Smells Like Spring Spirit

Due to the cold, damp qualities of Boston weather when it’s cold but not freezing, you might expect an increase in your earth and water elements (AKA Kapha dosha). In our part of the world, spring is no time for an over-indulgence of the two biggest Kapha aggravators: wheat and dairy. I have had a few allergy-sufferers complete a spring cleanse with me and have no allergies that year! Even a small reduction in these two food items until May/June can make a difference. Its about the awareness, remember, not the “rules.” To get you started, at the right, you will find a recipe for breakfast cereal that is perfect for cold, damp mornings, as well as a new noodle soup (say it 5 times fast) I piloted with Cara Brostrom on our recent"food and photo" day.  Recipe in the last post.

Eat good at home.
Well, I have started cranking out some new spring recipes. You should know my kitchen now is composed of a mini-fridge, and plug-in, double burner, hot plate. I am reaching new heights in minimalist cooking. Simple preparation, simple manifestation. The aware eater will notice quickly that outside food doesn't feel as good in the gut as home food. So get cookin- and keep it simple.

We Americans are really hooked on our sweet breakfasts. The Thai, however, know how to start off on the light foot:




New Noodle Soup
Boil 2 cups water and add coarsely chopped carrot, daikon radish, mustard greens, spring onion, and/or bok choy. Add 1-2 tsp fresh grated ginger, or ½-1 tsp ginger powder and a shake of pepper. Boil until al dente. Add rice noodles or Kelp noodles (Whole Foods in the asian section) for the last minute. Squeeze lime to taste, tamari or Braggs liquid aminos to taste, and a hint of agave. Eat when noodles become soft- don’t overcook them. For variety, you can add 1/3 can of light coconut milk per serving. I like to double fist it, big spoon in one hand and chopsticks in the other. Dribbling, broth flying--Yes! Don’t forget your bib.

April. Circle in the Square. Beantown USA.

IT would seem I am destined to travel and inhabit small rooms.  I am so good at it.  I find myself back in boston renting a 190 square foot studio which, interestingly, is very much like my place in Mysore- minus the rat and smelly sink.  I have traded those for the sounds of the highway. When people ask how I am doing, I hear myself say “I’d rather be in India”.  A friend recently pointed out that I didn’t have to work there.  Good point. 

Somehow I am so very skilled at creating my own routines, and don’t really need the structure of a job.  I am also very skilled at negotiating space and minimalist lifestyle, which made the task of transforming this room into an apt/office/yoga room kind of fun.  The key, I can tell you, is the lack of furniture. 

Im having a hard time stepping out of the subtle plane.  I find myself spacing out, almost on purpose, as if it’s a way of life to be half-here.  Oh, but I’m more here than ever before.  I am altered, certainly, and I have the hang ups, still.  The change may be this:  I know there’s a whole nother thing going on all the time, right here.  All I have to do is tune in to the field of it.  That rocks.  I can almost feel it in my body without even trying so hard.  It’s like a tinkling, sparkling that works its way up into my chest.  On the runway in Chennai, I closed my eyes to say good-bye to India and that was when I first felt it.  I knew it was cellular, the change.  And that its not going anywhere, and that I am carrying something of India with me, and this is special.

            When I got back to the city I realized I feel more at home over there than I do here.  I welcome this.  Except for that feeling that I am a piece in one of those wooden kid’s toys with the cut outs in the shapes of circle, square, and triangle.  You take the wooden cylinders cut into the same shape and insert in the hole.  If you try the wrong shape, or the wrong hole, you could sit there all day shoving and feel quite frustrated.  Hmm, that’s me coming home this time.  Circle in the square.

Feb 27- Things that are Grossing Me Out Right Now

My sink that doesn’t drain well, so there is always a quarter inch of wet stuff. It also doesn’t have a U-shaped drain underneath, and Im on the top floor so my little studio regularly gets the off-gas from the building drainage. Which, in India, is a lot. My first few nights, the stench actually woke me in the night. And now, like everything, Im used to it.

My consistently dirty fingernails. Black feet.

