Apurva – Yoga with Jenn

The New Year’s Pilgrimage through India revealed a practice that extends well-beyond one’s mat. Throughout the 188+ miles traveled through the province of Tamil Nadu, I found myself often reflecting on Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras – yoga in action, in devotion, and in daily life. It was inspiring not only to witness but encouraged to participate in a journey of self-study (Svadhyaya).
I have enjoyed traveling and visiting other countries with the Sangha and our teacher, so India was a unique opportunity (rāga). However, there were so many unknown variables and risks: traveling alone, being on an airplane for 20+ hours, and being in a foreign country to name just a few (dveṣa). For me, the journey began with Ahimsa (nonviolence): having the courage to set aside my fears and reservations about traveling to India. According to Deborah Adele’s The Yamas & Niyamas: Exploring Yoga’s Ethical Practice,

“Seeking out people and experiences we would normally avoid provides a fertile place to learn new things about ourselves and about life.” (23).

The dualities of power and powerlessness were strong . . . what to pack, flight schedules, transport, annoculations, and immunizations. Truthfully, I was in need of compassion . . . “[w]e learn compassion as we dissolve our personal version of the world, and grow gentle eyes that are not afraid to see reality as it is.” (37). This was a unique experience to explore without any judgement or expectations – to be a visitor to the human experience (62).

On the first day in India, Satya (truthfulness) unveiled itself. In a desire to explore the city of Chennai and to combat jet-lag, I attempted an excursion. Unfortunately, I was completely unprepared for the sensory overload: the colors, the constant honking of horns; thousands of people on foot, bicycles, scooters, mopeds, motorcycles, tuk-tuks, cars, vans, taxis, and buses all vying for a turn on the road. My anxiety and fear were exacerbated when the Uber driver, who spoke very little English, seemed unsure of where he was going. My inability to “stay present in life no matter what its initial unpleasantness” manifested itself in motion sickness, so I returned to the safety of the hotel (53). Afterall, “[t]here is a profound courage to this kind of willingness to be raw with reality as it is, rather than to run from it or construct a barrier to soften it.” (54). Clearly, India cannot be forced – a reminder that by forcing an experience, I was actually stealing (Asteya) from it.
The lessons learned from this attempted excursion created a real opportunity for growth, particularly with regards to Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. While all of the moments in India were memorable, there are specific ones I frequently reflect upon: the street vendor outside of the Sri Ramanasramam in Thiruvannamalai, the Puja Ceremony with Shiva Kumar, the early morning pradakshina (circumambulate) around Mt. Arunachala, and the visit to Brihadeeswara Temple in Thanjavur. In all these instances, there was sacredness in community.

The Vendor and His Wife

A few days into our Pilgrimage, I bravely decided to venture via Tuk-Tuk into Thiruvannamalai to do a meditative practice at Samadhi Hall of Sri Ramanasramam. Afterwards, I took a walk around the grounds and proceeded along the main street just outside of the ashram where I came upon a vendor selling malas. When I inquired if she had a sandalwood mala, she immediately asked her husband who appeared from behind the cart with a separate bag. He presented me with a beautiful and fragrant sandalwood mala. Not only did he offer a great price, but he also blessed it (Brahmacharya). He also suggested that the mala be worn underneath, next to the skin to keep the blessing close to my heart. After asking if I knew how to use it for japa mantras, I demonstrated with the beads between my index and middle finger using my thumb to pull each bead through; he suggested placing the beads between my ring and middle finger instead to avoid the index finger from touching the beads (the index finger is associated with the Ego) (Satya).
After handing him my payment, his wife presented me with an additional mala as a gift (Aparaigraha). The vendor returned with my change and directed me to take a seat in the shade from the midday heat. He then asked his wife to procure a fresh coconut (Ahimsa). Despite my respectful decline, he insisted that it was no trouble. I found myself graciously and gratefully surrendering into the moment (Santosha/Ishvara Pranidhana). Sitting in the shade enjoying the fresh coconut milk, I reflected on Asteya (nonstealing). According to Adele,

“[t]he ownership of things is steeped deep in our language and culture and makes it hard for us to appreciate the extent to which nothing is really ours . . . the bounty of the earth is for the community, not the individual.” (63).

Despite my being a foreigner, the vendor and his wife welcomed me into their community with great compassion and generosity – making a basic economic transaction a very sacred experience.

