The First Step

For over a year I volunteered to teach a yoga class once a week to a group of men at a place called The First Step House. This was an institution established for men who had just come out of jail and who needed a positive first step into managing a new life outside of prison. At the First Step House, these guys, many of whom were court-ordered to be there, would receive group therapy and courses about things like anger management, personal finances, and how to get a job.

I remember showing up on my first morning, sometime in the late spring or early summer. I left my wallet locked in my car not knowing how cautious I should be about people who had just left the Big House. I walked into the large red-bricked building, an old renovated church, past a fat calico cat who looked at me like he owned the place. Inside, it smelled like bleach, bacon grease, and coffee. There was a scruffy man wearing a camo jacket and heavy boots standing at a kitchen window placing an order to a uniformed cook for some eggs and pancakes. I mingled around until I found Sabrina, the director; she was debriefing the staff for the day’s events in her office. “Oh Scott!” she said enthusiastically. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet our new yoga instructor. He’s going to be teaching every Wednesday morning.” I was greeted with several polite hellos.

After the meeting, the director showed me around the class rooms, therapy rooms, the grounds, and the kitchen and even invited me to order food there whenever I wanted. Finally she led me to a group of about 20 men in a large meeting room, all shuffling and slouching, consumed in the art of killing time before some institutionalized activity. “Gentlemen!” Sabrina said in a loud and cheery voice that both commanded attention and simultaneously demanded and conveyed respect. “This is Scott, our new yoga instructor.” There was a long moment of uneasy quiet as this group of men shifted their eyes skeptically between Sabrina and me, processing the bomb that had just been dropped on them: they were now going to be required to practice yoga. A few less-than-subtle curses skittered around the room to which Sabrina paid no attention and instead marched out of the room leading me and the curmudgeonly group in tow. She led us to a large shed-like structure behind the main building. Inside, there was industrial carpet on the floor, a few small windows, some fluorescent lights, and several chairs arranged a circle. We all began stacking chairs, some still complaining loudly at the fact that they had to do “@#$%ing  YO-GA!” Everyone was instructed to grab a mat and sit on the floor which they did, noticeably uncomfortable with tight hips, curved backs, and stiff knees, vestiges of long years of bodily neglect and abuse.

I looked around and saw that many of these men with their military tattoos, dog-tags, and post-Vietnam-era chic apparel were veterans. A pang of bitter realization washed through me. It was a feeling that in some ways this country had forgotten and neglected these people and that blindness resulted in one way or other processing these people into our prisons. Yes, these men had made their own decisions but I wondered how many of these choices had been made as the result of a broken soul, horrific memories, and an impossible sacrifice for a country that all but shunned them when they came back from the living nightmare of Vietnam. I saw men almost void of consciousness, desperately trying to just make it for one more day.

Not all of them were veterans. Some of these men were drug dealers, woman beaters, thieves, cheats, deserters, liars, and addicts. I stood there and looked around the room at these cut-throat, busted sons of America (thanks, Ray Lamontagne). This was their next step. This was their second chance, or their third or fourth. It didn’t matter. They were there and so was I. And what we all shared in common was that we were going to do yoga together in some shed with industrial carpet and stacked chairs, under garish fluorescent lighting and try to see what could come of it.

I stood at the front of the class and introduced myself. I explained who I was, why I think yoga is cool, and that I also like jazz and running and reading. I told them that I didn’t like yoga that much at first and that it took me a while to understand it enough to really love it. I shared how much I love the way it makes my body feel and how valuable it is to me to keep my body healthy in order to be a good vehicle of my mind and heart. I shared how well I’ve come to know my inner-self through this practice. My definition of yoga was very simple: understanding Self through listening; a union of body, mind, and heart. My introduction over, I asked if anybody had any injuries that I could be aware of and spent the next 10 minutes listening to almost every person in the room explain something like an injured back, a shattered elbow, or broken foot. Yoga suggests that everything is connected and in my mind I wondered if these broken bodies were perhaps scars of deeper wounds.

I think something happened to me as I stood there and listened to them describe their injuries. My fears and prejudices melted away and I didn’t see ex-cons anymore, I saw hurt people. Aren’t we all just bodies with hearts and minds doing our best to know ourselves and this world? Aren’t we all just trying to mend and move forward? My nervousness subsided a bit and suddenly I found myself caught up with an excitement to be there, to offer something that we all could share, a way to connect, a way to heal, a way to simply feel good in our bodies and maybe find some inner peace. I shared a few jokes and anecdotes. This lightened the mood and greased the resistance a little. Then we started the practice with a simple focus on our breath and some easy breathing techniques which caused a sputtering of coughs and gasps. We moved our bodies in cat-cow position on hands and knees and mobilized the spine. Together, we moved the body through some slow and gentle sun salutations. We mobilized shoulders, wrists, hips, neck, knees, and ankles. When we did supine pigeon pose to loosen up tight hips, you’d have thought it was a dungeon of hell with all the groans and curses through clenched teeth. But they were doing it. And whether they realized it or not, the intensity of stretching such tight muscles entered them into a very deep practice of mindfulness. I believe that there is scarcely anything in the world that hones one’s attention like pigeon pose, any of its incarnations, applied to tight hips. Pigeon: the fast-track to enlightenment! We finished our session with a rest as I led them through a guided meditation. After, I taught them the meaning of Namaste, an honoring salutation that acknowledges the common goodness in all of us. I bowed to them, offered a Namaste, and even received a few timid Namastes in return.

