In the works

Still wrapping up mysoremusings...

Hopefully, I'll get writing tomorrow.

Epilogue: One Week Later

I'm sitting in a chair. Really, a chair. Everywhere, there are chairs. I ask myself, every few hours, "Is this culture shock?" Or alternately, "Is this jet lag?"

I was walking through a food co-op in San Francisco. Aisles and aisles of organic food. Bulk food bins with every kind of rice, every kind of gluten-free wheat alternative you can think of. A woman was pushing her daughter in a stroller, reassuring her every few minutes, "Its okay, you're with Mommy...Its okay they aren't real." I looked up and saw that the little girl was sulking away from the Halloween decorations that spilled over the tops of the shelves. I knew how she felt. So much. There's just so much.

I stood at the edge of a cliff, looking over the edge for a long time before I finally said, "That's it! I'm doing this!" and jumped into this journey to India. It wasn't that I was scared, as much as I just had no idea what to do or how to do it. Anywhere I looked, I found no roads, and all those who had blazed the trail before me were keeping its secrets to themselves. "You'll figure it out," they told me. 

What finally gave me the kick in the pants was thinking about my life, thinking about how nothing is permanent, and realizing that the chance to practice with the aging teacher would never come again. I had to do it. I had to go. It was one of the best decisions I've made.

Reading over my blog entries, I've laughed, cowered with embarrassment, and smiled at the me that embarked on the trip and the me sitting in this cafe. This has been one amazing journey, and I am so happy to have been able to share my experience here through Mysore Musings.

I had never read a blog before this trip, and it took some convincing to get me to start one up. I never thought anyone would read it and I didn't and still don't have any idea what I am doing. And still, each time I sat down, I wrote from my heart, and the next day, I was surprised and pleased to find that people were reading. I've met and received support from so many people through this blog. It has been amazing to feel the sense of community that has surrounded this project, and I look forward to doing something like this again.

I am, for now, closing this blog. I feel like it is time to open a new chapter, and I look forward to my next project, ashtangainspired. This new project will look at life starting from the mat, while exploring a path less travelled. Or something like that. Me, Yoga, New York City, Life, and Everything in between...

I'm also working with some people on launching an online Mysore Yoga community. This is going to be an amazing resource for ashtanga people in Mysore and around the world. It will feature a local Mysore community board for posting for roommates, ride shares, trades, and other local info. The board will also have an area to post and find yoga-related jobs and volunteer work around the world. The board should be up and running shortly. We're also publishing an online ashtanga mag written by voices from the ashtanga community. Your comments, questions, and suggestions are more than welcome. Additionally, we are looking for pictures of you practicing for our site, as well as article submissions.  We aim to launch the website by November 1st!

Thank you for reading, writing, and helping me along the way. Mysore has been an amazing experience, and I look forward to returning soon!

Lokah Samastah Sukino Bhavantu
May all beings be happy and free

The End

I've taken a week to reflect (a little) on possible endings, yes, endings, for this blog.

Romantic

I enjoyed a long, leisurely breakfast surrounded by a circle of new and old friends. We ate fresh, hot muesli, curd, dosas. We ate fruit salads of every variety. We ate two different types of eggs. We had fresh milk and tea. We sat around a large wooden table on soft floor cushions, stretching our beings, trying to learn how to soak up small moments in time. The car arrived outside. It was white. Cars are usually white. And because it wasn't a rickshaw, I knew it was for me. As I waved goodbye, a light switched off inside of me, and I turned to look ahead to the road to come.

I slept the whole ride to the airport. I walked to the Kingfisher counter. I stared at the woman asking me for a ticket. She kept saying it and saying it and saying it and I kept not giving it to her.

The light turned back on.

"Actually," I said. "Can I change my ticket?"

I've never missed a flight and I've never tried to rearrange a ticket. For me, I start cooking a meal, I cook the meal, and then I eat it. But this time I was surprised to find how easy it was to just stop cooking. A friend recently told me about this San Fran mouse that can jump like 12 feet and mid air, turn 90 degrees. That's me. Born the year of the rat.

So this rat turned 90 degrees away from the USA. This rat jumped back into India.

Expected

I sat in the car going to the airport. I was amazed to find that I was at the exact limit of permit luggage weight (25 kilos). The plane took off and I was in a daze. I landed in Mumbai. The plane took off and I was in a daze. I landed in New York. I had no keys to my apartment. I had 25 kilos of luggage. I had jet lag. So, I went to practice.

I didn't know exactly where Eddie's was, but somehow, managed to navigate my way to the unmarked, second floor studio. My body buzzed from lack of sleep, airport funk, 24 hours of unused muscles, and the adrenaline of the "fight or flight" instinct surging through my veins as my body shifted from one side of the world to another, from one culture to another, from one teacher to another. And in that torrent of energy, I practiced. My body carved the air and I could feel the boundary where New York met the cloud of Mysore surrounding me.

