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.

Feb 16- Short Shorts, Part 2: Friction, Feminism, or Respect?

I have to thank my friend in Barcelona who wrote to me regarding the "short shorts are a statement" post.  She remembers Sharath, about 5 years ago, asking students to “cover up in the shala. Respect please.”

Now, I don’t remember that, but I always assumed it.  This is India.  More and more these days, students are coming straight to Gokulam, the hamlet outside of Mysore where the school is now.  Taxi from the airport to your guest house, and bam you are at the shala registering for class.  There isn’t much of India happening yet.

You get a little etiquette card when you register that states students should cover up outside the shala, and not go about in their yoga clothes.  It seemed to me reading this, the yoga room itself has become pretty lax on the covering up.  Sort of a free-for-all western zone.  And in truth, we are all westerners in there.  I have never gotten the impression that Sharath is giving a care at all about the clothes. 

I always remember my mom asking me why we don’t all practice in Salwar Kameez in India like the Indian ladies do.  She was adamant.  I’ve seen it, it’s happening.  Lots of fabric there.  I do not have the patience. 

I came to India on 2, 6-month trips before I ever came to Mysore.  I was wearing sarees and Salwars (tunic and poofy pants with scarf).  I was uncomfortable with any show of my skin, and with good reason after much harrassment in my travels as a young lady. So I was, and am, a bit shocked by some of the skin showing around the town.  The first time I came into the shala, I was a little surprised by the number of shirtless ladies.  Whoa!  And yes, short shorts.  It actually wasn’t until the last trip that I rocked the shorts here.  I kind of look around, here in Gokulam, at how the local teens are dressing: skinny jeans and shorter kirtas.  No shorts, very rarely a strappy tank.  The yoga students look like a bunch of Bohemian thrift-store shoppers for the most part, as they try to figure out the covering up in the heat with Thai fisherman pants, flowing skirts, and scarves.  But yes, you see ladies without scarves, exposing strappy tanks and exciting bosoms.  Ladies in tights without long tops to cover the bum.  It’s not correct.  I always think of being a mom here with a pubescent son, the village overrun with westerners enacting their personal dramas without an awareness of the effect on the local environment.

Inside the shala, I have to say I’m still not sure, but Im leaning towards the free-zone.  I heard a rumor Sharath told a lady to go put a T-shirt on this year. Others routinely wear bra tops with no comment.    ?

Anyhow, I’d like to close with my friend’s words:  So I guess in Mysore it has nothing to do with friction feminism etc, is just awareness, sort of ahimsa in respect to Indian culture, no? 

I would say that’s a very good point.

Feb 14- Pain is Assumed

An illuminating moment for me in the office last week. 
Usha is the sweet young lady who runs the office here at KPJAYI.  She shows up at 6AM every day and puts her mat near to where I usually am.  I asked her how her practice is going.  She kind of grimaced/smiled and did the head bob.
“Some pain?” I asked.  “Me too.  So much pain, old lady.”
“I don’t speak too much about it,” she said.  “It is assumed.  Everyone is having.”

Oh, you mean it’s not just me and my pain?  Everyone else isn’t sailing through the practice?  Gee, they kind of look like they do (except for that heavy breathing over there). 

Hearing Usha’s reminder was kind of an Aha moment.  Ashtanga kind of hurts.  And me bitching about it doesn’t really help things.  Her attitude was admirable, Indian, and a reminder to me to step away from the talk.

My roommate asked me, as I was complaining about this year’s stiffness, when was the last time it did feel awesome.  I can remember a few days here and there, but consistently, no.
But, I noted, it’s because so much is coming up and out. Hala hala.  Not like that’s going to feel awesome. And if we didn’t work it out in daily batches now, wouldn’t we get sick later?

One Ayurvedic use for Yoga is to help us avoid disease.  Reduce stress.  Reduce stagnation.  Move the body during the 6-10AM Kapha hours.  Without some practice, we might expect to age less gracefully, and with more pain.

So perhaps medicinal doses of pain now, help us to avoid future suffering. 
I embark on a mission to say nothing, unless it’s positive, about the how’s-your-practice-going.  Please leave me a comment if you catch me complaining.

Fashion Chronicle of an Ashtangi

Since we are on the topic of clothing.  And I'm hoping to get a Lululemon sponsorship in Boston, please enjoy my

Fashion Chronicle of an Ashtangi
home from the first trip in India, a journey begins...