Tea-stained teeth.

Fermented foods. The kind that are fermented on purpose before eating.

Feeling full of poop.

Pimples.

The hotter it gets, the shorter gets the fuse. Something disgusting could just make me want to KICK SOME ASS. I don’t care whose! Interesting how in the states my reaction would be to flee, and here it is to fight. Is it the weather? Survival instincts?

Do I smell and I’ve become used to this as well? Everything smells like Indian food, and I’m sure that includes my armpits.

Rat turds.

Did I mention, speaking of gross, the day after writing a post where I used the Mouse-Death-Behind-Refridgerator in jest, what did I find? Huh? A live one. Rat-friend woke me in the night rustling through my TRASH. I turned on the light and saw its tail sticking out of the trash bin. Threw a metal plate over it. Rat ran, don’t know where.

3AM: After trying to sleep through the rustling, we find Kate, yoga enthusiast, standing on her metal trunk with Indian broom in hand (the kind that fall apart as you use them). Should the rat run across the floor she will be spared the embarrassing, but inevitable scream were it to cross her feet. Should this be a rat riddled with contagion, this is also best. Luckily, Kate helped Peter from Istanbul oust a rat 2 yrs ago from this very flat, and she KNOWS WHERE IT HANGS OUT. There is a bin thingy behind the fridge, in the inner workings of it. The rat waits there.

Déjà vu, I swear it’s the same rat. Beady eye staring out at me from the tray thingy. Oooh, them’s a fightin glance. I ain’t scared. I take all clothing items off the floor, scattering rat turds. I arrange the trunk to catch the rat and send it towards the open door (Peter’s idea). Trash can outside. All shoes cleared from doorway. I poke the broom at the tray with gusto and the rat scrambles!!! Where??? Shit. Like a flash of lightning, gone to its next hiding place.

3:30AM: We can still find Kate searching the crannies of the room, broom in hand. Standing on trunk. Hmm. Sweeping up turds and removing from the room by sliding them onto a piece of paper and shaking off the rooftop (the lack of dust pans here is maddening). A sprinkle of Lysol and a wet rag. Antiseptic handwash.

She gets back in the bed, sure to hear the rustling from behind the fridge. But miracle, she falls asleep and the rat (bless its beady eyes) hasn’t been back.

7:30AM Nice yoga practice.

Add THAT to your yoga vacation blog!

Feb 25- Video Footage of the Goddess is Prohibited

Hiked up Chamundi Hill, 1000 steps to the goddess temple, holding up the saree. Chamundi is another name for Durga, which is another name for Parvati, Shiva’s partner. Durga is the destroyer of demons and rides a tiger, carrying many swords in her many arms. Going to the temple without Robert Moses, especially bringing a few others who haven’t been to temple before, felt like a rite of passage. I knew on this Yatra I had passed into a new relationship with temple-going, and Hindu worship, and yesterday I could feel it.

There is a certain brightness in the eyes that comes after darshan (making eye contact with the image of the goddess at temple). It reminds me of how my eyes feel after I’ve had caffeine or sugar. The energy and excitement of the local people crowding around to catch a glimpse, to make their prayers and offerings, is becoming contagious for me now, after all theses years. It used to be that I was so concerned with feeling out of place that I was too distracted to think of something like God. Over this decade of travel here, and especially twice with Namarupa Yatra, I am finding something meaningful in the act of darshan, something that transforms. I use a mantra as I wait in the line, inside the metal gates that route us along and towards the inner sanctum, just like the gates that wind us along at amusement parks, waiting for our chance to hop on a popular roller coaster. The mantra keeps me focused if I am pushed or crushed, stared at.

The Indian people must be wondering what boons I get from being among their Gods and Goddesses. I assume they must feel quite proud to see westerners who travel so far to touch their Gods. I remember this, reminding myself I am a welcome child of the universe, even here among so much that is foreign. The mantra cuts through the same broken record that has played for ten years as I go to temples. Cuts right through to the heart of it: this is about my Self, God (something more powerful than me), and all the other humans seeking the same thing in this smelly, damp line up.

