2 Months of Tough Love.

What is going on in that last backbend, then?  Why is everyone so intent on taking ankles?  So I am not an exclusionary author, let me explain.  After you do all your jumping around, your sun salutations, standing postures, and seated (or not so seated) postures, you do the backbend- upward facing bow.  Urdhva Danurasana.  This is performed by lying down, bending the knees, placing the feet near the bum at hip’s width, placing the palms on the floor beside the ears, now lifting up so your head comes off the floor and you are on all fours, belly facing up.  Over time, you walk the hands in closer to the feet.  Someday you “walk walk walk” the hands until you touch the feet, and someday later, walk up and hold your ankles, balancing freely on the legs while holding on and looking up towards the backs of your knees.

I’m just holding on right below the knees these days and balancing in a tentative way most days.  A teacher can help one by taking the hand for you, up from the ankle and helping you place the hands higher, one by one.  It’s a real trust exercise, and one the most beautiful gifts about teaching.  Not that helping someone do just about anything scary and seemingly-impossible isn’t awesome.  It’s all relative to the individual what is scary and impossible. 

Once the hands are moved up, then we get the cracks in the spine.  We hope they are in the upper back, not the low back.  Everybody needs to learn how to keep the pose in the upper back by keeping the elbows in and lifting the chest.  Thing is, you don’t know which end is up and where your elbows are, and where your feet are, although you are actually standing on them. And wait- am I breathing?  Relaxing?

This year, I realized I need to look up, really open my eyes and look.  The last thing I wanted to do was watch my body get bent, but it seems to be a key.  Then I can see my left arm is out to lunch, as is the right foot.  Once I have a sense of the landscape, I can get to the center of things.  I am still here.  In this unfamiliar zone, I am still me.  Consciousness steps in and begins to marshal the body around again.  That seems to be how I roll in life.  I do better with a little sense of my environment, a little info on the situation before I charge ahead.  Then Sharath comes and takes the hands higher still, so I am again groundless, and that’s how this system works.  Find ground, lose it.  Sounds like life, doesn’t it?  Forget, remember.

Doesn’t this all sound a little, um, extreme?  Well, I’m so careful. So frickin careful with my body.  I come out of the Ayurveda center today, where I’ve been oiled into submission on a wooden table with no pads or pillows, steamed within an inch of proper hydration, and I’m thinking this is so not a spa.  Out on the street, a rabid rickshaw driver skims by me at break speed.  No coddling here.  It’s a part of the culture, things are a little bit rough.  It’s tough love, in the Ayurveda, the yoga, in everything Indian.  Westerners would do good to step back a bit from the safety obsession in yoga classes.  I feel very lucky to have smaller classes, and one-and-one instruction, because I don’t have to think about how to keep a large group safe.  It’s no accident that I teach Mysore-style Ashtanga.  I certainly had chances to make more money and success in vinyasa.  

But ah, I always knew I wouldn’t be happy.  Here, the yoga becomes specific, effective, and mystic.  Sometimes I watch a student hurt themselves, and I think, well the yoga’s doing some teaching over there.  Other times I have to pound them into a new habit before they get hurt, depends on what type of hurt we are talking about here. 

Tough love.  And I’m getting mine over here this winter.

March 7- Ashtanga Yoga is a Breathing System

It’s an endurance contest.  Waking up so early, drinking chai, and making it over to the shala for a very difficult practice.  At the end of 2 months of this and dreaming of sleep, and that distant memory called dinner.  Everybody in there is maxing out.  All together we are sweating, embarrassed, sometimes fearing, sometimes hurting.  This week, Sunday to Thursday, practice has oscillated from awesome to crappy and somewhere in between.  I find myself thinking the most amazing thoughts. Such as:

I’m too old for this.

Will I really keep doing this every day?

Did this used to be easier?

Past and future, past and future.  Then I come back to the present. Breathe Kate, just breathe.  That’s all you have to do to make this yoga enjoyable and keep that crazy mind from tweaking you right out of town.

Ashtanga yoga is a breathing system! Why do I continue to forget and remember this about 20 times every day?  Wacky, I tell you, this whole human thing is just wacky.  I guess knowing is half the battle.  Some humans move on along through life and remember the Truth after illness, accidents, the occasional jolt back to the Now.  The yoga practitioners, well, I guess we are trying to remember at least once/day.  So maybe 20x isn’t bad at all then?

Feb 4- Election Day

It’s coming, election day for the local government post.  We have rickshaws decorated in party colors, flags, and sporting not one, but two bullhorn-shaped speakers per vehicle.  In the back of each one is a man with a microphone, going on about his platform.  There are 7 parties at bat for the position, so we’ve got 7 rickshaws in the neighborhood, coming and going.  It’s loud, really loud.  Last night we had two park on the street in front of the house, facing each other.  There was a debate, via bullhorn-speaker for a few minutes, then the rickshaws rolled off into the early evening light.

