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This morning, when I accompanied our new pup Rocky on his morning constitutional in the backyard, I noticed a newly intensified chorus of bird song from every direction.  They are advertising their genetic wares, claiming their territory, and preening for mating season.   I stood on the wet morning grass and allowed myself to be immersed in the cacophany of life trilling itself out from everywhere.

The thing I realized, though, was that my attention could not stay with bird song for very long, even though there was stunning beauty happening so forcefully and musically.  It was a sunny morning after weeks of dark rain, the birds were prolific in their cheeps, peeps, squeaks, and caws, yet there was a mysterious thickness between me and just listening, an impatience to get moving into something that must be important, although I couldn't really think of what it was.

Lately I've been experimenting with catching the subtleties of mental contraction as they begin to occur, and today I was gifted with the enchantment (and I literally mean enchantment -- what can be more other-worldly than how life funnels itself so enthusiastically through the tiny throats of birds, giving us constant ear blessings, if we will only listen) of that avian opera in my own yard, and I was having trouble softening myself and my agenda for the day, and my routinized misgivings, self-concerns, and underground rumblings of fears, to the simple beauty of that song, even for five minutes.

But here's the good news: I noticed I was standing in the blazing sunlight of aliveness, with the outrageousness of life flinging itself into the atmosphere around me, and I was a fretting little knot of mental tightness, rehearsing its varieties of concerns and possibilities.  This may not sound like much, that I noticed this, but it is!  Life was fluid and generous, little me was tight and contained.

It's like when I'm doing yoga, and I'm actually happy when I find a place in my body that is weak or tight, because I think: now this is something I can investigate, and transform.  So, I found, or re-found, for the umpteenth time in my life, my tight little mental corner of the Universe, and I thought: now this is something I can investigate and transform.

So tomorrow morning I'll be out there again, this time with more intention.  I'm not gonna try to do the Olympics of listening to bird song, I'll just see if I can close my eyes and take a good listen or two, with full heart and fluid mind.  That will be my first yoga practice of the day.

Happy Happy Joy Joy?

SYA Teacher Meg

Anusara yoga has a reputation for being "Happy Yoga" because of its foundation in a Tantric philosophy of intrinsic goodness.  Maybe this idea will go down more easily if we think of it as beingness rather than goodness; intrinsic beingness that is neither good nor bad, it just is.  But we have to call it something in order to talk about it, and goodness is a good ole word that you wouldn't think would offend anyone.  And it is the closest everyday word to describing what the Tantrics were trying to express.  You could also use more technical Sanskrit words like ananda (bliss), anuttara (beyond which there is nothing), amrita (mystical bliss), jyoti (light) and so forth. 

SYA Teacher Rebecca

Most of us don't go around in states of perpetual bliss, and I always assume that at least half of the students in any class I teach are dealing with something in their lives that is really challenging.  Sometimes I am one of those people who is in a place of struggle.  So I know I can't hit them over the head with goodness and bliss, or they will tune me completely out.   Students have such strong radar for when you are not authentic as a teacher!  Yet I don't want to leave them behind; I want to welcome them into the yoga fold and offer them some small space in the difficulty, a little lifting of the veil, a remembrance of what is possible.  

SYA Teacher Beth

Here's how people often describe an Anusara class: welcoming, warm, inspiring, joyful.  They also say we Anusara teachers talk wa-a-a-y too much, and yeah, we can get going.  Like: "Draw the powerful energy of the earth up through your legs, so that your belly becomes radiantly alive, your tailbone roots back down into the great mother, causing your heart to lift to the endless sky of consciousness, and the cathedral of the roof of your mouth opens like the vast blue sky, lifting your spirits into the great Goddess source and creating a feeling of supreme bliss."  That IS a bit much, I admit.  But we're attempting to midwife the expansion of the human soul, not just be a hamstring lengthening technician or an ab building coach, although, since we're in human form, that's in the mix too.

SYA Teacher Grace

You can't imagine how much dedication, training, and skill it takes to teach Anusara yoga (read Anusara teacher Emma Magenta's blog on teaching with a theme to get an idea of this).  In our Teacher Trainings we tell our students that Anusara yoga is the hardest yoga to teach - you're not just giving placement instructions, you're inviting the student's heart into radical expansion, while articulating very refined and elegant physical instructions, offering personal manual and verbal adjustments, uplifting the vibe of the whole class, and trying not to talk TOO much!  That's a lot of balls to be juggling all at once.

I'd rather take the risk of being a bit too sappy than live in a safe little bubble of cynicism.  At least we're TRYING to articulate something that is uplifting, as opposed to the great tide of negativity, violence and despair that suffuses the world media.  We Anusarians are kinda innocent and hopeful that way.  That's one reason why I adore this community SO much. 

I Have a Yoga Dream

(With a deep bow to Martin Luther King)

I have a yoga dream that is deeply rooted in the yoga tradition,

That all yogis will become ambassadors of sanity and clarity.

That they will actually live the profound words they say so freely,

That they will do the inner work that it takes to become vehicles of light and inspiration.

I have a yoga dream that all yogis will wholeheartedly commit to the practice of meditation,

And teach it to their children, and, like a great wave, the wisdom of deep insight,

Will wash this planet free of war, suffering, greed, and ignorance, and forevermore,

We will see only the light in each other.

I have a yoga dream that the yoga communities of all traditions combine to show the world

A way to live that honors all varieties of practice, how each uplifts the human spirit, and

That we, as yoga practitioners, become models of a radical shift in kindness, cooperation, and inspiration.

I have a yoga dream that one day everyone on the planet will have a practice,

That will connect them on a daily basis with the One Heart we all share,

That this practice will convince every human alive that their bodies are sacred,

Beautiful, and extraordinary, that their minds are the result of eons of evolutionary effort,
Which has resulted in the opportunity for unlimited intelligence, creativity, and delight.

I have a yoga dream that, through our collective investigation of this miracle of existence,

We find freedom from smallness, bitterness, weakness, cruelty, thinking so little of ourselves,

And that from this inner stance of the great unbounded freedom of each individual soul,

We all abide at last and eternally in everyday ecstasy and wild delight.

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."