The New Year’s Eve Puja Ceremony

Having been able to participate in two Puja ceremonies while in India, the most powerful ceremony was led by Shiva Kumar on New Year’s Eve. A few factors set this ceremony apart from the Puja at the Nataraja Temple in Chidambaram. First was the collaborative effort of the Sangha in the creation of the yantra (sand mandala) and the pushpam (flowers). Additionally, the ceremony was private, involving only our Sangha as opposed to the very public setting at the Temple; this privacy created a space of trust and encouraged vulnerability.
For me, the preparation for the Puja ceremony revealed many aspects of the Yamas. While I have assisted in the creation of a Buddhist sand mandala using tools, this was a new experience using only my hands. I had to find courage in not knowing how in order to learn (Ahimsa); I had to focus on self-expression rather than perfection or how it should be; (Satya); I had to curb my desire to help others so as not to take away from their experience (Asteya); I had to focus on the sacredness rather than the reward of a finished product (Brahmacharya), and I had to let go of the need to complete it (Aparigraha).

Photo Credit: Wari Ananda Om

With my hands stained by the colored sand and still fragrant from the flowers, nothing had prepared me for what I was about to experience. All of the preparations of the day culminated in an awe-inspiring setting that took my breath away when I entered the space. The completed, brightly colored yantra was fully illuminated by the strategically placed earthen and brass oil lamps, along with the sculptures of idols Shiva, Ganesh, and Hanuman.

Photo Credit: Wari Ananda Om

One of the required texts for the Pilgrimage was William Dalrymple’s Nine Lives: In Search for the Sacred in Modern India. Each chapter explores the lives of nine people from different belief systems, and each was very interesting. However, the chapter that really resonated with me and reflected the Puja Ceremony was the “The Maker of Idols”. Srikanda is “a Brahmin and an idol maker (Stpathy) who creates bronze sculptures used in various Hindu ceremonies (171). According to Srikanda, “The gods created man . . . but here we are so blessed that we – simple men as we are – help to create the gods.” (171). Practicing Aparigraha (non possessiveness), he states, “once the deity takes on the form of the idol and becomes alive, it is no longer mine.” (174). Throughout the chapter, he reveals the many rituals (Shilpa Shastras) associated with the creation of these idols, including the incantations before (Admartha Slokas) and during (Dhyana Slokas), “You need to maintain not just your skills, but also your discipline” (Tapas) (191-193).

Photo Credit: Wari Ananda Om

Srikanda states, “Without faith, of course, it is just a sculpture. It’s the faith of devotees that turns it into a god.” (174). During the Puja ceremony, Shiva Kumar, our priest, invoked the jivan (life) into the deities through the use various sensory offerings: dhupam (incense), aarti/deepam (light), naivedyam (food), jalam (water), mantram (recitation of sacred verses), ghanti (ringing of the bell), and pushpam (flower petals). Members of the Sangha were also given the opportunity to participate in the offerings through singing and pushpam. It was truly an ethereal experience. The experience reminded me of the “eye-opening” ceremony recounted by Srikanda, “My father acted as the priest, invoking the deity to enter the statute, slowly chiselling open the eyes, and I sat there in a state that was part nerves, part excitement, and part intense devotion.” (198).
Indeed, intense devotion has a way of creating intense emotion. As this was a private ceremony, I felt a sense of security that enabled me to be real and vulnerable (Satya). Of all the moments from the ceremony, there are two that are deeply embedded in my mind and in my heart. The first occurred after a round of singing, our teacher circulated to perform tilaka (the application of the kumkum powder). I was overcome with emotion when she knelt down before me, and our eyes met. Her gaze seemed to invite me to “dive deep into the ocean of the heart.” (239). There, feelings of immense gratitude arose that, even now, brought tears to my eyes. During this dramatic pause in time and space, I acknowledged the divineness that resides deep within her as well as within myself.
Another chapter from Dalrymple’s Nine Lives that resonated with me during the Puja Ceremony was “The Song of the Blind Minstrel.” This chapter recounts the stories of a group of wandering minstrels (Bauls), whose “goal is to discover the divine inner knowledge” as a means to acquire power over the self (227-229). Kanai states, “The happiness and joy that comes with the music helps you find God inside yourself.” (251).

Photo Credit: Wari Ananda Om

The second memorable moment occurred during aarti. As I nervously approached my teacher who was holding the camphor lamp, I paused; she smiled and said, “step into the fire”. Stepping closer, I cupped my hands, waved them over the flame, swept them over the crown of my head, cupped them over my eyes, and rested them over my heart. The chapter titled “The Lady Twilight” from Dalrymple’s Nine Lives, Manisha states, “It is within you that you find the loving shakti of the Mother. This is the place for its realisation, for illumination.” (202). It was then that I realized that part of my Svadhyaya has been to reclaim my own creative power and energy of the divine feminine which had been suppressed in order to rely more on masculine energy as a means of self-preservation.

