Jan 23. Why Paining?

            Namarupa Yatris Bobbie Jo and Steve’s postings on injuries, (www.theconfluencecountdown.com) including the words of a few old-timers, has got me thinking.  As a full-time Mysore teacher, I am no stranger to pain.  The practice first teaches how to move with integrity, to avoid pain, and then one needs to learn how to learn to move others with that same consciousness, again to avoid pain.  If the mind steps out of line while I am adjusting, as it often does, pain will be there.  Pain reminds me: Kate, you are missing the point.

Teaching aside, here in Mysore, on my first week of full practice at 4AM, I’ve been meditating on pain anyhow.  As you might imagine.

Its not like I’m getting adjustments.  So, I am seeing the main difference here is the quality of my effort.

Whenever I am wondering about the yoga, I take it back to what I have learned from the sutras.  Two points come to mind:

* Practice requires a long time, and consistent effort. 

* Future suffering can be avoided.

My last post mentioned the realization: I am wise enough now to moderate the quality of my efforts.  Effort must be consistent, sustainable.  After 15 years, and seeing postures come and go, and come again- for myself and others- I take it all in stride.  The performance of a posture, well it’s a real treat.  But the proof of the pudding is this:  what is the benefit?

Kate’s Misplaced Effort Indicators:

*thinking about what the posture looks like on the outside

*allowing mulabandha to flap in the breeze in order to make some shape happen

*worrying that I “won’t be able to do it”

DO WHAT, DUDE?  That is the question this week.  Why paining?  For what benefit?  I get pain when I work too hard.  Simple. 

It’s so easy to do here, with the full power vibes of the room.  If I can see the striving before it starts, I can pause and ask:  What is the intention of the present effort?  Isn’t yoga supposed to bring us to the now?  If Ipay attention, and notice the 3 points listed above, I am likely to avoid future suffering.

I’d like to quote what Nancy Gilgoff always answers when asked about whether Ashtanga hurts people: “It’s not the practice, it’s the practitioner.”

Thus far, I have noticed in myself and in many students, that incorrect effort is a result of this weird (cultural) feeling that “I am not OK as I am.  I must bust my ass to be better.”  Ashtanga, coupled with this attitude, will break us.  Seasoned practitioners of Ashtanga, as I see it, have come to know a rare sense of humility, and contentment.  Awake students will gravitate towards these old-timers.  Working to the point of injury is not the point, and yet has one benefit: injury breaks the pattern.  Be it Karmic, physical, or mental  (one might argue these 3 beget each other), the systematic nature of the practice will change the pattern. 

New mind is making.

Jan 21. No Fear No Fun.

Sweating it out in a full conference at the shala yesterday.  300 people heat it up pretty quick.  But it worth it to hear Sharath say: If there is no fear, there is no fun.  Of course, that’s why those of us who are drawn to this practice go through all the craziness of waking up at odd hours and doing physical work that pushes us to the brink.  Its fun!  It’s a rush! It builds Prana!

Which is why we need to work the adrenal energy carefully, take rest at the appropriate times, and not run around like crazy all day afterwards.  At conference, Sharath had us all do a few rounds of Nadi Shodhana together (which sounded like a whole lot of congestion with 300 people who aren’t used to the dust and diesel here- hear the wheeze of enthusiastic beginners recovering from head cold).  This practice, he told, is safe for all to do after Padmasana, and before rest. We also clarified that we don’t take Savasana, which means corpse pose, but Sukhasana which means happy pose. I always just called it Rest to avoid this dilemma.

I did it today, something I used to do all the time before I was teaching directly after practice.  The practice was grounding and nice-feeling.  It truly is a great way to settle the energies, and harness some of that Prana, let it sink in.  Jumping up after a few minutes and starting the day is not a wise way to follow the practice, I’d say.  So then I went home quietly and laid down, one of the many joys of yogacation.

Note: I work much more in the practice here because I don’t have to run around after.  This is why we all come here.  It’s a great opportunity and if I have realized one thing so far on this trip, it is that I am wise enough now to moderate the quality of my effort.  I caught myself trying too hard today, and came right off that trip.  I was not that smart a few years ago.

Jan 14. Hot Babes in Yoga Tights.

