Coming Home

Sometimes it feels like we are a house-full of sorrows. Every corner, under every piece of furniture, in every drawer, memories, thoughts, regrets, disappointments, worry, grief. It's all there and what do you do with it?

The ancient Sufi poet Rumi suggests we welcome our sorrows, make them a cup of tea, sit, and listen.

In the highly relative world of emotion, one thing that is certain is that those sorrows do exist, at least for the moment. They feel so real because we can feel them. This is countered by another thing which is true which is: when we learn to uncover our True Nature through practices such as meditation and yoga, we see clearly that what we are is deeper than even these pervasive, transitory emotions which seem to rule our lives. From the grand perspective of our True Nature, which, the ancients say and invite us to discover for ourselves, is boundless equanimity, we allow ourselves to experience our emotions fully, knowing that when all is said and done, our emotions will come and go but this True Nature will stay constant. By experiencing our emotions from this perspective, often these sorrows seem to get whatever it was off their chest, finish their tea, and then see themselves out. Regardless, each thing that comes to our door, like Rumi says, is our teacher.

In yoga, it's nice to know that we're not trying to "fix" anything but rather simply uncovering the most True part of ourselves, the part that is not subjective like our emotions. Plus, it just feels really good to be with that True part of ourselves. It's like coming home.

The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
~ Rumi ~

Provocative Evolution

Whether we are new or seasoned practitioners, our objective in practice is always the same: to step up to the the comfortable relationship with our edge. That invitation to step to our edge is so provocative! It suggests leaving the comfort of what we know and move toward our yet unknown greatness. Yet, the invitation is to be in proper relationship with your edge so that it doesn't overcome you. If I were to experience the Grand Canyon by standing on the very edge, all I could think about would be my own imminent death. With a little space, I can appreciate my edge rather than repel from it.

I like the word "frontier." In my mind, it conjures images of rugged people working with the land and wrestling with the unknown, growing and learning and being present with a life that is bigger than them but in which they play a part. The word "frontier" suggests perhaps our edge, our limit of experience or ability. It is the place which we have never been.

I think that whether you are working at a frontier of mindfulness, spirituality, or physicality, to place yourself at that edge of your experience is to truly live. Being at the edge isn't always easy but it is always real.

Simply being at our edge, we become stronger, literally in the case of asanas, but in every aspect of living, we find ourselves more and more able to sit in the heat of our own growth and the inevitable unfolding of the unknown. Because we have to be observant at that edge, we will notice the miracle of what we've created by being there. It's the miracle of watching our frontier, limitations we thought were so fixed and immovable, recede away from us. So that where we find ourselves is no longer the limit of our experience or ability. I could only touch my knees when I began practice, now I can touch my toes. I could only focus for a few seconds when I started, now I can stay in rapt attention for several moments. I barely understood myself before, now I see a divine creature unfolding.

As this edge recedes, we are again provoked by our own potential to take another step closer toward that edge. And again we find ourselves at the familiar relationship and distance with our frontier. Periodically, we may look back to see all the ground we've covered. That growth is a nice reminder that we're moving in the direction of our intention but ultimately secondary to what's real and present and constant--our commitment to be at the frontier. Our commitment to growth.

So here's the biggest paradox: the only way to get there is to be here, where you are currently. And here is always changing.

Until one day we realize that this is where we've set down our roots, in the paradox of constant movement as we chase our frontier, the eternal growth toward our highest self. We have arrived as we witness our own evolution.

Come to practice this week and join me as we practice living at this frontier, especially at the special workshop that Erin and I will teach where we will explore the radical idea of backing way off from the edge.

Home, Jeeves

Sometimes when life gets tricky, I want to type in a random address and turn on my GPS navigator just to hear a comforting voice tell me where to go. Maybe in a perfect world, one might choose from the list of GPS guiding voices to be that of a sage (mine would be Gandalf’s voice) who would while en route, maybe at a stop light or on a long stretch of road, offer a piece of true direction. Maybe that in some way you’re supposed to be lost because that’s what starts you asking the questions, what keeps your eyes alert, your ears open, your senses alive. That you’re going in the right direction just by living and struggling and searching. Sure, it’s good to turn at this stop sign, and travel another couple of years down this road, but most importantly, it’s important to keep going.