That started my year-plus stint at The First Step House. There were several different groups of men at the First Step House. I would meet with the same group each Wednesday for four weeks then change groups. Invariably the first session of each new group started with the same curses and objections but just as predicable came the subsequent sessions marked more and more acceptance, even happy anticipation about the practice. Yoga was helping their bodies to feel better, helping their minds to be more focused, and their hearts to be more calm. We grew to trust each other. I cherished their demonstrative respect for me, a respect that came easily once they got to know me. I stopped leaving my wallet locked in the car. I would come in to the center on Wednesday mornings and on my way back to the yoga shed, several of the men who had been in my previous groups would enthusiastically greet me with a hello and handshake or high-five. They followed my instructions and asked some great questions. Some admitted it, some didn’t, but almost everyone grew to really love the practice. I’ll never forget the sight and sound of these gruff dudes, sitting the best they could cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed in a squint and hands to heart, chanting the most gravely OOOOmmmm ever heard on this side of steel bars and razor wire.

Thanks to the First Step House, I learned a lot about yoga and teaching yoga. I learned that yoga can touch anybody. I learned that more than being a fantastic teacher, yoga itself is the teacher. I learned that the power of yoga lies in its current application to the situation and time at hand. I learned to offer this practice to people in a way that meets them where they are. My classes at The First Step House were the only classes I’ve taught where I instituted a 10-minute smoke break in the middle of class; perfectly appropriate. I learned that no matter how broken you might be this practice puts you on a pathway toward wholeness.

Thank you, First Step House for all that you taught me. Though I wasn’t paid money, The First Step House gave me deep riches of yogic knowledge, insight to teaching, and deep personal connection.

Neither Guru Nor Saint

I'm not interested in what it takes to be a saint or a guru. I find myself much too busy with the impossible challenge of being human. I suppose I'm t

oo busy learning to listen, to see, to smell, to taste, to touch, to love, to worry about anything less noble. To hell with it! It's about two things: you and me. It's about coming together and sharing this moment of life together. We share all kinds of togetherness. You could all name a few, but the way I love and know the most to experience this unity is by practicing yoga together. Yoga is about exploring ourselves, together, here and now. I don't care who has the shiniest yoga studio or how many people want to come and practice there or who is the guru or who is the saint. Bigger than any of that is the commitment of being real. When all the bullshit is stripped away, magic can happen—the magic of humanity, the magic of this moment. From this firm ground of what's real, we can step past illusion and pretense and into the sacred privilege of being human.

Boston and Big Wheels

I was about to send out my newsletter for this week but was rocked with the news of the Boston Marathon Bombing which made me want to change my message. At the news of the bombing, I was shaken, dismayed, confused, and worried. In the face of such horror, I think it’s easy for anyone to become reactive with fear, anger, scarcity, and to become insular and closed off. But I think an alternative way of being, a way that speaks to everyone’s higher selves, rather than being reactive, might be to be responsive, a quality characterized with compassion, concern, assertive action, openness, acceptance, and inclusiveness. My deep wish is that such violence never occurs, however if it does, let this tragedy be a catalyst to wake us from mindlessly living an insular life, thinking we are separate from our neighbor, and let’s call upon our higher selves to raise those around us, to open our hearts to a greater capacity of love, and to improve our community rather than perpetuate the negativity of such horror with thoughts of vicious retribution and fear.

It’s natural to feel completely rocked by such a horrific event. And for the sake of personal and collective healing, I invite you to start close in, with yourself. First, ground yourself through affirming practices like yoga and meditation. Allow the introspection of these practices to be the tool to help you recognize all the ways your heart, mind, and body feel about the event. You start by simply acknowledging the fear, anger, grief, prejudice, etc. Rather than ignoring those things, welcome them, recognizing them as a part of you. Then simply position your self-awareness as the witness to those things. Use the meditation and observation qualities of yoga to find the bigger part of yourself, the part that is larger than those reactive emotions, the part of you that can be responsive, and the part of you that acknowledges your own innate goodness, the same innate goodness that everyone has. Then I invite you to expand your practice off your mat to touch those around you. See the world with its beauty, love, and inherent perfection, the way you might look at a 4-year old. Get involved. Send love. Practice compassion. Meditate and pray for not only those injured in the blast but also the neighbor next door to you who is sick or just lost a loved one to something completely different than what happened in Boston.

