ditch the bottom line

I'll try not to be too repetitive in this space, but I'm probably going to be writing about this subject a lot in this space, because it dogs me so much:

Results.

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The Periodic Table of Elements might be my most favorite in the world. This one is flavors of frozen yogurt, if you look closely. But I like the actual elements of the universe more.

There's been a lot of language in my world about results, about achievement, about doing and being not just my best, but The Best. My parents, growing up, always said that all they wanted was for me to do the best I could, but when the best I could do was perfect, they seemed a lot more jazzed than when the best I could do was a C minus. I put so much pressure on myself as a kid, and when I struggled and failed, it stung badly, especially when the people who were most important to me seemed so disappointed in my efforts. 

I had the great fortune and blessing to attend a lecture with Matt Huish this past weekend. He spoke for almost two hours, and said a lot that really blew my mind, but one of the ideas I appreciated most was a short exploration on karma yoga. 

In the Bhagavad Gita, Arjuna and Krishna are having a conversation about Arjuna's work. He's heartbroken, on the precipice of a great war with his kinfolk, and can't bring himself to go to war. The text is the conversation he has with his charioteer, a deity cleverly disguised, who helps to show him what he needs to see in order to move forward, and there's a lot to say about it, by wiser minds than mine. 

Matt paraphrased Krishna and said, "[your work is to] pick up your bow and aim it. You can't control the outcome, or where it will hit."  In other words: do your job; step to your mat and practice; do the work set in front of you. Don't worry about what happens.

“When we charge forward in our practice trying to “get somewhere”, we miss the point.”

— Matt Huish

For me, this flies in the face of the Results rhetoric I see so often around me, that rules so much of what I do. To step to my mat and practice without attaching to whether or not I can lift up, or invert, or sink deeper: how will I know if I'm improving? How will I measure my progress????How will I get better?!

But the practice isn't to get better. Is it? If the practice is to stay present, to observe without judgment, to integrate, then "progress" is a red herring. We don't need to lose inches or lift more, to stay longer or press higher; we only need to find our way--perhaps the way of least resistance (and here I'm not talking about wu-wei because a) I'm not really qualified; and b) because that's a totally different post)--into our work and to watch what happens when we do it. 

I don't have the time today to explore this the way I want to; consider this a prelude maybe, or an etude: a study. 

But the thought that clings to me as I wrap is that to do the work I want to do in a culture that is driven by results is a kind of subversion. I step into a results-ruled space, and I encourage all of us to loosen our grip on that, and to observe. 

I like subversion.

Make Some Space

My Partner and I have a sort of inside yoga joke: he tells me to put my body into some impossible shape, like to put the soles of my feet. "Sweetheart, my body won't do that," I say, and he retorts, "Oh sure you can, just exhale."  Then he grabs my feet and tries to muscle them into my core and I start kicking and squealing and it turns into a big, dorky love fest. 

(I know, the Ashtangis out there are reading this, and then rolling their eyes and winding themselves up into some padmasana variation or something, and exclaiming, "Ta-da!" I'm not there yet.) 

He's onto something, though, right? A well-timed breath can be really helpful, whether we're in a complex posture or an uncomfortable conversation. Yogis go on and on about how important the breath is, but we do it for a reason: you can live a few weeks without food, and a few days without water, but you can only live a few minutes without breath.

I'm not sure when I learned Ujjayi breath, but I'm pretty sure that I was doing it wrong, for years, until I entered Jim Bennitt's class. Jim points out that the Ujjayi exhale is significantly easier than the inhale, and I was guilty of this flip-flop (still am) until he called me on it. The puraka (inhale) is as important as the rechaka (exhale) because it's how prana enters the body.  All that happens when you practice a lousy in-breath and an amped-up out breath is you disperse your prana. 

