I Know the Truth

There was a derelict shed behind the forgotten house where my grandfather kept his old tractor. He used the tractor for plowing his acre-size garden, his pride and joy, his reason for living and the only thing left of his family's inheritance. At 5 years old, I remember stepping into the old shed, my eyes adjusting to the dark as I breathed shallowly the imposing scent of gasoline and dirt which seemed to me the very smell of time itself. I remember the old timbers holding that place together, the collection of old Utah license plates hanging on the far wall, a chopping stump with an axe embedded permanently within, like the sword in the stone for a kid. Along the far eastern wall was a sloping pile of silky black coal, chunks the size of misshapen grapefruits, coal that had been forgotten several decades ago when my great-grandparents died and with them died the need for fueling their coal burning furnace and oven. Mostly, I remember sitting on top of that tractor in its wide seat, looking over to see the enormous rear tires dwarfing the small front ones. I remember trying to reach the clutch gas and pedal with my short legs and handling the stick. The top of the gear shifter was decorated with a black skull. Now, the memory of it tells me that we are all dust. "Go ahead," it seemed to say. "Plant, sow, till. But one day you too will be planted in this earth and that is the simple hard truth, as sure as there is earth to till." And knowing this, like everyone else, I try to make meaning of the relatively small time I enjoy walking on top of this earth instead of being buried beneath it. The poet Maria Tsvetayeva speaks to this perfectly when she says in her poem: I know the truth - give up all other truths! No need for people anywhere on earth to struggle. Look - it is evening, look, it is nearly night: what do you speak of, poets, lovers, generals? The wind is level now, the earth is wet with dew, the storm of stars in the sky will turn to quiet. And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it. When I read the first line "I know the truth - give up all other truths!" my mind snaps to attention. What monumental truth has she discovered and needs to tell me? To me, she's asking the human race to stop struggling and look at the beauty of the world, the night, and of course the oncoming dusk of our own lives. She says, take a look at the world around us and see how we are all part of the big picture. Written in a time in Soviet history when poets were persecuted and killed, Maria Tsvetayeva makes a beautiful inclusion of the generals, the very people who sought to eliminate poets, "what do you speak of, poets, lovers, generals?" and by so doing, speaks to the bigger truth, even beyond the threat of her own death, that we are all people, subject to the same fate, "And soon all of us will sleep under the earth . . . . " By pointing to the fact that, "all of us will sleep under the earth, we/ who never let each other sleep above it", she uses her voice as a poet, an oracle, to illuminate the futility of struggling with each other when we will all eventually experience the same fate. This is not a message of doom and gloom. It's a wake-up call to practice being in the here and now and to look beyond dogma and idealism and search for the divine humanity in everyone including "lovers, poets, generals." I'm sure all of us fit into one if not all three of those categories. What does it mean to be human and how do we truly appreciate another day in the sun? From Sun salutations to corpse pose, in yoga we get to practice being human. We practice the vicissitudes of living, the ups and downs, the tension release, the struggles and joys. Perhaps mostly we practice paying attention before the sun has set and it is too late. And by practicing, my hope is that we find something within us, something deep down that we can call real, something that we find to be fundamentally beautiful and good. Finding this within, even to a small degree, may we look around and find the same quality in everything else, particularly those people around us, family, loved ones, strangers. May we, through practicing yoga and therefore better understanding ourselves, see the beauty, majesty and miracle of everything. Perhaps this is the true meaning of what it is to see. Scott

No Shirt. No Shoes. No Problem!

In Kaua'i, there is a feeling that permeates the island, inborn to the locals and infectious to its visitors. For me the feeling can be summed up in a simple motto: No Shirt. No Shoes. No Problem. The island spirit seems to welcome all people to come as they are, whether they are bronzed beach bums or uptight tourists. I'd like to adopt some of this aloha spirit in our yoga culture. Yoga is about getting to know yourself and the world around you by practicing awareness. It's about willing to refine yourself through the transformational heat of the practice (any change, even gentle change, is refining). It's about practicing surrender and submitting to a force larger than yourself. All of this can be done from whatever place you find yourself in life. Whether you're fit or fat, got a tight butt or just tight hamstrings, stressed out or blissed out, there's a place for you in yoga. Whether you feel like you're falling apart or feel like the world is rolling your way, whether you're going through your daily ho-hum, or major changes are stretching your life, whether you're a soccer mom, a corporate bigwig, or a total wide-eyed beginner, yoga's for you. Whether it's advanced asana practice or meditation or restorative yoga, there's a practice for you. Besides, yoga class seems to be one of those few places not proximal to the beach that can also boast the motto: No Shirt. No Shoes. No Problem. I'm back. I'll see you in class!