There are also marches happening at different times, usually young men with hats all the same color, or bandanas of white, green, and red.  They are handing out pamphlets, staring at me walk by, and generally having a nice time, doing something important. 

I wonder if we can expect the on-street excitement to continue, perhaps escalate, until the election on March 7^th.

Feb 28- Naked Yoga.

One thing I am noticing about blogging:  posts which have sensational titles including concepts such as Attack, Human dung, and Hotties in short shorts get double the reads of yoga/spiritual titles.  I’m going to write about sensational things.  Yeah, no pressure.  Hang on a second while I go on the balcony naked, to taunt that monkey by waving my passport smeared with peanut butter…

We were talking last night (yes, we talk all the time, too much, this happens when women live together in small spaces) about how we are getting older, and after so many trips here, now the practice here just kind of cruises along.  You know that plateau-feeling I’m sure, no matter what your level and where you live.  A couple new things I’m working on: daily deep back bending, a shit ton of asana 1.5 hours before I even get into the finishing room.  But yeah, you know- we’re saying last night- I don’t feel like anything is really happening this year.  When I was in my 20s, I did that stuff every day.

Over-achieve much?

The next morning I go through my rote 2 hour yoga practice with my legs becoming wrapped around sundry body parts while jumping around and breathing with sound all the while.  Savasana was fitful, and when I got to the coconut truck outside the shala, the sound of about 6 people talking was almost shocking- loud, sharp.  Like somebody dropped a metal pan on the tile.  Some sensitive.

Here’s the thing:  when you’ve been at it for over a decade, one would hope the shapes we make, the order we make them in, and the over-all effect of vinyasa would begin to penetrate.

And here’s what is SO COOL ABOUT THE YOGA.  When yoga is penetrating, I generally don’t know what it’s doing.  I’ve had the experience of a shifting vantage point, a subtle change at some level that is just…barely…perceptible, but hazy.  Not enough to make out what in fact the change is.  This knowledge comes much later.  Meantime, there’s no telling how I’ll digest that meal, might break into song at the coconut stand, or see no sleep tonight.  Some sensitive. 

Last year, everyone kept saying my eyes looked different when I came home.  They did.  Another time, I walked into my apartment and it was no longer my home.  A tiniest little square that had nothing to do with me.  My boyfriend was no longer my boyfriend.  My wardrobe was no longer "me."  

I always have trouble dressing myself when I get back.  Look out Boston- here comes the grey Hanes sweatsuit again.

In my defense, and in defense of Ashtanga yoga:  I have stabilized over the years.  I can at least see the reaction now, and I don’t need to completely revamp my outward life-situation all the time.  Oh, old habits die hard though…I am often called to keep an eye on that draw.

My Self.   That’s the rub isn’t it?  This self, this small self that moves in the world and chatters and dresses and makes the rent.  I’m still at the stage where I want to identify with this self.  Who is she?  Who am I?

And there we have it folks, we have made it from last night’s naïve talk in the kitchen back to what the yoga is all about, and the scintillating title of this post. 

Getting naked.  Strippin’ down to the Self.  Naked Yoga, yeaaaaah.

Wrap your leg around your neck, little self, and try to look pulled-together while Sharath yells “Head Up. Kate. Head Up!”  Just try. 

No actually, don’t.  Don’t try this at home.

Feb 25- Yoga Student Attacked by Monkey!

I’m at the Talakad temple, walking along devoutly with my pink bag and red saree, when out of nowhere- shazam! Monkey attack.  A big one, baring his teeth springs up at about waist level, reaching for the handle of my bag.  It’s one of those bags woven out of recycled plastic, what all the folks use here for going to market and carrying the lunch.  It’s great for spillage, keeps its shape so you can load in the tiffin containers of food, and stands up nicely in the car, rickshaw, or dangles safely from the handlebars of the motorbike. 

Thing is: they always contain food, these bags.  And mine is bright pink and yellow,  Yellow, like bananas.

I don’t back down to monkeys.  I’ve got experience with this sort of thing.  Mmm hmm.  Try me, monkey face.

Generally I yell at it, berate it for its thievery, because yes, monkeys are smart.  They know better than this.  But I was in a crowd, at the temple, and trying to be…ladylike.  So I swung the bag to bash it in the head.  Except the monkey wouldn’t release his hold.  He is swinging;  I am swinging, and nobody’s really having any success.

The locals are yelling in Kannada, “Get a stick!  Find the stick!”

The monkey falls back, but now I’m pissed.  I swing again, two-handed, yelling “hey hey!”  The monkey dodges, springs again, and grabs the bag, taking me by surprise, hanging from the bag.  I shake the bag.  It lunges a third time, hissing, and I realize it could go for my face, scratch my arms, or any other manner of rabies-inducing action. 

I decide I had better hit it, in the head, really good.  The wind up, the pink bag cuts through the air, there is a sharp intake of breath from the general public…

“Aaaack!!!” says Sanjay as he kicks sand into the monkey’s face.  Direct hit to the eye!  The monkey veers off to the side, and into the bush.  I am panting.