I remember the first time I purposed to make my inhale as long and deep as my exhale was smooth and full. My practice changed dramatically. I was working as hard as ever, but even in postures that made me want to curse or throw a prop at someone, I felt like I was building, and not depleting. My physical practice was challenging, but rather than feeling exhausted at the end, I felt tingly, energized, and in savasana, I rested really deeply. 

This isn't a post about the breath. It's a post about heartbreak. One thing you can count on Spring to do is bring change, and change has been manifesting in a big way. Some of it's been wonderful; some of it has been painful. There's been enough love and affection to make me feel I was born under a lucky star, only to feel like the sky is falling on my head. Are there people in the world who never get their hearts broken, who are only heartbreakers? There must be; but they ain't me.

When my heart gets broken, I turn into someone I don't like. Out of pain and confusion, I whip up into a frenzy seeking answers to questions that won't ever get asked. ThenI get overwhelmed, my pain becomes anger, and I think horrible, judgmental thoughts about the heartbreaker. I try really hard to rationalize their poor treatment of me by shining my "penetrating light of truth" on their insecurities, their small-mindedness, and their misfortune at losing me. 

Then I cry a lot.

Good days and bad days are fuel for insight, writes my friend Adam. He's right, too; consider how much we've learned from periods of struggle and failure. Still, it's so hard to remember when bad days seem to be consistent, when feeling on an even keel takes ENORMOUS effort. Some days, I want to just throw myself on my mat and sob.

But is this the practice too, right? Is it easier to stay present in the midst of delight and pleasure than it is to stay present in the midst of pain, anger, confusion?

I read a passage once by George Fuerstein, wherein he said that ecstasy can be achieved in pain just as it can in pleasure. 

“The body, then, is the field in which we grow and harvest our experiences, which may be positive or negative, painful or pleasant. While negative, painful experiences do not bring us immediate joy, they do so in the long run because—if we are wise—we relate to them rightly by regarding them as useful lessons... Even physical pain... can sometimes be a doorway to ecstasy. ”

— Tantra: The Path of Ecstasy

In this context, good and bad mean the same thing, or rather, don't really mean anything. The exterior of heartbreak feels really lousy, so bad that it crowds out almost everything else and it's easy to forget life could ever be good. But heartbreak could be that one thing designed to bring you connection. 

When my girlfriend was suffering from heartbreak, she came over and said she needed to access her breath. She hadn't been able to take a deep breath in days, she said. You know this feeling? Like your lungs are stuffed with wet newspaper and a good, solid inhale might crack your ribcage apart? Yep I don't think 30 minutes of breathing and moving changed her situation. It didn't undo any of the pain she'd been caused, or unsay any of the really hurtful things she'd had to hear. 

But there was enough space for her in all that because of the breath. She wasn't obliterated by it; she was able to stand and dwell in her pain, to feel it, and to let it move through her without knocking her out.

My teacher talks about the breath being a gift. Imagine yourself giving the exhale and receiving the inhale, he says. So far, breath is the best thing I've found for staying balanced in the midst of pain. A good breath doesn't make the pain go away, but it makes enough space to bear it.

freedom fighting

Forgive me if I'm telling you what you already know, but asana is but a fraction of this thing we call yoga. (For the record, expensive stretchy pants and impossible body and beauty standards are zero part of it, but that's for another day.) The first two limbs of yoga, according to Patanjali, the Raja Yoga MacDaddy of them all, are the yamas and niyamas. These two breakdown into smaller tenets, and function as a social and individual code of ethics of sorts. Chief among them is ahimsa, or nonviolence. 

So sure, you can walk into any yoga class in America and hear someone prattling on about ahimsa as they caution students on misformed chaturangas or overdoing it in a backbend sequence. But violence is sneaky, and practicing nonviolence involves more than just modifying postures and working intelligently with sensation.

When I covet the backbend, the handbag, or the body of the person next to me, I stumble on ahimsa. 

When I get mad at my flat feet every time I fall out of utthita hasta padangusthasana, I stumble on ahimsa.

When I give the driver next to me side eye for driving while on the phone, I stumble on ahimsa.  