Meet Me at the Crossroads

The crossroads is a magical place. It’s the place where the ethereal, spiritual, and philosophical meets the physical, real, and practical. Where these two roads intersect is the holy ground of transformation, it’s the place where we have to drop our one-track thinking and see the many roads. Practicing yoga means to be at the crossroads. One legend of the Crossroads involves the King of the Blues, Robert Johnson. It is said that one night, deep in the South, the Delta, Robert Johnson left home and as the clock struck midnight, he found himself standing at the intersection between here and there, now and then, this way and that way. There he found the Devil who showed him what was possible with a guitar and told him he would never amount to anything unless he sold his soul in exchange for learning how to play the guitar like nobody’s business. Robert Johnson weighed his options and cashed in his soul (or maybe found it) by making the deal with the devil. He threw his guitar over his shoulder and walked down the road to there, possibility, and everything, giving up on the roads from there, safe comfortable, and the predictable. As he strutted down the road he said to the Devil, “I am the blues.” These crossroads don’t only involve the devil and the blues. Crossroads exist all over the place, wherever the other world meets this one, wherever the spirit world meets the physical one. Places like churches, temples, and holy sites. Your yoga mat is a crossroads. It’s like a tabernacle, what ancient people used as a traveling temple. Your yoga mat is the traveling temple where spirit and body meet to show you what’s possible inside of you. And yes, I’ve meet the devil there before. I’ve seen him in sitting on my tight hip in kapatasana, pigeon pose; on my steel hamstrings in hanumanasana, the splits pose; and I’ve seen him doing a victory dance on my quivering raised leg in that damned standing splits pose. I’ve come face to face with my physical limitations, yes, but also with my own neurosis, my deepest fears, self-limiting thoughts, and deep, deep wells of grief. I’ve seen that everything is linked to everything else. I’ve meet the divine on my mat as well. I see regular joy in handstands, pleasure and peace in savasana, fun in transitions, and possibilities in postures. I get regular hits of insight, of purpose, and a deep sense of belonging. Most importantly, at the crossroads of where physical meets spiritual, I get regular glimpses of the real who and what I am. Robert Johnson sold his soul, meaning he gave up the simple, naïve way of seeing the world for a richer, more comprehensive and real view of the world. And for us to experience the larger view of ourselves we have to give up something. I believe instead of selling our soul, we sell the armor that protects us from experiencing only the good, the simple, and the happy. I believe that sometimes we must walk down the roads of grief, struggle, and pain to see how immensely beautiful life is. It’s the larger view. It’s the view of heaven and it will cost you your life. At least, the way you’ve been living it before now. And you can never go back. But in the end after seeing what’s possible, would you want to? This week, meet me at the crossroads. Meet me at Prana on your yoga mat and explore that place where heaven meets earth.

What's Your Background Music?

Once a friend told me that she was having her baby and that she was going to do it at home, without drugs, I’m told that means a lot of pain, and asked me if I would make her some CDs of music that would usher her through this grueling and beautiful experience with mindfulness and peace. I got to make the mix CD that became background music for one of the most memorable experiences that this woman will ever have in her life. I am honored to have participated in such a momentous event in that relatively small way. Last year my brother made me a playlist for a marathon. It was mile 20 of the race, my tired legs were trudging up the side of this impossibly long and hill (it was a trail marathon) and just as I was about to expire, the cliché and unyieldingly victorious power-chords of Eye of the Tiger began beating in my ears. As that song began, my gaze focused, my legs jumped into action, and my nerves solidified. Those notes pushed me up that hill and fueled me to go on to finish the race. One track on my playlist was his voice telling me to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Days change. The world spins around like a record and what we played as our background music today is different than yesterday. It’s all part of being real with where you are at today. It’s all part of paying attention and we do that in all sorts of ways, whether that’s through a yoga practice or choosing the song that acts as our background music for today. What would be your background music today? Today mine would be If It Be Your Will written by Leonard Cohen and performed by Antony. If you are interested in sharing your background music for today, go to my Facebook page and share a link of your song. It will be wonderful to hear what other people have chosen for their music.

Shakti to the System

In non-duelist thought, everything has an equal counterpart that ultimately balances the universe into one balanced state. The symbol of yin and yang is a perfect example of this: each side is not only balanced by the opposite of the other, but more poignantly, the essence of one is located in the heart of the other represented by the black circle in the white space, and the white circle in the black space.

