Asana Surfing

It's Seattle winter now, dark by 4 pm, and rainy.  It seems a funny time to be teaching about riding surfboards, but that's what I did last week.

Wednesday night I taught about getting so soft that the great wave of life can move through you without restriction.  Our exploration for the evening was whether getting softer could actually allow us to become more powerful.  By releasing habitual tautness and rigidity, maybe the fluid power of creation could change us for the better.  I suggested that my students surrender to their own innate spaciousness.  It's like being on a surfboard, being lulled to relaxation by the rhythm of your breath, the waves, the sun. 

As a surfer, if you get still enough, you can sense big waves before you can see them.  Just like in a yoga practice: if you listen with your inner ears, you're going to sense aspects of your own life force that you have been unaware of until now.  Then you sense the movement of the ocean underneath you, and you know that a big wave is near.  You soften to ride it, you turn to face it.

I grew up on the East Coast and we spent summers in the Atlantic Ocean.  Two things you learn quickly: never turn your back on the ocean (pay attention!), and, if a big wave is coming at you, go toward it.  Dive into it.  Meet it. 

As yoga practitioners, we are navigating dynamic and transformative forces.  We are constantly surfing in waves of effort, release, trust, action, patience, fire, physical sensation, thoughts that elevate us or diminish us, images that strengthen us or weaken us.  From the outside, it just looks like another Triangle Pose, but there is a lot going on inside!

There's nothing in the world like catching the wave just right, and flying.  This is why we return to the practice again and again.  The feeling of being in an asana and finding oneself shimmering in the equipoise of softness and power is the alchemical magic of yoga.  We are changed by that, every time.  We glimpse our finest selves.

The Free Yoga Fallacy

For years now I've heard this very commonly held belief expressed in my yoga subculture that goes something like this: Isn't it too bad that we have to charge money for yoga and wouldn't it be great if yoga were free to everyone like it used to be in the ancient days.

How was it really in the ancient days?  You actually had to prove your passion and commitment to study with a particular teacher in very challenging ways.  Maybe no cash ever changed hands, but it was never like the student didn't "pay" or offer something of themselves, even sometimes to the point of cutting off the tip of a finger or an ear to express one's burning zeal to devote oneself to study.  When this point was raised once in a workshop with John Friend, he said, "Compared to offering a part of your body, I don't think asking for 12 bucks is too much!"

Students were expected to clean for the teacher, make food for the teacher, do errands for the teacher, without any promise of being taken on as a student.  Often a student would live with a teacher, like Anusara scholar Douglas Brooks did with his teacher in India, and be expected to be a combination executive assistant and gofer in exchange for teachings.

In the Buddhist tradition, renunciates lived in monasteries, and depended on the communities in which they lived to support them.  Buddhist monks and nuns would regularly walk out into the streets to ask for alms, and it was an accepted practice of those communities that the common people supported the religious life of the monks and nuns.  In fact, to have a monastery in your town gave your town prestige.  In this way, the town "paid for" the religious life of the monastery.  So, when we use the word "dana" in a modern context, which roughly means "pay what you can," we are assuming that the person who is paying takes under consideration that the teacher needs to make a living, and is not under the umbrella of a larger supporting organization, as monks traditionally were.

One of my teachers describes a "spiritual law," which basically states: there is never something for nothing.  (This is very different from the law of attraction currently popular in the land, where you get everything for nothing!)  When you are offered a teaching or a class, there must be an exchange of some kind to create a balance of energetic output on the teacher's part and appreciation for the teacher's many unpaid years of study, practice, dedication and commitment on the student's part. The offering you make to a teacher represents your own commitment.  And, it represents your recognition of how much a yoga teacher gives: it may look like an easy job, but it is daunting to place yourself up in front of a group of people and attempt to offer them physical challenge, emotional balance, heart inspiration, support and much more.  Yoga teachers attempt to teach from their souls, and to give you your soul.

Modern yoga teachers are severely underpaid, most without decent health insurance, many patching together a living with a multitude of part-time jobs, teaching at lots of places all over town or, if they're lucky, they are financially subsidized by a partner.  Or have hugely popular classes.  Let's just assume that pretty much everyone has issues with money, but the only way I see to remedy the plight of the modern yoga teacher is for yoga classes to cost a lot more, say $20 or $25 per class.  Who would pay that?  Would you? 

Of course, not everyone is in a position to pay the asking price for yoga.  At Seattle Yoga Arts, we always work with sincere students whose resources are limited.  I ask them: "Please take an honest look at your finances, consider how important yoga is to you, and make a proposal for what you can afford."  And together we come up with something that will work for both of us. 