My path becomes more moderate every year now.  Though I have been traveling to India almost annually for 15 years now, I never had a Guru experience, lived in an ashram, or subscribed to any specific spiritual pathway.  Robert likes to tell the Swamis:  Kate’s father was a priest and her mother was a nun.  I’m Irish, what can I say?  My parents, whom I respect more than any other, did their time in an organized, group-minded spiritual community.  This resulted in their children, myself and elder brother, to be raised NOT to repeat this experience.  At age 19, when I first landed in a nunnery, a Buddhist village in France, I cried and cried.  If I meant it, meant it at all, this god-questing I had known since age 13, I would stay here and be a Buddhist nun. 

Only I didn’t want to.  I was just starting college, just finding my way through the free-wheeling land of American hippies in the 90s.  We took hand drums into the woods, rolled joints, rolled kegs of beer to bonfires, and sang bhajans.  It required a lot less discipline than ashram life.  I’ve always been attached to making my own schedule.

Soon after the nunnery, I found this yoga path.  A proscribed sequence of asanas that I could sink my teeth into.  The need for a teacher to take me further into the practice brought me back to India, and here I am.  Again and again.  I’ve never questioned that the yoga tradition is a path to god.  One that’s got plenty of texts to explain different ways of getting there, and plenty of practices to change the state of my present experience.  Though I didn’t really know why I was it doing for so many years, I knew I was deeply interested.  It has become downright meaningful, I’ll tell you that.  Anything repeated daily with intention for so many years will take on meaning.  Yet somehow, this yoga path gives me a firm container to work in, while allowing me to make all my own choices and support the discipline in my own way. 

Problem: the yoga scene is getting more and more booby traps all the time.  Mysore presently affords us all of the usual sex, drugs, alcohol, pricey hair products and bad foods one could ask for.  The world of sense-gratification still requires effort and one must keep the mind focused on the goal.  I’m not sure a lot of us here know what the goal is.  Looking back, I sure didn’t in the beginning.  It would seem this is what Sharath keeps reminding us by harping on the Yamas and Niyamas at conference, on duty and the importance of family life.  I feel like he really just wants us to behave ourselves and be gentle people.  The most rudimentary, and yet the most challenging.  If we all just accepted this humble goal, things would be a lot less confusing.  Not only in the Mysore scene, but all over.  Let’s behave ourselves and be good people.  Doesn’t that sound glamorous?  Wouldn’t we rather be hot babes in yoga tights doing advanced shit?

The more years go by, and I find myself coming here again- every time same but different- and seeking the company of ones like my parents and Robert Moses, I am humbled.  It’s the simple stuff that requires the most mental effort.  Somehow I ended up a hot babe in yoga tights by default.  That happens to all the ashtangis.

Jan 13. Life After Yatra.

We crossed parts of South India in 2, 12-passenger vans.  Ken played his harmonium in the backseat, I slept with my head bobbing, mouth open, Robert told stories about his Guru, his travels in India, meetings with holy men and posers alike over the last 40 years.  It’s an unlikely path, and I can see how heartening it is for Robert to be among like-minded folks and also, to share with us his dharma of turning westerners onto the blessings of India’s spiritual traditions.

I’m in withdrawal here in Mysore.  Life after Yatra means I have to sit myself down to do the chantings and puja.  It’s all on me, after the early early morning asana is finished, to keep the focus throughout as much of the day as possible.  I am resting, enjoying not traveling.  But missing that sense of purpose every day had on the Shakti-Express bus

Jan 12. The Art of Pushing.

This place is a microcosm of my India experience.  People everywhere.  There are people everywhere in the streets of Mumbai.  There are people everywhere at the yoga shala.  Crammed on the steps, in the foyer, the bathrooms and changing rooms.  The crowd presses against the doors anticipating Sunday lead primary series.  The art of pushing in line, well I might call it pressing rather than pushing to imply a more subtle action, is very important here.  I learned about pressing in Tirupati most recently, though I’ve pressed and been pressed in many lines in many situations over the years of travel here.  The key is not to be an asshole, but not a push-over either.  Truth is, if I don’t press, someone else will.  Everyone will end up in there doing practice and I’ll be on the steps wondering how I got to be in the back.  It happens before you know it. 