Cop-out

As the car drove further and further from the place I've called home for the past few months, I thought of all the people I've met, all the things I've seen, all the things I've learned. I saw the landscape outside the car as if it were the first day again. I tried to pick out the things I was fascinated with on that first ride. As my eyes jumped from one thing to the next, I slowly drifted to sleep.

My eyes began to flutter open. I could see someone rolling out their mat to the right of me, and someone else beginning to walk away on my left. I arched my neck and moved to see the clock on the wall behind my head. I struggled to read what it said. "No, really?" I asked myself. I had been asleep for an hour. I sat up on my mat. There was one last person finishing up in the front of the Shala in New York.

I was so excited about my upcoming trip to Mysore that I had dreamt about it during what was supposed to be post-practice rest (savasana).

What is real? Maybe a little of all of them, maybe none of them. I have to keep a little of this magic to myself...

:)

My last class, my last day

I woke up this morning in the middle of a dream, interrupted. Was that really my alarm? Did I really have to get up? Just as I was convinced that ignoring the blaring sound and journeying back into dreamland was a viable option, something inside said, "Wake up! This is your last class!" I'm not sure, but I can probably say that as I turned to roll out of bed and switched off the alarm, I was making the grouchiest, most pained expression I was capable of. Sometimes I wish I had a hidden camera. I'm such a clown. I'd see myself and think, "Oh no, really?"

I did all my morning rituals, just the same as before. I trotted to class, avoiding eye contact, eyes burning to stay open, just the same as before. I fidgeted on my mat until Saraswati walked in to start class, just the same as before. And when she started the chant, I could hear and feel the vibration of the room, just the same as before, but this time, I realized that it wasn't forever. That, tomorrow, I wouldn't be here standing in this spot, listening to this chanting, feeling the breeze from that window. I realized that even when I wasn't here, someone else would be in this spot, and the chanting would still go on, just the same as before. For a brief moment, I could feel the presence of all the people in the room, and then all the people that had been in that room since I arrived in July, and then all the people who had ever been in that room, and then all the people who ever practiced with Guruji, and then Guruji practicing with Krishnamacharya...I know that there is no question, I have to come back, and me and Mysore, well, we'll be waiting for each other.

As for my last practice, it felt like my first day in that I was hyper aware that something was special, and different, and deserved really being paid attention to. I noticed how at once, my body was so tired and also so ready for anything. I noticed how my body has changed. I'm much stronger than before, and my body shape has developed accordingly. Some poses are a little harder than before, such as hands down in prasarita c, because of all the new muscles in my upper body. In the last three months, my strength has really developed, but my flexibility hasn't changed dramatically. I think that part of this is because I don't really get any adjustments, and that extra push is often going to take you deeper into something that you might otherwise just stay comfortable in.

I've learned so much practicing with the family and living in Mysore about myself, people, and the world. I feel like I was in a life rehab program and I'm about to step out the front door to see if anything really changed, or if the developments of the past few months will fall away from me like post-it notes when the sticky wears off.

I feel happy. I feel content. I feel like I have direction, and love, and friends, and family, and good health. I feel like the astrologer was right. That all the cards are there, we just have to be brave enough to play them. And I think that I can and I will and I think that I'm so glad that I made it out here at all. I think that if you have that spark somewhere inside you, that little voice that says, "I wonder...", you should listen. I think you should go for it, because it will change your world.

I'm taking a car from Ganesh at Anu's at 1pm this afternoon to the Bangalore Airport. From there, I fly to Mumbai/Bombay where I catch my overnighter to New York City!

"Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first." --As spoken by Tina on Friday at our cooking class.

Things that fly

I could hear a rattle outside my window this morning and it wasn't the scratching of those Indian brooms on the cement. I tried to ignore it, but couldn't. I inched to the side of the bed and reached over to move aside the blinds. A dragonfly was stuck between the window and the mosquito screen. What I heard was the sound of a creature reaching for a chance to live, or rather not to die. I let go of the blinds and fell back into bed. It would find its way on its own. It didn't. The sounds were fading as the poor creature was slowly losing strength. I reached over again, lifted the screen, and pushed the window open. The dragonfly that was lying prone on the ledge was out the window in an instant.

I spent the day with friends at the salon getting everything on the menu that I possibly could manage. It felt like the right way to perform the ritual of leaving.

I remember when I first arrived in Mysore that I was in awe over how many butterflies I saw everywhere. Really, they were everywhere. I hadn't noticed their abundance until recently when the everyday became extraordinary again. As I waited at the gate this morning for Petra, I watched as a little green caterpillar inched across the ledge toward my chin, which was resting on one end of the gate. He had feet in the back and feet in the front and seemed to be in a great hurry.