Attending your local yoga center a few times a week is not like living in a monastery or devoting yourself to the feet of a spiritual teacher.  Yet I, for one, would love to see yoga teachers rise out of the ghetto of unworthiness that sometimes underlies our reluctance to ask for what our teaching is truly worth.

I Could Have Been a Boy Scout

Below is a piece by guest blogger, Mary Edwards.  Mary had been a long-time student of Seattle Yoga Arts when she had surgery for a rare brain tumor.  She wrote the following piece about yoga during her recovery from surgery.  You can read more of her excellent blog about life with brain tumors at http://cantduckit.blogspot.com/.

Yoga has been one of the constancies on either side of the semi-colon in the sentence that is my life (not like a prison sentence--like nouns and verbs and lots of parentheses). Before brain surgery, I did a sun salutation every morning. Right after surgery, when I was still in the hospital bed, I did hospital bed yoga: any posture or stretch I could think of that I could do lying down was my daily exercise.

Now that I'm home and walking but still uneasy with my balance, I do lying down and sitting up yoga every morning. Mostly, I do a sun salutation minus tree pose (where a person stands like a tree on one leg--the way all trees stand), and minus triangle pose or anything else that might make me fall and bump my head. I've added to the routine some poses that stretch my back and my neck, a kind of rehab yoga.

Not only does the yoga serve to stretch my body and to center me, but it also reminds of the calm within myself, a place that I can access when anxiety--about falling or about being unable to work or about dying--sets in.

I feel lucky to have found such a discipline before my brain tumors. So much was in place for me before brain tumors: a loving partner and family, a variety of experiences in my vocation, a supportive church community, an amazing group of friends, Storm allegiance and other past-times.

Of a paranoid imagination, I have always tried to prepare for hard times. Like the boy scouts, I have pledged to be prepared. Before surgery, I biked all over town, partly because I loved it, and partly because I knew a car battery would die in the event of a nuclear attack (I didn't go so far as to figure out the breathing part of nuclear fallout); I'd work to strengthen my upper body in case one day I couldn't use my legs; I've always saved as much as I can for retirement, in case Social Security runs out (this, I don't think, is paranoid); I hiked up rocky trails with my teeth clenched, so that if I fell I would not bite off my tongue.

I know some Christians talk about preparing for the afterlife, but if nothing's gone really wrong for you yet, I'd suggest you prepare for the unknowns of this life. Yoga's a good place to start, for now and for later.

Mood Morph

Rainy day, gray skies, low mood, laundry, email.  5:00 pm, almost pitch dark outside.  I light four candles, arrange them around my yoga mat.  Sit on my heels.  Wait.  Listen.  Wait.  Listen.  Hear something unspoken: Twist this way, put your right hand on the floor, lean to the left.  This shifts the whole universe.  Something bright flows up my spine, I sigh in relief.

Many more things are possible now, and the guidance comes clearly.  Dog pose, spinal roll-up, standing backbend.  How did I forget how delicious this is, and how fluid?  I follow something that clearly leads, now leg goes back, spine turns up, heart beats faster, the rust moves OUT, the light moves IN, I am danced.

A half hour ago the smallest thing seemed monumental, now I kick up into handstand, stay for an easy minute, float down, some kind of magic taking place in the heat and groove of movement, my spine glows, my heart prances, my muscles twinkle, my mind sings.  A woman, a mat, a rainy Seattle afternoon equals alchemy.  Now I float and float and float in plank pose, collapse on my belly, pant.  Happy.  Transformed.

Savasana.  It's raining hard, the dog is breathing softly, candles cast a gold circle of warm light.  I rise from practice, reorganized, redone, renewed.  Put my hands together, as I always do after a practice: this life ephemeral I clearly know.  For now, I touch my forehead to the floor, and say, "Thank you for this body.  I am grateful to be able to practice today."

My Yoga Heroes

This seems to be my month for witnessing the power of small town teachers in action.  Last week I went over to observe Amy Huggins, an Anusara teacher on Vashon Island, to give her feedback on her teaching.  Vashon is a gorgeous gem of a place, nestled in Puget Sound, and accessible only by ferry.  Amy's class was held at the Vashon Athletic Club, a modest establishment permeated by the not unpleasant scent of chlorine from the pool.  We walked through the weight room, where a few guys were pumping iron, and into a small side room that faced onto the street, with glass windows all around.  People began to gather, and gather, and gather, until the small room was packed mat to mat for Amy's class.  The class leaned toward older women (the largest demographic practicing yoga, by the way), but there were people of all ages.  Amy greeted and laughed with everyone, and the vibe in the room was relaxed and welcoming.