When I interrupt a colleague--again--I stumble on ahimsa. 

When I wish myself thinner, or smarter, more determined or disciplined, I stumble stumble stumble on ahimsa. When I judge another woman or berate another man, when I am impatient, dispassionate, unforgiving, self-pitying or numb: I trip over ahimsa and flat on my face.

Don't be fooled by the mediocre metaphor here. I don't mean that nonviolence is an obstacle; more that it's a garment that's too big. Rather than wearing it gracefully, it hangs off me, ill-fitting, and the way I wear it (or fail to) causes me to stumble. 

Right? Violence is everywhere, and it's as easy to perpetrate against the self as against others. Let's say nothing about how easy it is to speak ill of myself, to cluck my tongue in derision at some flaw I notice in the mirror, or to berate some stranger or celebrity for actions I find troubling. 

So why bother if it's so tough? Why not just give into the impulse in me to throw shoes at people, to stiff rude service staff, to curse at drivers, to refuse to forgive? Well, for one thing, the tradition says not to. B.K.S. Iyengar writes about ahimsa and the other yamas that they are "called 'mighty universal vows', as they are not confined to class, place, time or concept of duty. They should be followed unconditionally by everyone, and by students of yoga in particular, irrespective of origin and situation..." He makes allowances for situations jobs-- Arjuna was a soldier, after all--but there's not a lot of gray area: practice nonviolence because the practice of nonviolence is the study of yoga. Nobody gets a pass.

Beyond the doctrine as motivation, much like doing Side Angle Pose, when I do it, as hard as it is, it feels good. Choosing to be gentle and compassionate with myself and others feels way better than choosing to be angry and mean-spirited. This doesn't mean I don't get angry, nor does it mean that I don't hurt. But if I believe (and I do) in the connectedness of all beings, then violence toward another is as toxic to me as it is to them. My freedom is connected to yours, as is my peace and prosperity. We gotta do right by one another, even if we don't like it. 

So I'm trying. The Universe provides me lots of chances to try, and try again, to practice nonviolence. It still isn't any easier, but I feel more how important it is every day.

Transitions

I recently finished my 200-hour yoga teacher training at Tejas Yoga. It was a really powerful day, an evening of reflection and connection. We're a pretty happy group of yogis...

My teachers gave us the opportunity to speak into the space and share what was on our hearts. Anyone who knows me knows that I generally don't shy away from a chance to share my opinion; but as much as I value words and their power, at that moment, language felt inadequate, so I stayed silent. 

But not here.

As a student, and a teacher, one of the most important learning tools is an invested and connected learning community. I wrote a paper about this idea at the end of grad school that argued, specifically in the context of creative writing, a connected community was seminal to producing quality work.

Learning is a really vulnerable process. We take for granted the process of teaching and being taught; education, even in its flawed state, is an accepted part of our societal structure. But there's a point where learning a thing stops becoming exciting and starts becoming something that's tinged with shame. "You didn't know that?", teachers exclaim at their students. Someone asks questions and no one puts up their hand because we're all afraid of being wrong. I've lost count of how many people apologize for asking questions in learning and professional settings. I'm sure I've done it.

It takes a lot of bravery to put yourself in a situation where you don't know a thing, to acknowledge you don't know the thing, and to be willing to ask someone else to take up the responsibility of teaching you: to make lasagna, to write a compelling essay, to teach a sun salutation or to change your oil. It requires a consistent willingness of the student to be vulnerable, to (potentially) look stupid, to try and fail, and to persevere. It also takes a sense of ownership about your own education. The best learning happens when the student is an active participant in the process; when she does more than just the homework, but when she takes charge of what she wants to know. (I learned this really late; if I'd known differently, I'd have taken so many more classes at NU). Still, learning takes a tender heart, trust, and the willingness to be vulnerable.