“You keep the bag,” says a lady nearby, showing me her market bag tucked under the armpit.  I am embarrassed at flaunting my food bag in front of monkeys.  But he came out of nowhere! Only monkey of the day. 

The crowd moves on, chuckling.  I am mad at monkeys for the rest of the afternoon, white-knuckling my bag. 

Thanks Sanjay.

Feb 22- The Neighbors are Fighting

The neighbors are fighting again.  We live about 6 feet from a Brahmin couple.  The evening we moved in, we were talking in the kitchen in our tank tops and shorts.  At some moment, we looked over at the kitchen window just across from ours to see a very tiny old lady watching us.  With a look of distaste, she closed the window.

The next morning they were shouting at each other in Kannada.  I recognized the names of a few foods items and realized they must be fighting about some kitchen related disturbance.  I gathered she was shouting at him to get out of her kitchen.  I began thinking about it, the husband/wife dynamic and the power play that might go on in that Brahmin pairing.  It seems to me, the only place the wife has authority in that situation is in the kitchen.  The husband, in this case, has to acquiesce.  If he doesn’t he will go hungry.  What a beautiful karma.  The man’s very existence dependent upon the state of the woman, and therefore the state of the food.  Although they fight in Kannada and I don’t understand, I can still tell she is coming out on top. 

We know they are Brahmin because the man does lengthy puja several times a day.  The bell is ringing and he is chanting, for quite some time.  It is his duty to keep up the old ways, to please the gods in the ways the Vedas ordained.  He is only allowed to eat food prepared by Brahmins, most likely his wife or the occasional strict Brahmin restaurant. 

We were in the kitchen a few days back, in our housedresses (we bought Indian housedresses so as not to offend anyone while we are in our own house. .. Sheer numbers make it so we don't get as much the luxury of individual mind here in India.  It's group-mind, community spirit.  Or the whole thing will just cease to flow.  Traffic is a great example.  That's another post, though, and so I am sweating indoors in my poly-blend housedress...  We were talking loudly, as Tasia is running the mixy (blender) to make date-coconut pie.  We looked over to see the old lady smiling through her window.  We waved.  The husband appeared over her shoulder with full ash on the forehead after puja, “you make the breakfast?”  They are both smiling and we say yes.

I think they approve of our cooking habits, and also our housedresses, most likely.  It’s good to get along with the neighbors.  We are hoping they invite us for lunch.  We’ll bring the pie.

Feb 20: Brahmamuhurtha- Part 2

Q.  Sharath, can you talk about the benefits of taking practice before the sunrise?
The answer, as I don't have the technology to record the response, I will give in my own words.  My teacher did, as expected, bring up Brahmamahurtha, God's Hour.  This was at the end, and all he said was the practice is more "energetic" at that time.  Like his Grandfather, he is a man of few words when it comes to expounding on concepts of "energy."
Sharath also did mention the purity of the atmosphere in terms of quiet.  As we spoke about in the first B-Mahurtha post, the senses remain undisturbed when the world is quiet.

But he was more into talking about the air.  Air quality, in India, is huge.  "If your breathing is disturbed, your mind will be disturbed also," he said.  At 4AM, people have not yet started their vehicles- auto rickshaws with the 2-stroke diesel are disgusting culprits, and then you must imagine the increasing number of personal automobiles expelling their exhaust into humid air on skinny, overcrowded streets.  In rural areas, it is the cookfires.  There are still a majority of people here, "workers" who farm, clean, etc., who don't have electricity, or enough money for propane and gas stoves.  When I have sat on high  at the sunrise, I have watched the haze begin to form over the land as millions of little fires are started to warm the chai and cook the rice.

So it's practical then, the 2:30 wake-up.  Ashtanga Yoga is a breathing system, and the quality of our air is paramount.  It's like eating, the sensation of building Prana from good breathing.  I feel it coming in the nostrils sometimes, and when the air is good, and the channel is clear, it's the most nourishing thing on earth.  Truly.  I've had a flu/cold bug since Tamil Nadu this year, and I notice my breath is shallow and my throat is tight.  The all-important "free-breathing" has been a challenge and requring my full attention.  So, I guess it's true that Im happy to practice first batch, in the pure atmosphere.  It is quiet, with all 50-some of us moving and breathing, working and aspiring together.  This human life.  A procession of mornings like this one, breathing in Prana.  Pulling it through from the other side of whatever crap is lodged, moving out, or just beginning to gain a place in my tissues and channels.  The other side of existance, the land of pure Prana and pure consciousness.  I can't believe it is limitless, this gift of vitality and dancing of form and formless.  And I can't believe I resist it sometimes, forget it, turn my back on it, it would seem.

I will say, for whatever slogging through I must do here on the sub-continent this year, I am taking benefit.  Think of us in Mysore when you pull in that air next time in whichever fine city you find yourself today.  Dedicate your practice to the families at the cookfires in the fields.