Balancing out the masculine energy of light and spirit, in yoga philosophy the energy of Shiva, is the creative and dynamic female energy of Shakti. According to this model of yogic philosophy, while the masculine energy is contemplative and spiritual, the female energy, however, is determined to do something about it-to dance and celebrate that spirit into form. It should be noted that despite our gender we all have energies and traits that are both masculine and feminine. Therefore, Shakti could be described as the spirit producing action. I'm guessing that we've all experienced this feeling of Shakti sometime or other when we've been inspired to action. When we express this Shakti, we feel powerful and creative, we breathe and we move. This feeling of Shakti is very empowering. It is the defining action that changes worry into something productive. After all, as one of my teachers, Judith Lasater taught me, "What is worrying but praying for what you don't want." Not only worry, though. Shakti tells the Universe that you are serious by putting action to your resolve. Even if our answers to our doubt or what is moving in those subtle realms of thought and spirit isn't immediately available, by expressing this Shakti, we've open up a channel whereby more spirit and clarity can shine through. Sometimes it takes physical motion, a little re-arranging of the furniture, to realize the bigger changes that you'd like to see. Besides, it's fun! Fun is exactly this: motion on spirit. I'd like to invite you to familiarize yourself with this feeling of Shakti. My mode to become familiar with this is by first drawing in through breathwork and meditation to identify spirit. Then using asana, we'll explore a way to celebrate that spirit that will be fun and challenging. We'll breathe, move, and sweat. Once we've been reminded of our higher selves through this practice of yoga, I invite you to apply the added spirit you will feel into the vital elements of your practice of everyday living, your relationships and work.

You Can Have Happy

Why do we love tragedies? Why do we love a good cry? Why do we subject ourselves to the Twilight Saga? I mean really?! Why do we do it to ourselves? For the record, and in the spirit of full disclosure, I’ve seen ALL the Twilight movies thus far and have every intention of seeing the next one. Not because I think that they are well written, acted, edited, or filmed, or that any of the actors are even attractive. Maybe it’s the fact that they are precisely not so that makes it so appealing, like they’ve gone so far down the road to bad that somehow they have circled the vast globe of badness and have magically found their way back toward something approaching good. Or at least interesting. Maybe morbidly so. Which is good. Which brings me back to my point: why do we love things that can be morbidly bad? Like Roquefort cheese. Have you tasted that jazz? It’s the most smelly-foot smelling and tasting cheese in the world of smelly-foot cheeses and I’m here to tell you that the stuff is off the hook! Yeah, I’m not going to eat it by the pound, but a morsel of Roquefort judiciously spread over a crispy wheat cracker is something that borders on perfection. Why do we like things that aren’t all roses and laughs? Maybe it’s because what is most satisfying in life isn’t being happy. That’s what the Blues are all about. Being happy just one part of what it is like to be human. Because as human beings we thrive by working to understanding what we are. And to appreciate our own humanity means to understand everything that it is to be human: loss, joy, love, meanness, disappointment, gut-splitting laughter, an ache so large in the heart that it feels as if someone is literally standing on your chest. All of it. It’s because we cannot define ourselves by happiness alone, beyond happiness we keep searching for all the other things that make us US. It’s why we make decisions that we know are going to hurt but there is no other way. So we do it. We travel that tough road because we know that there is something over on the other side that calls to our True Self and we really have no other choice. As if happiness weren’t large enough a word. It’s more about living this life to the fullest by accepting everything that this life will throw at us. It’s presence, which is what we cultivate and practice in yoga and meditation. Being present with a well-lived sadness is a great way of offering a gift to others in that sadness is such a real part of being human and expressing it fully reminds us all of the beautiful phenomenon of being. Just listen to John Lee Hooker sing Rainy Day and you’ll know what I mean. So, you can expect to find me sometime in the near future contemplating existence while sitting alone in some dark theater, crying in tandem with the plaintive and gaunt Abercrombie models, alone, purely because no one can stand the smelly-feet perfection of my Roquefort movie treat. All this while being the most content person in the world. You can have happy. Come as you are to practice and let’s agree to live all of it to the fullest.