I feel myself clinging to the warmth of this place, the safe chrysalis that I've slowly grown inside. At the same time, I'm filled with the anticipation of knowing that tomorrow I'm going to fly away.

Tomorrow morning is my last class here in Mysore, and in many ways, it feels like its going to be the first.

Last days

Remember the nineties? Do you remember those little glass containers filled with colorful oil and water that you would turn upside down to watch as one changed places with the other? And then when they successfully divided, and all was calm in that little world, you would turn it over to watch the chaos unfold once more? When I first arrived in Mysore, my life in New York slowly drifted away. I tried to cling onto a few pieces like my boyfriend, being vegan. Others I had to let go. Now, as I inch towards climbing into that car to the airport, my mind is slowly letting more and more of my life in New York back in. It seems very clear right now that I am here, not there. I've come full circle. I'm smelling all the smells again, hearing every scraping broom, looking for the details, so that I can pack them with me as I go. I think that maybe I'll realize that I'm trying to pack too much and that I'll never be able to fit Saraswati in my overhead carry on. Maybe I've become a little part of this place, and in that way, it will be easy to pack, because it is me.

Saraswati taught a really beautiful led class this morning. Some days you feel whatever it is that could hold you back, but you just keep going. You don't listen to it, you just breathe, you just move, and even though it feels like it, you don't die. For a moment, you realize that. You realize that you can do it, that what you're feeling is just that--a feeling. You watch in amazement as you do all the things that you couldn't do three months ago (or what about 3 years ago?), the things you thought were so far out of reach. You notice how much you've grown, how strong you've become, and how you (in a way) always were. You see the faces and the glow of all the people just arriving and you smile to yourself because you know they are in for one hell of a journey.

Today I've talked Tina into doing one last cooking demo/lunch for me. I'm treating it as my going away fete. Tomorrow and Sunday I'd rather not be stressing about putting together the social event of the season, so I thought this would be great. Tina organizes her kitchen so that there is the main table where she cooks, with chairs set up so that we can watch. I think of it as the Food Network live. She tells you about the spices and cooking techniques. She tells you about history and customs. And then, when you feel like you can't take it anymore, the smells have you so intoxicated you feel like you might go out of your mind, she hands you a sample that she set aside just for that moment. This goes on for more than an hour-Tina working up your appetite and then feeding you a little just at your breaking point. This culminates with a delicious feast that leaves you completely incapacitated for the next few hours. I love that woman.

The smell of Mysore

Today was my last Mysore class. I wondered what I would remember from this trip. How the morning smelled like burning sugar. How a cockroach walked toward the kitchen, stopped when it noticed me, and then continued on its way. How my shoulder felt in ankle grabbing--like the whole world was tied in a knot next to my left ear. The way I feel like I'm walking on air when I step out of the shala, and then get a little nervous of falling down the stairs. The ugly dog that hangs outside of the shala, and how I avoid it as I walk up the hill toward my house. How lying in my bed after practice, I drift off to a half-sleep where the sounds of birds become like voices and I wake up feeling like I should know the words. Or even if I could put the feeling of getting used to a new pose into a jar: the wave of sensation that lingers over the body as it adjusts to the new challenge.

I am not sure if I'm getting a little sick or if I caught some back bend fever. Yes, this really happens. After intense back bends you get sick for about 24 hours with flu-like symptoms and then you're good as new. I've gone through it a few times in my life as an ashtangi. I feel like maybe it is happening again. I feel super tired and drowsy, my back is sore, everything is achy, my throat scratches. A friend told me that she actually went to the doctor for this and he told her that this was as very real diagnosis and that it happens because the muscles in the back have a huge spasm. Sometimes this spasm around the spine is so big, that it affects the nerves and this could effect the immune system.

We said goodbye to Pete yesterday, who had been here for about a year. He was the last person who has really been here the whole time that I have. Its easy to get very close to people here. It is like dog years or summer camp. Its this violent explosion of relationships that last for a week or a month or sometimes just one special day. It seems strange to paint the picture of this place in my mind without the people that I have met in it. I can understand how it is very hard for the people who really live here long term. All the time it is like the ghosts of the people you were close with are always floating in the air, just beyond your reach. Their house hovers in the direction you remember, but the weight of knowing the emptiness weighs on your heart. It is so amazing to me how you can come here knowing no one, and leave with a network of friends smiling as they wave goodbye.

I still have four days here in Mysore and two more led classes with Saraswati. I'm slowly crossing things of my Mysore to-do list, and also deciding that some of the things aren't really important to do. Mostly I'm just being here and totally in awe of this crazy life as I look down to my feet, through the earth, and imagine myself and everyone I know standing on the other side.