As the class began, the friendliness of the students became apparent.  They would often giggle and joke with each other when Amy announced the next pose, and this was clearly their way of supporting each other through the practice.  Their practice stunned me and brought tears to my eyes.  I've watched many uber capable yogis display their talents, but for some reason, sitting in this humble space, with these older women, and seeing the complete trust they had in Amy, and the way they did their very best with every pose, was one of the most touching things I've ever witnessed in a yoga class.

Quite a few of the students had challenging physical issues.  But they TRIED...they tried everything.  They were good-natured about their weaknesses.  They were heroes, facing their own limitations with grace and humor, and also amazing me with what they COULD do.

At the end of the class, one woman said, "Can I say something to Denise?" and Amy said of course.  This woman told me all the things she loved about Amy's teaching: she addresses everyone by name, she teaches a practice that is both challenging and accessible, she inspires us, she creates a space where everyone feels welcome and safe.

One woman, with ephysema, put her breathing apparatus back on, and walked, glowing, out into the drizzly day.

The Power of Humility

Small studio and rural teachers are the lifeblood and the true heart of American yoga.  They are unsung.  They are humble.  Their classes are small.  Their students are not glamorous.  Yet on a weekly basis, they profoundly touch the souls of so many fortunate yogins who are guided by their devotion and humility.

I'm here in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho with Karen Sprute Francovich, who owns Garden Street Yoga.  She is one of those teachers who is like a giant beating heart for her community.  We've been friends for years but I've never taken her class, and I had that good fortune last night.  Never heard of her?  That's because she has a rare quality that is in short supply these days - humility.  She's rarely on Facebook, there aren't even any photos of her on her website, she lists herself at the end of her roster of teachers, she dresses with loveliness and modesty.  She has a beautiful quality of containment that does not veer into any apparent sense of unworthiness.

She is a power, the power of dedicated study and a lifetime's devotion to a path of evolution.  

Karen started her class with a big smile on her face, and a brief exposition of the Tantric viewpoint that we are all made of condensed light.  She described the light in its innate free state like a vast blanket made of light, also known as bliss, and said that we are like crimps or bumps in the blanket that become condensed into being.  She told us that class would be about feeling the places in our bodies that were especially condensed, and to see if we could allow them to soften, so that the bliss there could be released and felt.

Karen's class moved slowly, but deeply.  Slow deep burn.  Slow deep guidance, completely held by her words and presence.  "Anything will melt if you give it enough attention and love," she said.  When we were in a deep hip opening pose, she said, "Feel the edge with compassion, and see if you can melt some of the condensed bliss in there."  At one point, we were in a deep pose, and she gave the option to go deeper.  "But if you go deeper, can you still melt?  Know yourself."  Then she paused a long time.  "And know whether you should go deeper."  "Know yourself" is a profound suggestion in a yoga class, and we were given the time and space to practice it.  She gave us long stretches of silence.  She demonstrated a complex arm balance (Astavakrasana) and said, "Isn't this what your life feels like sometimes?  Too many things going in all directions?"

Her teaching is about leading her students to themselves, not about convincing them of something that she thinks is true.  And that takes the mature restraint to abstain from constantly putting your own agenda forward.

Mountains of gratitude to Karen and all the teachers like her, who make the sacrifice to stay with their communities through all their growth pains, contractions, and expansions.  Their generous lives uplift the consciousness of our world yoga community.

I Heart the Teacher Trainees

  It's getting late and I should be thinking about bed, but instead I'm thinking about the upcoming Teacher Training this weekend.  Rainey and I are 3/4 of the way through a year of intensive work/play/investigation with a stellar group of people.  Some of them want to become yoga teachers, some of them already are yoga teachers, and some of them couldn't care less about teaching yoga.  But the dedication they all bring to this process is astounding.  Month after month they show up with their bright minds, intelligent bodies, and unique views and we investigate the whole spectrum of a life of yoga.  Rainey and I have a big interest in teaching philosophy, so we look at a text every month.  This weekend it will be the Vijnanabhairava Tantra, a stunning offering from the Tantric tradition that articulates 112 different ways to anchor the mind.  For example: "When one meditates on one's own self in the form of unlimited space in all directions, the mind is suspended and Consciousness is revealed as the form of one's own self."

  I love and adore all the teaching I do, but I especially love teaching the Immersions and Teacher Trainings because we can have a conversation about so many aspects of yoga.  It is not just me doing the talking, and it's not just about asana.  I often visualize us all sitting in a forest under a tree in ancient times, tossing back and forth these heady ideas about being, consciousness, and freedom.  What I love is when we get on a roll of creative investigation into some idea and come up with some unique ways of looking at things that none of us could have discovered alone.  That is one of the many gifts of group learning. 