1999
I remember my first practice in Milford, NH with Robert Moses in 1999. Just home from India, where I had been riding bicycles to the village school in a saree, temporarily dropped out of college to follow my yoga-love path.  Pray tell, Kate, at this Mysore class in the basement of the Milford Town Hall--what did you wear???

A thong-style gray leotard stolen 5 years ago from Walmart (in my stealing phase for I which I still pay Karma), a pair of shorty board shorts from the thrift store that were a little too big after parasitic weight-loss.  The shorts hung low so you could I was indeed wearing a thong.  I don't think Robert gave a care.  It's NH after all, Live Free or Die is on the license plates.  I didn't shave my legs at the time, I just shaved my head after a battle with lice.  You get the picture.

2001
Fast forward to 6 months in Encinitas with Tim Miller.  Brought 1 outfit in my pack for the move to SoCal, both purchased on clearance at Marshall's.  Danskin capri tights, cotton, and an Asics purple top.  I still only wore natural fabrics as a rule.  By the end of 3 months it smelled bad, elastic wearing out so I do believe my ass crack was at times visible.  I went to TJ Max and bought a repeat outfit on clearance.  

2002
Moved to Maui, a new chapter begins.  I began the shorts phase here.  Anything goes on Maui and its humid.  Things mold and go rank quickly.  Sweaty clothes may or may not get a chance to dry on the line at Nancy's (no dryer, we're on solar). So I'll tell you the real reasons I began wearing less clothing:  
Laundry.  Mold.
A sports bra and shorter than short shorts, synthetic.  I got used to the feeling of air on skin, was proclaimed a nudist by my housemates.  I was really into being able to see my Uddiyana.  The sight of my protruding belly always a great reminder.  Others used to comment on how nice it was that I was "so comfortable with my belly". Well, I was until you said that.  Thanks.  Which resulted in me, live free or die, wearing even smaller clothing as a way to daily confront my vanity and supercede it, rise into the breath and the focus of the practice where I am Not This Body.  

2003
Everything I owned stolen from the car on the way back from the airport at Kahalui (can you say Karma?).  On my way to Mysore.  The merchants in Paia pooled together to make me a care package of clearance items: a bikini, a pair of booty-jeans, and a black Gaiam unitard.  
I showed up in Mysore with the unitard, hand me down navy capri tights and a rainbow striped sports bra.  Alternated the two for 3 months.  I was so glad to get rid of that unitard.

2004
Began modeling for my friends' company Inner Waves on Maui and got tons of free, colorful, organic cotton yoga clothes.  To this day, they are my favorite.

2008
Fast forward to Kate gets tired of hitchhiking, hand-me-downs, and being broke on the islands.  Move to Boston to teach where a student as well an old friend are working for Lululemon and style me out with a few outfits made of Luon.  In the cold, it is warmer than cotton.  The days of styled-out yoga fashions begin.  

I still practiced in short shorts, would never teach in them because that's too much of other people's sweat on my legs.  But Kino's got a great point.  I started wearing pants for the friction to practice the advanced series.  I didn't have the humility to fall off my sweaty arms, as she describes.  Now, I miss my shorts, which is why I pack them for friday primary days.
I actually can't even imagine practicing here, mad mad sweaty, with my leg slipping from behind my head and off my arms and just sweat sweat everywhere.  I think what Kino does defies the laws of physics.  I salute her and aspire to this level of core strength, totally worth all the shit-talking about my clothes if I end up able to balance without friction.

2013
So, what is Kate wearing in Mysore this year?  Hard Tail cotton pants (cotton pants in the tropics seem like a good idea and its dry enough to resolve the laundry issue) and yes, I'll admit they are hand-me-downs from a Yatri who outgrew her suitcase.  You can take the girl out of NH but...

In my middle-age, with continuous trips to India and digestive distress that comes and goes, I am no longer "comfortable with my belly".  I wear long tops that cover my muffin-tops and keep my belly warm and mosquito free.  Bites on the sides itch the worst!! Presently rocking Barry Silver's Sita Ram tank because it makes me smile (http://www.facebook.com/GBSKglobal) with a Jockey sports bra I buy a few of every year on Devarajas-Urs Road.  I haven’t found anything in the states that I like better!

There you have it friends, the How Why When and What of one Ashtangi’s fashion choices.  I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing it.