It’s a metaphor for life, surely. All of us in it together, forgetting we are in it together. It’s impossible in India to forget we are in it together! The consciousness here is collective, personal space must include a general orbit of other people’s heat, smells, sounds, and intentions. When we come together at temple, the intention is same: to catch sight of the Gods and receive their blessing. Our bodies are crushed together and hurried along. One must reach through a matrix of other arms to touch the sacred flame for Aarti. One must crane the neck and lean in over the railing, arching for even a momentary connection with the eyes of that stone or brass statue. There is no quiet, penetrating gaze. It’s a momentary blast, a shot to the heart and –oh! Someone is pushing me along from behind, the priest is waving me along. Put a few rupees on the platter, remember the mantra, move along and only feel what has just transpired.

It is, like so many things here, about the surrender.

Feb 16, A Day in the Life

5AM wake up and head to the shala, listen to Lalita Sahasranama on Ipod. Tired feelings, unable to sleep due to afore mentioned ear-trauma.

7:30 home finished, take rest on floor and pass out for one hr.

Sightings: the usual crows and one falcon on the rooftop. Chipmunks in the coconut palms.

9:30 Soak yoga clothes soak in plastic wash bucket, head to Drs Corner for Chai.

Sightings: Yoga students trash bag ravaged by local dog. Ladies sanitary products on street. Japanese ladies buying papayas. Ganesh buying veggies for his wife’s cooking class. We discuss seeing eachother tonight at Kirtan. He plays Tabla. The chai man is painting the roof of the stall red. He is quite happy when I say, “Red color! Nice.”

“Red color,” he says with a huge smile and points up. He makes best chai and begs me to pay with small change. You know this, anywhere in India, small change is always at a premium. The westerner who pays for chai with a 500rs note should just stay home.

Purchases on the corner this morning:

o One small notebook for Sanskrit homework. I have been using my journal, which should I leave it somewhere could prove embarrassing.

o Unhomogenized regular milk in a 500ml plastic bag (Regular milk is 3% fat and not homogenized unless you buy that kind which tastes like crap and turns to toxicity inside us. One can request, and I do this for occasions: Special More Fat Milk at 4.5% fattyness. At home I believe whole milk is 5% right? So what pray-tell happened to that o.5%? Stuck to the side of the bag? Skimmed off the top for the Gods, more likely. And when the Gods are done receiving the subtle essence of the offering, of course one can drink this. They don’t sell cream or half-and-half. It wouldn’t be right anyways as the tea and coffee are made with grounds boiled in pure milk. It’s always a latte in India!! Hooray!

o One papaya “for today” which means ripe. One kilo chickoos my absolute favorite fruit (aka sapote, it grew on Maui). Two daikon radish.

10:00 Cara B declines my chai invite. Here is our text dialogue:

“Chai. Chai. Chai. Drs Corner.

Toast. Toast. Toast. At Santosha, taste of home.

You are only here one month. You are not eligible for toast. Meet me tonight at the shala 5 regular time.”

10:15 Rinse and hang the yoga clothes on the rooftop line. The cool part of the day is finished.

Sightings: Girl orphans across the way sweeping the street. What are the boys doing? They’d better be doing chores.

Vegetable cart man pushing up the hill while calling out his wares. Cilantro, tomato, onions.

10:30 Blog with you all until my chai wears off and I let the day unfold. Planning a trip to “Stand Up.” Stand Up is a restaurant called Sri Durga Bhavan which is wonderfully famous with locals and students alike. There are a few high top tables where we all crowd around with our metal plates and eat standing up. Very unlady like. This is my first trip where I go unaccompanied. I am finally getting and accepting that western women are no longer expected to cleave to certain local customs. They don’t mind me at the stand up, and they don’t leer. They just watch me eat my idly and check out if I have nice shoes and gold. I have a modest amount of gold, you’ve seen it on my face and ears in Boston. My shoes are local plastic flip-flops, bright blue with pink flowers. Nothing to see here. I take Idly Sambhar, two steamed rice cakes floating in spicy tomato soup.