The Pradakshina

The Niyamas were really evident to me in the early morning pradakshina (circumambulate) around Mt. Arunachala. The approximate 8-mile hike around the mountain through the town of Thiruvannamalai revealed India’s finest of all treasures – its people. I found myself straying from the group as “[o]ur seeing is limited by all the groups that shape us, as well as by our experience.” (Adele, 51). Unbeknownst to me at the time, the hike evolved into a walking meditation. I was indeed content with not seeking but witnessing reality (Santosha). With each and every passerby, I made an intention to connect without judgments, expectations, or assumptions. To truly see one another and be seen,

“[w]e learn compassion as we dissolve our personal version of the world, and grow gentle eyes that are not afraid to see reality as it is.” (37).

Similar to darshan, “it [is] the exchange of vision – the seeing and the seen.” (Dalrymple, 185). For me, it was also a practice of Svadhyaya (self-study). Each greeting was so powerfully moving: an exchange of reverence, respect, and honor leaving me deeply humbled and so very grateful. It reminded me of Kanai’s statement in “The Song of the Blind Minstrel”,

“The joy of walking on foot along unknown roads brings you closer to God. You learn to recognise that the divine is everywhere . . .” (237).

And the divine was indeed everywhere. As the sun rose over Mt. Aranchala, the quiet streets gradually became more alive with people, cars, tuk-tuks, motorbikes, dogs, chickens, and, of course, cows. Of all the activity, one common practice stood out: the early morning ceremony of women sweeping and washing the entrances to homes or businesses, then marking colorful rangoli patterns on the doorsteps. It also brought to mind Dalrymple’s account in “The Maker of Idols”, “Farther up the street, the girls of the village were busy sweeping the fronts of their houses and making rangoli patterns with rice powder on their doorsteps.” (176). This seemingly basic ritual revealed many of the Niyamas: the cleanliness of Saucha, contentment of Santosha, daily self-discipline of Tapas, and the devotion of Ishvara Pranidhanna. Upon further research, the rangoli inspires strength, generosity, and it is believed to bring good luck. Despite the mishap of stepping in cow dung and the huge, painful blisters on the backs of my heels, I was truly honored for the opportunity to witness not only the Niyamas in action but how they created a sense of sacredness in the community.

Darshan at Brihadeeswara Temple

The sense of sacredness in community was evident during our various temple visits. Of all the temples, the Brihadeeswara Temple in Thanjavur was the most memorable – also described in “The Maker of Idols” of Dalrymple’s Nine Lives. It was a bright and warm mid-morning with a moderate gathering of people. As we entered through the South gate, we set aside our shoes and proceeded through the Gopurams to join the procession, passing the Nandi who stood guard in front of the Sri Vimana sanctum. Many people scurried to find a place in line between the interlocking metal sanctions used to que the flow of people for darshan. The incense was fragrant and created an air of auspiciousness. In fact, the incense used in temples often follow the Ayurvedic principles in which the ingredients derive from the five elements.

While it was warm outside, it was definitely cooler inside the sanctorum. Unlike many of the other temples we had visited, Sri Vimana was devoid of a lot of artificial lighting. The limestone under my bare feet was cool and smooth while my eyes took in the array of brightly colored saris and lungis. In front of me was a woman holding her little girl who appeared in need of a nap. In “The Maker of Idols”, Srikanda states,

“All these people have a lot of worries – about money, about family, about work. But when they come to the god in the temple . . . for a while their problems vanish and they are satisfied.” (178).

As the procession slowly made its way towards the inner sanctum for darshan, all who waited were hopeful and grateful. According to Dalrymple, darshan is “to actually see the beauty of the divine image, and to meet the eyes of the god. The gaze of the bronze deity meets the eyes of the worshipper . . . that acts as a focus for bhakti, the passionate devotion of the devotee.” (185). Our teacher’s reminder to focus on the deity, not the priest performing tilaka, replayed itself in my mind as I approached the viewing area.

The Search for Sacredness

Photo Credit: Wari Ananda Om

Srikanda believes that “Without murti (statute of idols), there could be no puja, no temple, nowhere for people to come with their prayers and their problems.” (178). Perhaps, he’s right. However, the lives I witnessed both in and outside of the various temples we visited, revealed a people who value community and sacredness. According to Adele,

“It was time to return to the community, guiding and supporting the community with the inner wisdom that had been attained.” (52).