And hopefully that voice always tells you to listen to your heart.

So type Prana Yoga’s address into your GPS (600 south 700 east Salt Lake City—the old Banana Republic store) and let listen to it guide you to yoga class this week to practice listening to that inner voice, that wise part of you that knows where to go or if not where to go, maybe how to enjoy the ride.
See you in class.

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!

Sunday, at exactly 9:21 pm, the sun will make its grand appearance (somewhere around the globe) at exactly half way up the horizon. It's a foreshadowing of the hot months to come. We will be blessed with as many daylight hours as nighttime hours as the sun rises directly east and sets 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 It's 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 asess. 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

The Temple on the Way to Costco

My teacher told me a story of master yoga teacher Richard Freeman who was once demonstrating an outrageously technical yoga position to a group of advanced practitioners. After the pose, someone raised their hand and inquired, “What do you do to prepare yourself for that pose?” Richard Freeman paused in thought, then frankly responded: “Three deep breaths.”

Another profound teaching came to me a few years ago when my wife, Celeste, was visiting her cousin Robin in Hawai’i. Celeste was happily carless and mostly careless on the remote beach in Robin’s backyard. Occasionally, when Robin was heading into town, she’d invite Celeste to come along. On the ride, Celeste mentioned that she would like to visit the Buddhist temple, famous on Oahu. “You mean the temple on the way to Costco?” Robin said, as if this sacred temple were merely a landmark on the way to the more substantial temple of abundance and commercialism. Still, I hate to draw too much of a line between Costco and the Temple on the Way To Costco because for me what I’ve learned about temples and sacred places is the only spirit you find there is the spirit that you bring with you. The point is, we go to temples to be reminded of the divine part of ourselves, but what yoga teaches and what we get to practice every time we come to our mat, is that any place—a temple, a prison cell, a yoga mat, a piece of nature, your workplace—can become sacred ground with the right attitude and attention to details. You can find spirit in Costco, too.

This week as you work to provide for yourself and your family, you might just find yourself standing at the entrance of Costco. Before entering, maybe pause. The Costapo (the sentinels at the temple gate) and other shoppers rushing in and out won’t suspect anything as you pull out your grocery list. They won’t notice the mantra you’ve perhaps written on your list before the broccoli and bread and cat food. And before stepping in, you might wonder, “How can I do it? How can I possibly remain mindful and grounded in this circus, this craziness?” Try this: three deep breaths.

Costco Mantra
May we all have happiness, like the way you feel after a good laugh, or finding five pounds of your favorite cereal on sale for a steal.
May we all be free from sorrow, even though sad things happen in life.
May we all enjoy that deep, lasting happiness despite our ups and downs.
And may we enjoy balance in life, even at Costco where things get too loud, too busy, and too much, without being too clingy or too annoyed by things.
And no matter what, may we honor everybody as a unique and special thing.

(Modified from Sogyal Rimpoche The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying)

Valuing Perplexity

We all have problems. We all grapple with the unknown, about the Universe, sure, but more specifically about our own complicated life. We all want to solve our problems as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Sometimes it is only by questioning, or struggling, that we are driven to understand an otherwise hidden part of ourselves and our potential. Our questions fuel us to open our hearts, to seek for inspiration, to perform the necessary work, and more profoundly, to abandon our will to the grander wisdom of the divine. We must at once be willing to seek and do, and also sit comfortably and simply be with what we don't know or with what doesn't feel comfortable-happily resolved with the phrase, "I don't know." And sometimes to get real answers we must be willing to sit in our own darkness for a while.

This human tendency for control occurs regularly in our yoga practice as many of us strive to either know everything there is to know about yoga or try to perfect our poses; we usually eagerly fill in whatever blanks present themselves in our life's scripts.