It also requires a level of commitment and gravity from the person you entrust to teach you: I want a teacher who's present, deeply knowledgeable of their subject, excited about teaching, and willing to challenge me without feeling they have to crush me into dust and then build me into a miniature version of themselves. Teaching is an act of service; there is no room for ego, no room for complacency or boredom, no room for haphazard commitment to the students or to the craft.

Finally, the best learning happens in a connected community. When the learning community is full of people who have an interest in each other, who can see one another in their vulnerability and humanity, and who matter to each other, as craftspeople and as humans, the alchemy of support, challenge and safe competition creates beautiful things.

I've been incredibly lucky, and deeply blessed, to be a part of two such communities in my life so far.The first was at Columbia College. I remember, the first class I took, the professor didn't have a syllabus on the first day (I think we eventually got it week 8 maybe?). He just sat down and started talking about censorship and communism, and I panicked. What have I done? I thought. There's no syllabus? What are we gonna do all semester? Oh my god, I've made a huge mistake. My uptight, organized Pitta personality flipped out. But fortunately, I discovered that his unorthodox manner was the introduction to a community of writers and artists who are dedicated, hardworking (and underpaid, Amen?) people who work tirelessly on their students' behalf. 

At Columbia, I learned how to look people in the eye. I learned how to listen deeply, and to read with attention. I didn't know this at the time, but I think I learned that ineffable quality of holding space. I learned the difference between good teachers and not-so-good ones, and I learned what happens when the learning community is bonded and connected, and what happens when it's loosely held together.

As a student at Columbia, I was grateful for the classes I had with writers I respected, and not just liked, and in awe of the teachers who were able to create these communities, even when things were confusing, unclear, or challenging. As a teacher there, I worked hard at providing the same experience for my students. I read a great, great book and got some great, great training from award-wining teachers and artists that made me better at my job. I learned some hard lessons, and when I screwed up, I sought wisdom, which was abundant, and tried to integrate those lessons. 

The other learning community was at Tejas Yoga.

By the time I got to Tejas, I'd embraced my nature as gregarious, intense and focused. I'd looked a long time for the right place to study yoga. My work as a writer and teacher made me interested in finding a learning community that was both rigorous and supportive. It'll sound pretentious (and maybe it is), but the gift about being exposed to such good teaching is that when you experience bad teaching, you see it right away. I've learned to recognize strong pedagogy. 

I think I knew Tejas was the right place at the end of my first class. At the time, it was a small studio on Wabash just north of Roosevelt, and I'm pretty sure I went one weekday after my afternoon class. Three hours and fifty minutes of reading aloud, sitting in crummy plastic chairs under fluorescent lights and engaging young writers is the perfect motivator for a little breath and movement. The class was 90 minutes of sweat and breath and sequenced postures that made me feel at once wrung out and energized. But the clincher was savasana. Near the end of class time, we lie on our mats in stillness and silence. My body fell deeper and deeper into concentric pools of relaxation. How long are we going to lie here? I wondered, just before I would descend into deeper stillness. After what felt like 30 minutes (but was probably about 10 or so), the teacher, my teacher, invited us to rise to a seat, and taught us a breathing and concentration technique to close the practice.

At the end I'm sure I was smiling. It was the first studio I'd ever been to--easily the first in Chicago--that valued deep rest, breathwork, and concentration as a meaningful part of the practice and not just physical postures. That communicated a lot to me about the integrity of the yoga being taught there by the owners, Jim and James. If I learned nothing else about them, with that first class, I knew, these were guys who knew their stuff. 

I was right. Years of continuing to study with them, and this last year of deep study on the practice and discipline of yoga has taught me so much, but has only scratched the surface of their knowledge.

I felt safe making myself vulnerable, and putting my learning in the hands of such teachers. Equally important to me was the group of colleagues I would work with. I began the training seeking a community, a cadre of people with whom I could talk about yoga things. My Mister, God bless him, is a patient and generous person, but he just doesn't care much about whether a full or new moon affects the physical practice. He just wants me not to get hurt, and not to be too tired to fold the laundry I promised I'd finish. 