  Another inspiring thing about the teacher trainees is their courage in teaching practice.  Imagine standing up in front of a group of your peers, people who know all the yoga teaching tricks, in a situation where you are told what poses to teach and in what order, and usually with a few small teaching groups going on in the same room.  So it's noisy, distracting, and you're on the spot.  And these amazing people just keep rising to it again and again.  They are having the courage to make mistakes, look unskillful, and forget where they were going.  And that is inspiring, to say the least!  The willingness to take the seat of the student, even when many of these folks are experts in their own fields, shows a lot of humility and wisdom.  And I bow to that, and feel humbled myself by their attention and respect.

  By the time we're done in December, we will have spent over 200 hours together.  Friendships will have been formed that will last a lifetime.  Bodies will have changed, deep understandings will have gelled, and many of these folks will have discovered a life path that will change them forever.

  So, I can't wait to get with these dear souls this weekend, and hear what they have to say about meditating on the void, contemplating consciousness, and becoming one with the Supreme.  Just some light topics for a rainy Seattle weekend.

 

Wild Thing

Her heart was hurting,
And so was mine.
A pup who had been chained outdoors,
A woman in the midst of divorce.

We met at a shelter, concrete floors,
chain link walls.  She was quiet,
But observant.  Hopeless on a leash.
Hungry for freedom, and squirrels, and wanting
Nothing more than to be wild.

I needed comfort, affection, companionship,
She hungered to hunt and kill.
Not the best match,
Yet we found home in each other.

She was spring-loaded, so
Vibrant with life it blazed out of her.
She soared, she bounced, she boinged.
She made me laugh.

She had opinions,
Owned the neighborhood, was loyal to me unto death,
Literally.
Her great yearning heart
Cracked mine back into life.
She flew on ocean beaches, she treed cats,
She slept back to back with me,
Clambered over boulders and rocks,
Never turned away from a challenge.

Why the Great Source gives us these hearts
That can love so deep,
And a reality that includes separation
From what we love,
Is too philosophical for me right now.

What is real today
Is the great weighty presence of her absence,
Her dignity, her silliness, her insistence
On living her life in wild spirit.




(In loving memory of Denise's dog Tori, aka Tori Amos, Tora Bora, Torista, The Tormeister, who passed 9/30/10)

(Photo: Deena Hofstad; Poem: Denise Benitez)

Music and Yoga

  This past Sunday morning, in my 9:00 am yoga class, which I have probably taught for nigh onto 20 years now, my students willingly and even cheerfully did 58 sun salutations with me, one for every year of my life.  I made a mix tape that included music from each decade, influenced heavily by my East Coast soul upbringing.  'Clean Up Woman' by Betty Wright.  'Tighten Up' by Archie Bell and the Drells.  ("We not only sing, but we dance as good as we want!")  I asked my mom what her favorite song was when she was pregnant with me, and she said, "Oh, your father and I had a song that was 'our song.'  It was 'You Belong to Me' by Patti Page."  And so that was the first song I played.  Not your typical music for yoga practice.

  I'm not usually a fan of music for yoga, but today was an exception.  The music did make the 58 Surya Namaskars fly by, and singing along with the Mamas and the Papas as an entire class gave me goosebumps.  We even did the Electric Slide-asana to "Good Times" by Le Chic!  I'm grateful to my students who indulged me today so gracefully and celebrated freely with me.

  Yet I did notice the slightly maniac way the practice affected me, what with all the flying sun salutations, me shouting over the music like an aerobics instructor, and the music constantly evoking emotion, memory, and body sensation.  Which is of course what I LOVE about music.  And why I don't play it for yoga practice or teaching.  Even though today was joyful, I am aiming to get at a place that is even juicier than joyful in my yoga and meditation practices.  Music, for me, is a stream of personalized associations which are mostly intensely pleasurable, some achingly melancholy, some blindingly painful.  The music often takes me somewhere against my will.  

  Where I am moving toward in my yoga practice is a deep listening.  It's hard for me to listen to the subtle song inside with all the discursive mental reaction to the music and/or lyrics I am hearing.  I noticed that I didn't feel the usual deep quiet that I feel after a yoga class, the satisfaction that I have come to take almost for granted as an after-effect of my practice.
  Don't get me wrong: I adore music.  I love to dance, often with my headphones on and something like "Disturbia" filling my head and body with a primal instinct to move that cannot be denied.  It is divine to be pulled along like that into a stream of such aliveness and joy.
  Yet the yoga space doesn't include music.  For me.  I am a lover of silence, as well as music.  And yoga is the work where I adore the open ended, sometimes even scarily wide open field of silence.  That is where the big transformations happen, that is where I am truly listening so closely, with such devotion and passion, that the subtle dance I need to dance with that silence presents itself, blessedly.
  And there is nothing on earth like that dance.