Instead, let us practice this week the yoga principle of Santosha, or contentment, by learning to sit with and even value perplexity.

The following poem by David Whyte seems to speak directly to learning from the darkness, instead of running from it.

Sweet Darkness


When your eyes are tired

the world is tired also.


When your vision has gone

no part of the world can find you.


Time to go into the dark

where the night has eyes

to recognize its own.


There you can be sure

you are not beyond love.


The dark will be your womb

tonight.


The night will give you a horizon

further than you can see.


You must learn one thing.

The world was made to be free in.


Give up all the other worlds

except the one to which you belong.


Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet

confinement of your aloneness

to learn


anything or anyone

that does not bring you alive


is too small for you.

~ David Whyte ~

I'm out of town this weekend. See you at Prana next week.

Bone

I'm thinking of that big part of our yoga practice, our souls. What is that, anyway? This week, as I was practicing yoga, I felt it again for the millionth time. That big, big, part which is right there, which is everything but which is the part that I can't really put a name to. It's not Scott. It's bigger.

And I guess this is what people have been trying to point to since there have been people. We all have such a grand language for it. Such a crisis over it. We go to war over it. We put each other in hell for it. Something that isn't a question. Something that's right there. I can reach out and touch it. And sometimes, I feel that you can too-- yours, yes but mine, too. As I'm teaching and I can see you getting into your groove, I see you breathing, I see the focus. Then I see it when things click, lights go on behind your eyes and I see you think to yourself, "There it is!"

And if you're like me, you get it and before you know it, it slips between your fingers and suddenly you're looking all over for it again, under the couch, behind the dresser, because you thought you knew what it was and what it looked like but now you're not so sure any more.

Then it seems to find you because it was there all the time, or you were there and you and it are all the same thing.

Pretty soon, I guess we get so comfortable with it--it's like Peter Pan stitching his shadow onto the sole of his shoe--it doesn't go away anymore. Maybe Patantaji, the ancient guru/yoga scholar who wrote the yoga sutras about finding that big part of yourself called Samadhi, maybe his first given name was Peter Pan until he was reborn with the truth that his sole is always there, right at his feet, and it was then that he was bestowed the honorable name, Patanjali. He learned and teaches that it is by singular concentration that we simply open our eyes to it. We learn to see again.

This is what our practice is about. This is why it's a practice, yes, because it is slippery. And because it feels really, really, good every time we make that discovery, and even the journey leading up to it.

One of my guru teachers is poet Mary Oliver. She's a teacher whom I've never met but who has taught me so much by her simple and astounding words, written after she has paid acute attention to this amazing heaven, the world around us. She wrote (in much fewer words than I, mind you) something about this practice of searching for the soul. Enjoy.

Bone

1.

Understand, I am always trying to figure out

what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape--

and so, last week,
when I found on the beach
the ear bone
of a pilot whale that may have died

hundreds of years ago, I thought
maybe I was close
to discovering something--
for the ear bone

2.

is the portion that lasts longest
in any of us, man or whale; shaped
like a squat spoon
with a pink scoop where

once, in the lively swimmer's head,
it joined its two sisters
in the house of hearing,
it was only

two inches long--
and I thought: the soul
might be like this--
so hard, so necessary--

3.

yet almost nothing.
Beside me
the gray sea
was opening and shutting its wave-doors,

unfolding over and over
its time-ridiculing roar;
I looked but I couldn't see anything
through its dark-knit glare;

yet don't we all know, the golden sand
is there at the bottom,
though our eyes have never seen it,
nor can our hands ever catch it

4.

lest we would sift it down
into fractions, and facts--
certainties--
and what the soul is, also

I believe I will never quite know.
Though I play at the edges of knowing,
truly I know
our part is not knowing,
but looking, and touching, and loving,
which is the way I walked on,
softly,
through
the pale-pink morning light.



I hope to see you in class.

Scott