What I discovered in the cohort of my fellow trainees-turned-graduates is a group of people in varying levels of practice and stages of life, but all of whom gave themselves to this process, and to this community. We encouraged one another, we challenged each other, we grieved together and we felt for each other. We mattered to each other. We recognized the vulnerability and humanity in each other, and in so doing, we cared for each other and connected around the shared work, the shared hardship, the shared growth. 

I'm (re)learning now that, as far as bona fide teacher training goes, Part One happens when I sit in the seat of Student, and Part Two happens when I sit in the seat of Teacher. That is as it should be. But the community of people around me for Part One gives me the confidence to step, certain and humble, into Part Two. If I ever become a good yoga teacher, it is due to the community of teachers and colleagues who made me one.

ouch

Two weeks before my final exam in my teacher training, I injured myself. In the middle of my home practice, I pushed up into an inversion that I wasn't warm enough to practice, and I dumped weight into a weak part of my back. 

It was a strange feeling: a loud, bright yellow crease in my lower back. If it made a sound it would be a loud, brassy jazz smear. I came out of the posture to my hands and knees, brought my big toes together and sank my hips toward my heels to rest in Child's Pose. 

I heard a teacher once distinguish resistance from pain: resistance challenges you, requires you to deepen your breath to work with it. Pain takes your breath away, she said. On my knees, I tried to inhale, and felt the same loud, bright shriek in my back. Okay, got it. Pain.

If you're anything like me, you hate being in pain. It's exhausting: it takes everything you have just to live a regular life; it's impossible to get comfortable, so your body has trouble relaxing. On top of all this, your ego has a field day. How could you allow this to happen? you say to yourself. You're careful, aren't you? You did everything right; you know better. And yet, here you are, walking like a question mark, trying not to feel stuck in a quagmire of self-pity and still wanting someone, anyone, to feel sorry for you.

I believe our bodies are a microcosm of the macrocosm; I also think our bodies are machines. No matter how thoughtfully, how lovingly you tend to your machine, sometimes it springs a leak or pops a spring. Nothing went wrong: it's just a fact of existing in a body. Blaming yourself for injury just creates an aversion to the experience that compromises healing. 

In the course of this injury, I spent a lot of time really frustrated with my  body for not living up to my expectations. At some point, I remembered that my frustration was a form of abandoning myself. One day at a time, one slow, achy walk to my mat, one frozen bag of peas at a time, I was able to find more compassion for myself. I was able to remember that healing is as human a practice as hurting, that injury is a part of life, and that it's important to deal gently and thoughtfully with myself as I heal.

Injury requires attention. It requires slowness. My teacher often says, "Where your awareness goes, your prana follows." I'd bet that injury is a prana-depleting activity, but healing has to generate some prana, because, man, it requires you to tune in. You have to send all of your energy to that part of you, to breathe, to ease pain, to build strength, to ride out inflammation. In that slowness, you get the chance to really get to know yourself. Rather than splitting, you can tune in and be present, even when it sucks and it's hard to. What a gift that is. How great to be able to practice staying present in the midst of great struggle or loss.

Injury also presents the opportunity to connect more deeply with other limbs of yoga. I'm guilty, like so many others, of indulging in asana at the expense of my pranayama or samyama practices. Struggling to find comfort in my body makes it tough to put myself through too many salutations, or force an extra set of standing postures. I took the opportunity to experiment, to see what kinds of poses and sequences could bring comfort, and more than that, what I could learn from working with my breath, or with mantra. I prioritized the subtle practices over the physical ones. It's left a lasting print on my daily practice. After all, if yoga is the stilling of the fluctuations of the mind, so that my consciousness can abide with the Self, I don't need more Up Dog-Down Dog; I need more quiet.

It might sound woo-woo; it never really feels good in the midst of pain to creep my way to my mat and practice what I could. But every time I made it there, I was grateful that I'd done so.