Groping in the Dark

Jin-soon and I had been talking casually for half an hour when we saw the monk. Tog-hyon emerged from the forest carrying a walking stick and wearing a Buddhist-chic, patchwork vest, baggy, gray monk's pants that tightened around the ankles with knots for buttons, and a large straw hat. He greeted us with a broad smile and bow and before even bothering to learn our names, he invited us into his small hermit's home for tea and lunch. He lived a mile into the forest, away from the principal monastery. He spoke to me in rusty yet precise English. During tea he said that he'd learned English in law school before he became a monk, fifteen years ago. The warm spring morning covered us with a comforting blanket of fragrant, humid air. This deep into the forest, the whole world seemed to be the brightest most vivid green of new leaves beginning to spring from the trees. How could the world sustain such a fresh and new vitality? It was 2003. I had been in Korea teaching English and studying meditation for almost a year. My dear Jin-soon (fellow teacher and guide to all the best things Korean) had invited me to come and visit her favorite monastery, where visitors get to live like monks for a while and find solace. We sat down on the floor as Tog-hyon prepared the tea. Eager to begin conversation, I mentioned that it was very peaceful there at his hermitage, and without my knowing it, my lessons had begun. "Why do you say that it is peaceful here?" he inquired with that sage smile of his. I fumbled for something to say, sensing I had made a faux-pas and that my logic was about to be mercilessly squashed. "The peace we have can only come from within. Otherwise, it will always leave us. We are doomed for sadness if we base our happiness on things that are constantly changing." He stared deeply into my eyes. After lunch Jin-soon offered to do the dishes and just before I jumped in to help, Tog-hyun arrested my gaze and asked me if I would go on a walk with him. I regretted that Jin-soon was going to miss this because of her offer to wash dishes. But it was just him and me. We met a thin yet worn path that began near his house. He quietly walked along the path through the bamboo forest as I followed on his heels. I instinctively began to do the museum walk, hands clasped behind my back. I do this when I don't want to disturb the beauty and priceless art around me. We walked for a few minutes until we came to a bamboo barrier lying across the path that was obviously made by him. There was a sign on the post in neat Korean. He pointed to it and pronounced, "This says that this place is not for just anyone. But you're not just anyone," and lifted up the barrier for me to pass. A few more minutes and we came to a small building, which looked like an organized sculpture of the trees and orange clay of its immediate environs. There were tree posts supporting it, a curved, tiled roof, and a large wooden deck. "I built this with three other monks. I had a very difficult time," he said, laughing. "Let's meditate." He offered me the only mat on the porch and we both sat down, cross-legged, and stared out into a vast, unspoiled mountain vista. West. Again, my meditation was deep and peaceful. My eyes were open. What is this spirit inside me? I thought. That seems to be the six-million dollar question, here. Again, I became very still. I stared at a tree in the distance. It was different than those surrounding it. It was a lone dark-green tree in an ocean of lightly colored spring-green trees. I felt like that tree was me.

After 20 minutes, Tog-hyun said, "Do you hear the wind blowing through the pines? There's an old Zen poem that says, 'What is the price of the wind blowing through the pines?' So I ask you. . ." (Damn! here comes another question!) ". . .what is the price of the wind through the pines?" I rattled off some light-weight answer like, "The wind, the trees, they are part of us all, part of our soul. Our soul is priceless- "You don't understand me, do you?" he interrupted gently. "I don't understand," I said. "You studied English in the university, and you don't understand?" he kindly goaded me. "Stop thinking about it. You can't use theories to answer the question. You can't use language. You must doubt. You must continually ask the question (Who am I?) and one day you will learn. It will take three days of constant meditation. Even while you are resting, your mind must be pondering the question of the price of the wind through the trees. Someday you will know. Let the blade of doubt cut through the blackness of the mind. Let's go back." And with that, we stood up and he led me back to his house. He entered and this time opened the wooden shutters to the only window in the room. It opened to the West, and he had me sit directly to his left, facing the window. "He's so young and makes many mistakes, but he is very spiritually minded. I can see that," he said to Jin-soon and some other people who had come in our absence. More tea. It was time to go. We'd spent almost five hours with Tog-hyun. Before going, I told him that I'd soon be home with family and friends in America and asked him if there was a message of wisdom he would like to send with me. He told me that a message from him wasn't necessary; instead, I must find the message within my own self and share it. I thought I should have learned that lesson by now. Before leaving, Tog-hyun reached into a closet and gave me a very expensive box of tea. As he walked us to the edge of the hermitage he read the Chinese inscription on the box. "It says, 'Zen and the taste of tea is the same.'" Then without a segue he added, "Continue to doubt. Always doubt." And with that we bowed humbly to him, and left. It was late. We hiked back to the principal temple grounds and stopped by the Great Hall one more time to make our final bows, grabbed our bags, and took the first bus out. We began our 4-hour trip home and I pondered Tog-hyun's words. Doubt When we feel we know, when there is nothing else to search for, we become complacent, stagnant. Surety seems like a comfortable place but it's a damning place. It's the false security of thinking that the journey is over, that there's nothing else to search for or find. Doubt, wonder keeps our eyes open in wonder, keeps us searching and discovering. Let's not mistake doubt for cynicism, mind you. It is doubt that keeps us asking the questions that will lead us to the next mile marker, and the next, and the next. It's doubt that keeps us groping in the dark until we find our way through. But to think you have the answers is to lie and say you've arrived, to sit down and get sleepy, and forget what you are looking for while the grass grows. Mysteries, Yes, by Mary Oliver Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood. How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of the lambs. How rivers and stones are forever in allegiance with gravity while we ourselves dream of rising. How two hands touch and the bonds will never be broken. How people come, from delight or the scars of damage, to the comfort of a poem. Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers. Let me keep company always with those who say "Look!" and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads.