onefatyogi

A few weeks ago I attended the Symposium on Yoga Research conference at Kripalu.  Most of the time was spent in hearing presentations of scientific papers, but I did manage to fit in a couple of yoga sessions.  In one of them, the instructor told us about one of his preschool exercise classes.

“Okay, all the 4 year-olds, run as fast as you can to that wall,” Jay told his kids.  They did, and he then said, “Now, all you 3-year-olds run as fast as you can to the wall.”

One little guy was left behind, poised to run but not moving.  Jay asked him, “Jeremy, why didn’t you run?”  Jeremy replied, “Mr. Jay, you never called me.  I’m 3 ½.”  Jay called, and he ran to the wall as fast as he possibly could, to the cheers of his classmates.

For a toddler, that half makes a big difference.  Three seems like a very long time ago (after all, that 6 months is almost 15% of his whole life), and four is an equally long way off.   But what a great way to think!  Yes, right now I am just the age that I am, not more and not less.  Today I am proudly 3 ½,* and want to BE exactly that.  I am who I am today, and that’s perfect.  I will only run when I’m called as my true self, and then run with all my heart.

Like Jeremy, I want to be proud of being all that I am right now.

*In truth, more like 63 and 10/12ths, but hey, it’s only a number.

Tseten's Mother-in-Law

This time last year I was in India; in Gangtok, Sikkim, to be precise, the city that has recently been so devastated by the September 18 earthquake.  We had been in the country for almost two weeks by then, it was pouring rain, and I was really sick with bronchitis.  Our small group was to leave for the North and even higher altitudes nearer to the Tibet border. My chest infection was being aggravated by the combination of nearly 8000 feet of altitude, humidity, and mold, so it was decreed by the doctor that I had to stay behind.  The only reason I was not totally bummed out was that I felt too awful to care.

What a blessing it turned out to be!  While I missed the opportunity to see some spectacular sights, instead I spent the time with new friends in Gangtok. India Supera, the remarkable founder of Feathered Pipe, had stayed behind with me, and in lieu of dinner, we had chai and chapatis together at the hotel after the rest of the group left.  Not surprisingly, the electricity went out, but I needed to sleep anyway, so it was perfectly cozy and comforting.  India is a real earth mother, so her company was the best I could have asked for.

The next day the two of us stayed at the home of the renowned thangka painter, Tseten Gyatso, and his sons and mother-in-law.  (Tseten has painted for the Dalai Lama and for the former royal family of Sikkim.) They made us lunch, and Tseten explained more of the symbolism of the beautiful thangka I had purchased from him a few days before.  By then it was only misting, and he and his older son Jigme, India and I went for a gentle walk up to the small monastery on the mountain above their home, and also to see the small school they run for the village children.  The next day Jigme took me to Enchey monastery, to the Ganesh Tok, and back to my favorite bookstore/art gallery in Gangtok, where the owner, Raman, has also become a friend.  We then met India for a wonderful Tibetan lunch of soup and momos (dumplings) downtown.

Of course I was feeling pretty uncomfortable through all of this, but everyone was so solicitous, and took care to make sure I was not overdoing it.  While a hot cup of chai on rainy day is always comforting, there is nothing like it when it is real Indian chai, you are sick, and it is made with love by a person of graceful spirit.  (Perhaps even better than chicken soup!) Tseten’s tiny mother-in-law was formerly a Buddhist nun, and spends much of each day in prayer.  She has not a word of English, but her tea and her hugs needed no words to make me feel cared for.

That first day at his house, Tseten offered me some kind of red powdered herb, telling me to put it under my tongue and it would help my lungs.  I was a bit skeptical, but of course accepted it.  Then he told me it had been blessed by the Dalai Lama, and after that, nothing would have kept me from taking it.  I admired the tiny carved and lidded stone bowl he had presented it in, and Tseten told me it was mine to keep.  It now sits in a place of honor in my yoga room, along with a small statue of White Tara that Tseten also painted for me, and of course, his thangka on the wall.

Doors close and doors open.  I will not say that there is always sunshine around the corner or in the next open doorway.  Often there isn’t.  And this episode represented a tiny change in plans, not a major life upheaval.  But whenever I think of the time I spent in the heartfelt embrace of these friends in a strange country, and the grace and joy with which they blessed me, I am still flooded with gratitude and warmth.   And I try to remember that things are not always what they seem when life tosses me a curve, because this turned out to be my most special time in India.

Here is a photo of Lama Paljor (also known as Kushu Penjo La)–a monk I met in Sikkim last year. Our group had lunch with him, and he gave us a tour of the Pal Zurmang Kagyuo monastery near Gangtok.  It was a rainy day, and he and I shared a running joke about my umbrella, which had I borrowed and he broke!   He is another laughing monk who spreads joy everywhere while helping create a better world.

Lama Paljor

Here is what the Tibetan Children’s Education Fund has to say about him: Lama Paljor has been an inspiration to many. He has dedicated himself to the service of the poorest communities in Sikkim where he has built and manages schools. . . In 2010 H.H. the Dalai Lama recognized Lama Paljor’s exceptional social service projects and encouraged him to continue this important work.

More on yesterday’s theme about self-talk to get over butterflies in any situation, beginner or otherwise.  This morning, my sister sent me an article from an on-line magazine about Cleveland, where she lives.  It was about the comic strip character Ziggy, who, if you recall, is a sort of perpetually bewildered child/man figure.  The writer of the strip often comes out with some remarkable insights.

The one that struck me was this:  Ziggy goes to a shrink, who tells him not to worry if people are always laughing at him.  “Remember, you are helping to make the world a happier place.”

What great advice!  We worry soooo much about what people think of us, when of course most of the time they are too busy worrying about themselves to pay attention to anything else.  But so what if they do laugh at us?  Are we taking ourselves so seriously we can’t laugh at ourselves?

My teacher Bob Butera asked a couple of days ago if any of us had met a “real” yogi—by which he meant someone who is completely immersed in a yogic lifestyle and is living each day focused on spiritual growth.   Only a few of us had met such a person, but he asked those who had if they ever laugh.  And the consensus was, yes, they are laughing all the time!  Think Dalai Lama here—I think he has the most infectious grin I’ve ever seen, and he has a delightful giggle, like a small child’s—and a great wonderful belly laugh as well.

Dalai Lama

We know laughter makes great medicine, but it when we can laugh at ourselves, it’s not only a great ego- deflator, but also a way to acknowledge that all laughter makes the world a happier place.

Laughing Buddha at Feathered Pipe

I received a very welcome e-mail from a friend and fellow yoga student today, and in it she expressed some nervousness about a new yoga class she will be teaching this fall.  I think we are all at least a bit nervous when starting any new venture—I know I am, even if it is something I have expertise in.

The thing is, Carol will be a wonderful teacher.  She has the kind of warm and caring personality that makes you instantly drawn to her, and a style about her (she is a massage therapist) that simply invites trust.  She has a passion for yoga that shows in every moment—I would love to have her as a teacher, if she didn’t live so darn far away!

But she reminded me of two thoughts that have both worked for me in combatting beginner’s jitters.

I remember when my boys were small, I always worried if I was “doing it right” as a mom.  They’re close together in age, so I didn’t even get the benefit of having the experience spread over time.   I did many, many, many things less than perfectly, of course, but one thing that gave me confidence, at least when they were little, was the knowledge that they didn’t know any better—they had no standard of comparison.  It may have been the first time I was a mom, but it was the first time they ever had a mom.  So what did they know?  If I messed up, they took it in stride, because they never expected me to be perfect—they had no expectations at all, except that I would love them fiercely.   And I certainly did do that, so we muddled through their childhoods together.

Same with the yoga classes I teach—since my style is so different than most other yoga teachers, even those who have done yoga previously can’t judge me against a typical standard.  Not all of the students who try my class will like me or my style, of course, but if some choose not to return, many others will.

The second thing is about putting myself out there as a plus-sized yoga teacher (or plus-sized anything, since in this culture “being large in public” is one of the worst faux pas one can commit).   This one is trickier, because people do measure you against younger and thinner models, and of course this is especially true for yoga teachers.  However, what I offer is meant to be different—and for the folks who are not so young, skinny, or flexible, I see myself as a role model.  I sometimes tell my students, “If I can do this, you can do this.”  Yoga is not about asana alone, and my style of yoga is just as real, valuable, and valid as any other.  I know what works for my body, and I might have some clue as to what works for yours if you fall into this group.   In fact, I may know better what works for these students than other teachers do.  And I hope that in my classes I convey much more about the good stuff in yoga than just the physical postures.

And even in the rest of life, I try to hold my head up and remember that I can be a role model to a lot of people precisely because I am not quite what they expected nor do I quite fit the cultural norm.

Lanita Varshell said a profound thing:  everyone has pain (unresolved issues, problems, angst, whatever), it’s just that some of us wear it more visibly on the outside of our bodies.

To Carol, and all the other terrific women with big hearts and big bodies who teach, guide, inspire, and put themselves out there—you go, girls!

Here is one of the most important and meaningful things I learned from Lanita Varshell, of A Gentle Way Yoga:

“If all you can do is show up, lie down in savasana, and breathe,  you are healing yourself.”

The East Coast’s smallish earthquake yesterday was noteworthy mostly for its rarity.  As the New York Times reported, the quake “rattled nerves more than property. “

Since my area is 250 miles from the origin, the jiggle was nothing much here.  As I was living fairly close to the epicenter of the 1994 Northridge quake in California, this one seemed like barely a ripple to me, although the distinctive feeling of a quake is something you never forget.

Yesterday, I happened to be in a waiting room with a giant-screen TV when we felt the tremor.  No question it was an earthquake, but—no surprise here–the newscasters immediately went into over-hyping mode.

The reporter breathless explained that we had indeed had an earthquake, and reported it as a 5.8 or 5.9 magnitude.  Of course there were the usual maps, impromptu interviews with people in the street, quick rounding up of spokespersons who could address the crisis; the previous programming was canceled for non-stop coverage of the event.

Now a 5.8 quake is considered “moderate” based on the Richter scale (and of course there was more damage, and it must have been a bit scarier, near its source in Virginia), but within minutes the reporter had escalated this characterization (with the appropriate chart to demonstrate) as actually being closer to a “strong” quake, as it was nearly a 6.0.  Immediately after that, he claimed it was really like having a quake with a magnitude of 7—i.e., a “major” quake.

Now, I’m sorry, but this offends me in part just for its basic scientific inaccuracy.   Clearly this young man has no idea how to understand the concept of the Richter scale, which measures amplitude on a logarithmic scale, so that a 6.0 quake is 10 times bigger than a 5.0, and a 7.0 quake is 10 times bigger than a 6.0. (This is an egregious oversimplification, but you get the idea.) In any case, a 5.8 quake is not remotely close to a 7-point-something quake.

But it also got me thinking about how so often what we see and hear these days is grossly exaggerated.  Almost all news has to be reported as a crisis; we hear about potential devastation from upcoming weather events days in advance.  And I won’t even start on political issues. Even on the good side, everyone who wears a uniform or who has survived a devastating accident or illness has to be defined as a hero.  A nice thought, but no more true than that the bad stuff is all devastating.

Why does everything have to be made scarier, better, or just bigger than it is? Are we so jaded that we no longer can recognize a minor problem, but have to turn it into a crisis?  Are we so over-stimulated all the time that we can’t tell the difference, or worse, don’t even notice, a small, quiet happening?  When there is a crisis, are we running around so panicked that our judgment is tainted by hysteria?

It bears some thinking about what a more yogic response would be.

One of the most wonderful things about our Lanita Varshell workshop at Feathered Pipe was the group of people involved.  Mostly women, mostly at mid-life (or beyond—someone once said to me,  “what, you expect to live to be 110?” when I referred to myself as middle-aged at 55), all incredibly talented people of great depth and beauty.

This assembly was exceptionally intriguing because every one of them, despite sometimes remarkable stories of personal hardships and challenges, was leading a funnel-shaped life.  I am sure there are other and better ways to characterize this, but it’s inspiring to meet people who at age 45, 58, 70, or whatever, are expanding their scope of interests, careers, knowledge, and fun outward, into an ever-broadening cone of wisdom and joy.  These are women* who are taking the cliché seriously and making each day the first day of the rest of their lives, in a big way.

Contrast this attitude to that of many whose lives are more cylindrical—just sort of going on, perhaps perfectly content and most certainly fine individuals, but not growing in the same way, with increasing passion and intensity.  There are also those few whose lives take the opposite shape, and are narrowing their scope of living, whether for reasons of age, adversity, fear of the future, or something else—their lives contracting slowly. I only know a handful of people who fit this description, but it strikes me as unbearably sad.

Enough of torturing this metaphor, but it’s by way of applauding my new-found friends and muses.  To Lanita and all—what a group, and what splendid beings you are!

*Again, not to exclude our one very special man—he was just as inspirational, but since we were overwhelmingly female, it’s just easier to characterize the group as women

“A good teacher is one who will not give you an answer but allow you to find the answer in yourself.” (T.K.V. Desikichar)

Life in the rocks

It’s hard to put into words what an amazing experience our Montana yoga retreat was.  Feathered Pipe is a beautiful place, Lanita Varshell is a beautiful teacher, and the women in the workshop (you too, Gordon!) are beautiful people.

Early on, Lanita gave us an assignment:  to pay attention to what we liked about our classmates and what we liked about ourselves.  At the end of the week, we would all share.

A simple assignment, it seems.  But maybe not so much for those of us who are not very good at acknowledging our personal worth.  It was indeed pretty easy for us to identify what we found radiant, spiritual, creative, brilliant, and inspiring in each other; a bit harder to see, accept, and openly put forth those things in ourselves.

Yes, this was a yoga workshop and teacher training, and we spent several hours each day learning and practicing yoga theory and asanas.  However, we also spent a significant amount of time working on accepting ourselves just as we are, and using appropriate language to express this—all the time.  No negative comments about our bodies or anything else allowed:  if you have a cranky knee, it’s not a “bad” knee, it’s a knee feeling some pain in it today.  If you yourself are feeling cranky, it is not okay to think or talk about yourself as a grouch, but instead simply acknowledge that on this particular morning you did not get sufficient sleep to feel your best.  (And I vowed to stop referring, even jokingly, to the “pretzel girls” of yoga—that’s no more appropriate than it is for them to look at me and wonder why I’m doing yoga.)

But is this yoga?  Absolutely—yoga teaches us that we are all perfectly fine just where we are right now.   We are on a journey of self-realization, but each step on the journey is faultless, because it is right for us at this moment.   The most important aspect of a yoga practice is not perfecting the poses—they are just a small element of a much large whole—but rather, developing awareness and acceptance of the body, of our spiritual and emotional state, and of our movement along the path.  Lanita’s yoga retreat was not just about learning new poses, but learning what worked for each of us individually, how to let go of old attitudes and negative self-talk, and to cultivate our positive intentions and the growth of our well-being.  Lanita taught us the mantra:  “I’m all right right now.”

Yes.

The lake at Feathered Pipe

I am, and so are you.