Toast- humph. Taste of home after 2 weeks? Those girls are going to get a dinner to remember tonight.

3:30 Sanskrit, Bhagavad Gita, and Hatha Yoga Pradipika class.

5:00 I will take team Boston to the Greenleaf for Neer Dosa, which is only served on Fridays. Dahi Puri which is only served after 5. And a number of other local chats. Perhaps you can read about this part of today’s Mysore Life in Cara’s food blog.

6:00 Go say good-bye to George, Jean and their daughter Isabel who are quite gladly heading home to Ashtanga Boston in Cambridge after a long 4 months here.

6:30 Kirtan on the rooftop a block over with Annie Pace.

Feb 15 On Freedom, Beauty, and the Mouse-Death Smell

You know, sometimes I contemplate these posts and it sounds like ooh and aah over the yoga glories. Days go by and we talk about, read about, and write about, and wait for the next…Yoga.

So, I’ll tell you a secret of mine. I can’t believe I’m disclosing this, what is so sacred. I do hope somehow in the sharing we both, yous and I, are enriched.

In the past year I realized I don’t need to do the asana anymore. It was an accident, this realization. Circumstances conspired to keep me out of the yoga for a 6 week period. The first 2 weeks were excruciating. Then I just let it all go, the only way to heal this injury (which was not yoga related, FYI) is to let it heal and do a little physical therapy. I ended up enjoying all the free time I had without doing practice, and the rolling around the floor that constituted my therapeutic scheme. And after 6 weeks, I took practice again. Somehow in that first month of taking differing amounts of practice as I felt out what was appropriate, I realized a freedom I hadn’t known for 12 years.

Asana is a choice, not a necessity.

Now, this assumes that I am not adding much stress to my body that needs to be removed by yoga. Diet and lifestyle must be quite advanced along the yoga ladder for asana not to be important. But what I realized was this:

The Yoga is in me. Deep in my tissues, lodged there like seeds under snow. This body is so trained in the practice now, a consistent, systematic practice that taught my body’s systems how to function in effective ways. It’s like learning a language, surely some review is needed from time to time to keep the chops on, but its right there just waiting to speak again.

The other aspects of Yoga become more important, and should take precedence. It no longer feels appropriate to pig out on asana when energy is needed in other places. Like facing some old conflict, helping others learn this yoga system, or manifesting that elusive quality which I believe should be a hallmark of any yoga teacher- peaceful. Whatever it takes to keep this quality coming is the priority these days.

But I will say this- asana is still my favorite part. Why? Not for the progress of it as much anymore, not only for the ways it transforms me, but for the beauty of it. Moving and breathing is downright gorgeous. For the comfort of it, to be moving my healthy body through a dance it has been making so many years, like a marriage. I like to wear red and hot pink while I practice. I like to be in a very still environment. Everything around begins to whisper of the spirit of Prana. The air is filled with tiny birds and pockets of light. Everything smells like life. There is nothing interesting to LOOK AT. The eyes recede, the ears are listening from the inside. Quiet quiet and nothing matters. God is here.

. . .

Well, that ended up another I love yoga its so special post. I just can’t help myself. Let me just remind though, I still tend to pig out on asana, there is a lot of nutrition there. The transformation coming is no joke, and the work of it is not gorgeous most of the time. Its smelly, achey, and damp. Like digging down dirty to put the foundation before the nice white house goes up.

If you could have seen and smelled the alien that was flushed from my ear after 3 days pain this morning you would wonder who that was talking about birds and pockets of light. I’ll spare you the description but it was surely a mammoth ball of wax (right? Gulp. Dude it smelled like mouse-death-behind-refridgerator.) Certainly some channel is opening there and it’s not fun or pretty. I’m just glad there’s some container to be working in here, and others going through their own alien births. And foremost, a teacher to hold it together.

Ciao for now, and after fevers and mouse-death smell, I am, as much as the next, wondering what tomorrow will bring here at Camp Mysore.