Viewing people in their innate perfection and innocence is what I wanted to talk about this week. I want to

talk about a monumental race I had. It was the first race I ever “competed” in. I was 4. It was a big deal. Literally. It was Big Wheel race. At this race I remember a whole slew of little tikes on their Big Wheels poised to roll around a course set up just for us. At the starting line, under that hot summer morning’s sun, I looked around with happy curiosity to all the other kids. Some of the kids had shiny, new Big Wheels. Some had rugged and worn Big Wheels, used, but in that cool, tough way. I looked at these worn bikes (a generous euphemism for this three-wheeled, close-to-the-ground, impossible-to-roll, kids-rig) and I imagined these tough kids doing incredible stunts on their bikes, like Evel Knievel, jumping the Grand

Canyon and landing with dust flying, their plastic wheels skidding and making smoke as the crowd cheered and slapped high fives out of sheer exuberance and raw excitement. My brother and I are twins and looking back now I see how appropriate it was that we had CHiPs-themed Big Wheels. Of the totally boss dynamic duo, I was Ponch, of course—no, I was John!—no, I change my mind, I was Ponch. At four years old, the concept of a race didn’t really sink in. And I’m sure our parents felt the same way I did, which was not to see who could roll around the course and be first back to the finishing line, but to have a heap of fun on Big Wheels.

Every kid and their bike was unique. Some kids had streamers furling off their handle bars, some kids had stickers on their bikes, some kids sported big orange safety flags off the rear of their bikes. Now, my brother and I had something very special about our bikes—something none of the other bikes had, something that distinguished our bikes and us, the riders of those bikes, from ALL other kids in the world (as far as my 4-year old mind knew). We had mounted on the handle bars of our bikes (get ready for this)  . . . battery-operated police sirens. Yep. (I’ll let that sink in a minute). . . So, armed with this unstoppable weapon of awesomeness, I had a plan. When the dude with the flag said, “go!” my plan was to roll around like crazy all over the place, get as much mileage as I could, and from the very first push of the pedal, I would hammer down on that siren and blaze around that course like no one had ever seen a Big Wheel roll. And that’s exactly what I did. And so did my brother. We were Ponch and John unleashed (although I was Ponch). We wheeled, and skidded, and swerved and surely didn’t go in the “right direction” or maintain the designated course. Didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was pedaling my guts out and making that cool sound with my siren. After all, I was Ponch (not John) from CHiPs on a Big Wheel. Eventually the “race” stopped and we stepped away from our bikes, ecstatic with the bliss of our ride, and ran into the loving arms of our parents. And even though I had the coolest siren in the world on my bike, I didn’t feel like I was any better than any other kid. I was completely blissed out in the fact that all of us were out there having a great time. I mean we got to parade our bikes around, and did I mention that siren?!

Back when I was 4, the goal wasn’t to be first, it wasn’t to be the best. It was to celebrate what was unique about myself and let that ring loud and long while having onehellova time. I feel like somewhere along the way of development or social conditioning we lose that. We evolve to feel like we’ve got to be better than the next guy, more affluent, better looking, better at yoga poses, more knowledgeable or whatever. We even compete with ourselves. I do it. I’m about to run a half marathon this weekend and already I’m thinking of whether I’m going to beat my personal best time. The alternative might be to enjoy the run and do my best, try my hardest, and cross the finish line whenever I do, pump my fists in the air and remember the joy in the struggle. Then, I’ll drink some Gatorade and do pigeon pose, cuz that’s what I do.

I’m not suggesting we stop the wonderful trajectory of personal growth. In fact the inverse is true: I proffer that we stop personal growth when we do things to merely compete with others. To be something in relationship to someone else says nothing real about you. There is always someone else better or worse than you. It doesn’t matter. Instead, yoga teaches us to celebrate being where and who you are. I can’t do

Hanumanasana, full splits, and that’s just Truth with a capital T. I continue to practice that pose, not because there is any accomplishment to being able to “do it,” but because I appreciate loosening my hamstrings after running and because it really focuses my mind to experience my comfortable edge. When I started my yoga practice, I couldn’t touch my toes in a forward fold. Now I can and I’m here to tell you that life isn’t any better. Be the best and most authentic version of you. That’s what will allow you to naturally grow. Presence means being willing to step up to wherever your comfortable edge is, regardless of where you were last week or where you hope to be next week.