Ramblings

Yesterday I had a Thali lunch with John in the city center. It was a restaurant inside this hotel that reminded me of a hospital. I can't remember the name at the moment, but it started with the letter "D" and is quite popular. (It is called Dash Prakash...thanks Jody!) A thali meal is kind of like a chinese pu pu platter in that it consists of a variety of different dishes for you to try. In the more traditional variation, the meal will be spread on a banana leaf (like at Guruji's birthday party), but most of the time (for me at least) it has been served on a metal tray. I love these trays! Sometimes they are round and about the size of a pizza (like at 6 Main) with a bowl of rice in the middle surrounded by small cups filled with curd, and a few other soupy treats, a sweet treat, pickles, and a few pieces of bread. Other times the metal tray is rectangular with geometric compartments for each part of the meal. At this restaurant, we had the circular tray.



The real clincher, however, is that you are supposed to eat this meal with your hands! there is a spoon tucked into either the curd or the sweet dessert (but not always, as in the case with Guruji's Birthday) that you can steal to use for the rice and "sambars", or you can do it "Indian style". First, you dump the bowl of rice onto the center of the plate, then you dump some of the soup stuff on that. Then you plunge your fingers into this soupy mess, squish it together and toss it into your mouth. You have to get used to the feeling of wetness and pieces of rice lingering on your skin. It takes time. You also have to get used to watching other people eat...I'm still working on it. I still have a few minutes of shock before I can actually dive into the meal and be okay with it.



This restaurant was fascinating, it was so dynamic and fast-paced, it was great just to watch the organized chaos. You paid at a counter before you sat down, then you sat wherever you wanted, even at a table with people you don't know. You wait a couple minutes, maybe go and wash your hands, and before you know it you see these men wearing what look like veteran or GI uniforms bringing stacks of silver trays out of the kitchen. They bring you yours and your meal begins.

There was a hair in my food. A small one. I still ate the meal without a thought. One's view towards food changes after being here. For instance, once people get into it, they tend to prefer eating their meals with their hands. They say that it increases the awareness that they have of their food. It also helps develop a connection with the meal, instead of the metal or plastic utensil acting as an intermediary.

I got two poses today: Bhekasana and dhanurasana. Bhekasana means frog pose (see the above pic). In this pose you are lying on your belly with your legs bent so that your heals are moving to the floor just outside your hips. Your elbows face behind you as your hands press your feet toward the floor. At the same time, your chest lifts and back arches as you look toward the tip of your nose.

Dhanurasana means bow. Still on the belly, the legs bend as you hold the outside of your ankles. Then everything comes off the floor.

This is the part where I am glad I have a yoga rug. I never understood why people used them until I started second series. Doing a bow once in a while is one thing, but doing it every day really starts to wear on my hip bones. Also, I was dealing with a little back "kink" that made moving pretty unbearable, so doubling up the mat for all those rolling postures in primary became essential. (Before the "injury" I could practice full primary on the wood floor with no problem.)


So today we are saying goodbye to Pete who has been here for a year. Its going to be hard. But he said we'll say goodbye "Indian style". That is, we look at eachother and say, "okay bye". We're meeting at 6 Main for lunch and I am hyped to get my favorite meal: North Indian Thali.

Growing pains

My body is so sore. I just want to spend the whole day horizontal. But when I stop moving, all the muscles, bones, and organs begin to settle and the aching begins to crawl through my skin. I look in the mirror now and I feel like a brand new person.

The changes have happened gradually, of course, but they've happened. I'm stronger physically, and I've noticed that mentally there have been a lot of shifts as well. I feel like I have a strong sense of direction and mental clarity. My practice is different. How I look at life is different. My dreams when I sleep are different. My feet are different. My appetite and digestion are different.

I feel like I've cleaned house and noticed all the wonderful, terrible, and interesting things I have that were either tucked under something else or covered by layers of dust.

I feel at once frightened and excited to go back. Part of me cannot wait for the journey ahead, and the other part is so comfortable with the lifestyle here that it never wants to leave.

My friend, Michael, went home two days ago. I think I had asked him how he felt. He said that most people are very sad when they leave and live their "normal" life again because they leave Mysore behind. He said that wouldn't happen to him because he is going to take Mysore with him.

I cant predict what will happen with me exactly, but I do know that for a long time, I'll be able to smell Mysore radiating from me and that over time the smell won't fade, I'll simply become used to it.

When I go swimming, I usually stick my toes or finger into the water first to see just how cold this will feel on my body. I cringe and then slowly inch myself in, ugly faces all the way. But that day I saw the water and I just jumped. As I sat, dripping on my towel, my friend turned to us and said, "I don't know how you guys just jump in like that." I lied down on my chair and smiled to myself. For just a moment, in this very small way, I truly felt that anything is possible.

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."