The polite, orderly nature of the Western queue just doesn’t pan out here.  There is a self-governing movement of the crowd, which must be present for anything to happen in India.  You see it in the flow of road traffic, at the ticket window at the train station, and now at the yoga shala.  Getting pushed in line at the yoga class?  It’s an India thing.  No problem.

Video Footage of the Goddess is Still Prohibited

Jan 14.
I am reposting something from last year, at this time of 2012, written in Mysore, where I find myself again, one year later, same but different.  It still applies, and helps me to see what has transpired.  It is a jumping off point for further posts, and I hope you still find it interesting.

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.

Mumbai, Jan 10. Purifyer of Human Dung

On the 10^th floor of the hotel listening to incessant beeping of horns and gazing into a grey mess of buildings.  For the wealthiest city of India, it’s got a lot of dirt, the usual folks sleeping on the medians and sidewalks at night, and puddles of unknown origin everywhere.  I am reminded that humans make a mess.  We have fluids and solids to expel, points to prove.  Money is a fluid solid like any other and can mask a mess well, but Mumbai reminds: the truth of humanity swirls in the puddles and dustpans of our lives. 

Interestingly enough, Ragunath Swami spoke later this day about the sewage project going on at the ISKCON “Eco-farm” project outside of Mumbai.  (ISKCON:  International Society for Krishna Consciousness).  The PHD who came to do his thesis project on natural wastewater treatment created a deep reservoir, which filters the dirty water through layers of earth until it is clean, and the pool itself becomes a lush water garden of flowering plants.  This is like, said Ragunath Swami, the way sadhana purifies our hearts, taking our waste and dirt and making flowers.  “It gives me hope,” he said, touching fingertips to his heart.  The PHD now stands for Purifyer of Human Dung.  That gives me hope, as one living in Boston, center of academia. 

I do keep coming here for these reminders.  Waste can become a garden, impurities change to beauty, and the sadhana I learn from this culture, the arts of yoga and devotion, well, it works. 

And so I am here again, to immerse in the land where yoga  predominates.  Mumbai:  the construction of high-rise apartments appears to be of the essence, three are there on this cityscape alone.  Towels, tunics, and dhotis hang drying from every railing up and down the side of the tall buildings, making the city of Mumbai look like a long, stained drying rack.  Something like a metal curtain rod flies through the air, hits the side of the building with a crack, and continues down to the street.  Closer to the ground, the haze and muddle of brown rooftops remind me of a vision I had from the window of the Shanghai airport.  In and out of the streets walk modern and good looking folk, weaving through the old and poor, who spit betel nut on the tar.  We walk through with yoga tights and mats on our way to the ashram for practice, where the walls are made of smooth, cool, cow dung.

Ragunath Swami, an Italian American by birth, has the interesting karma of stewarding a large Krishna ashram on prime real estate here at the Chowpatty Beach area, and this is where the Yatris stay.  We practiced primary series this morning in a room beneath the main hall where the deities are.  The morning darshan was rollicking above as the students took rest.  The sounds of stomping feet, dancing, drums, and singing were there from 7:30AM.  The adjoining restaurant, Govinda’s, is famous for its authentic brick oven pizzas, installed in Italian American fashion by the swami. 

Yatris reflected at lunch yesterday how the Indian traditions seem to have returned to paramount status after traveling to the west and back again.  An American swami in Mumbai, who knew?  Men in nice shirts and slacks tour about the grounds, with one hand inside the characteristic Krishna sack containing the mala beads.  Everyone is chanting the name of Krishna.  I wonder if the men in slacks do this, and carry the bag only when they are here, like how New Englanders go for a week-end to the Kripalu center for a workshop with Krishna Das and bust out our white flowing clothing.  There are the Brahmacharis in faded orange dhotis and kirtas, devotees who live here and serve the Lord, work in the ashram and renounce the comforts of civilian life for the comforts of spiritual life.  I see outside each room, a top, a dhoti, and a towel, all orange, and I wonder how much else they own.  In this moment, I feel thankful for my stuff.  Truly, after so many of shirking it, I like my stuff.  Wealth and spirituality both make you rich.  That we know.  Finding that middle road where I feel rich- whatever that happens to look like, well that’s the journey these days.