So this Saturday, as I run the Salt Lake City Half Marathon,  instead of a trying to beat anyone, maybe I could look around at the other competitors and try to see them the way they looked when they were 4, at the starting line of a Big Wheel race. And sure, instead of pimped-out bikes, we’ll be sporting our favorite running shoes and special race-day running outfit. Somehow, there’s not much of a difference, there. Seeing others and myself in this light, there will be nobody to beat, nothing to win. Instead, especially after what happened on Monday in Boston, what if I just supported everybody along the way with encouragement and enthusiasm for the privilege of a healthy body and a strong spirit. As a responsive approach to Monday’s tragedy, I invite you to do the same, go out and support the runners of the Salt Lake Marathon. Help build this community. You might even see me run by your house or neighborhood. Or maybe you’ll hear me. I’ll be the one with the CHiPs siren.

A Life Burning Well

Have you ever found yourself saying things that you didn’t know you knew? What’s that about? I think it’s about understanding yourself deeply. There is something in the articulation of an experience or thought or feeling that taps us into our deeper knowledge. Writing, dance, photography, and blogging could all be part of the creative process that helps articulate an experience. I love poetry and I think that’s what the essence of poetry is: understanding one’s self and life’s grand mysteries through bite-sized bits of awareness. Like the legendary Leonard Cohen says, “If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.” The creative expression itself isn’t the experience; it’s a product of the experience. More than the craft and beauty of their writing, we love poets for the people they are to write such words. We love who they have become by writing their poetry.

I suppose I’ve been trying to learn about who I am my whole life. The same way writing or dance could tap this deeper wisdom, for me yoga and the separate practice of teaching yoga has been a creative avenue of personal growth and understanding. Yoga and teaching yoga has showed me hidden gifts. It’s challenged me to confront my largest weaknesses. It’s showed me how much I love people and love to be involved in their own personal growth. What a privilege! And in the process of practicing and teaching yoga, I’ve learned a bunch about myriad topics like philosophy, spirituality, anatomy meditation, etc. After learning about all this fascinating, intricate, and sometimes esoteric stuff, I invariably come to the same fat and resounding question: SO WHAT? What does any of this have to do with my daily life, or other people’s lives? What does any of this stuff have to do with going to work and walking my dog and having relationships and fulfilling our dreams?

My search into “SO WHAT?” has led me to the wonderful and challenging and enlightening practice of writing this thing every week. This weekly blurb has been my wisest teacher. It’s here, in this creative expression of my own inquiry, where I find myself saying the things that I didn’t know I knew. I’m just happy that people want read my rantings. I don’t write about what I want others to learn, I write about what I’m learning in this moment. Then when I teach it all week in yoga classes, I have so much more I want to say by the end of the week because I’ve learned so much more by the process of teaching it, a different creative expression. I should offer a post script to this thing at the end of the week to fill you in on what else I’ve learned along the process of articulating it.

I can’t be having all the fun here. I’d love to invite you into this beautiful process of unfolding, knowledge, and experience, of finding your own deeper wisdom, by making your own personal expression of anything you do in life. I’d love to hear about or invite you to find yourself saying the things you didn’t know you knew.

Here’s my invitation:

1.       Do something. Anything.

2.       Document it in some way: journal, poem, Facebook Post, blog, photo, draw, dance, whatever.

3.       Do it again

4.       Document again, maybe this time explain it or teach it to someone.

5.       Watch to see yourself say things you didn’t know you knew. Watch for the insights that come naturally.

6.       Then tell me all about it, because I’ll be curious.

The end.

The Rites of Spring

Get out your running shoes. Put away your snow boots. Put away your thermals. Find your swimsuit, or at least a pair of shorts. Put away your heavy coat. Start saying your goodbyes to the the ski season. Go and tune up your bike. Store your snow shovel. Open the windows and air out your soul after a long winter of hibernating. It is officially Spring! 

Last Wednesday the sun made make its grand appearance at exactly half way up the horizon. It's a foreshadowing of the hot months to come. On that day we were blessed with as many daylight hours as nighttime hours as the sun rose directly east and set directly west.

The spring equinox is one of those cosmically sacred times of the year that marks an exact quarter-turn around the sun. It's a time for us to pause and thank the Powers That Be that the sun is coming back. The warmth of brightness and hope and resolve is rising.

The spring equinox is a great time to remember our intentions we made at the beginning of the year and see how things are progressing. If one of those intentions was to do more yoga, kindly get your asana to class.

Winter is a great time to hibernate and meditate. To make intentions. Find stillness. But now it's time to balance the mindfulness with with movement. Let's get some fresh air! In yoga, the balance between activity (Rajas) and stillness (Tamas) is called Satva. It is one of the qualities known as the Gunas. This week, I invite you to reflect on your intentions you made at the beginning of the year and assess. Make adjustments if you need to.

Come to yoga and let's practice some of this balance into Satva with a little movement, breath, and mindfulness. Let's put some action to our mindfulness and air out our soul.

See you in class. 

   

 Scott