Throughout our pilgrimage, we were frequently invited into the community in various ways. Some stepped aside for us during darshan. Many fearlessly inquired as to where we were from. Mothers encouraged children to take photos with us. Many people requested “selfies”. Most were welcoming with smiles and greetings. Most made eye-contact. Meals were shared. Heads were bowed. Añjali Mudrā was offered. Om Namaḥ Śivāya and Namaste were uttered and exchanged.

Photo Credit: Wari Ananda Om

Despite being a third-world country, the people of India were gracious and generous with sharing their inner wisdom. Ultimately, I was afforded an opportunity not only to see Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras in action but also

“to see the sacred in the ordinary and the ordinary in the sacred.” (82).

Like Dalrymple’s text accomplishes, I, too, found the sacred in modern India among its people. With every gaze that was met, I found divineness without as well as within.
Om Namaḥ Śivāya🔱🙏

Works Cited:
Adele, Deborah. The Yamas and Niyamas: Exploring Yoga’s Ethical Practice. On-Word Bound Books: Duluth, 2009.
Dalrymple, William. Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India. Vintage Departures: New York, 2011.

I was first introduced to chanting in 2011 at the Midwest Yoga Conference organized by my first teacher, Jonny Kest. Still relatively new to the world of “yoga” and prior to my initial 200-hour teacher training, I was intrigued with chanting. One of the reasons may be linked to my personal history with singing.

I had been in choir throughout my elementary, middle school, and high school years, but my most memorable singing experience occurred under the guidance of Robert Boyd, a truly talented choir director and composer of our choirs at Lyons Township High School.  Under his direction, our class of 1989 Varsity choir became renowned for our ability to break into various parts – some compositions requiring 12 parts, our ability to harmonize, and our ability to tackle difficult compositions – including various foreign languages.  One of my favorite and memorable pieces was Charles Stanford’s “Beati Quorum Via” which was 6-parts entirely in Latin. Even without knowing what the words meant, we had an “intrinsic” understanding and could “imagine the energy permeating every cell of our being” every time we performed it (Girish 99, 167).  I still hold sacred a cassette tape recording of our candlelight choral performance at a local church. While I may not possess the device necessary to the play it, the music remains vivid in my mind and in my heart. It has indeed permeated my being that almost 30 years later I can still sing it.

In 2011 at the conference, twenty-two years later, the feelings and sensations experienced as a singer in choir were rekindled as Janet’s Bhakti/Kirtan reopened those very experiences I had those many years ago: surrounded by those who willingly and without reservation shared their voice to create a community full of sound and vibrations. However, rather than the heavy regimen of “perfect practice” from the choral experience, we were simply offered an opportunity to “feel and enjoy an embodied experience of the peace, love, and wisdom within” (87, 139).

Singing with a group comes relatively natural to me, but it was also safer. After a harrowing experience, my first solo audition became the end of my ever becoming a soloist. I barely trusted my choir director enough to audition for Girl’s Choir and Varsity Choir, thus I could never bring myself to sing alone in front of others. Despite being a yoga teacher since 2011, it has only been in the past two years that I have been courageous enough to incorporate chanting into the classes I teach.  What started with closing my classes with three rounds of Om, gradually evolved to incorporate more elaborate chants that were more or less dictated by the moment. As suggested by Janet, I began small and started to incorporate more as students became more comfortable. Frequently, I often find myself singing solo as some still choose to listen rather than participate. As such, I have to conquer my fears, and I allow myself a opportunity to ground and connect with my breath and my heart beat.

As I continue my journey, I have noted the healing qualities that yoga and singing has provided for me.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, singing was healing as Dr. Hansen’s “Taking in the Good” outlined by Girish as “HEAL.” (97). I always had a positive experience in practice and in performance, and this experience was enriched and extended in so many ways, to include life-long friendships.  Together, we absorbed the energies and qualities of the experience to provide phenomenal performances that not only the choir experienced, but also the audience. It is only upon reflection of this course and the reading of Girish’s Music and Mantras that I have noted the final step of the healing process: “link positive and negative material.” As the old adage states, “hindsight is 20/20”.

One of the more elaborate chants that has always moved me personally is “Hanuman Bolo” – often moving to me tears. Hanuman embodies supreme selfless devotion, strength, courage, and humility in the absence of ego, qualities that I have either discovered within myself or am still seeking to find. Considering my transition to singing in front of others, even a cappella, did require strength and a hell of a lot of courage!  As a survivor of child abuse, I have a lot of fears, to include the fear of change; now “Hanuman Bolo” immediately comes to mind whenever I need to take a “leap” into the unknown.

Since this training, chanting has become much more embedded in my practice in that no practice is complete without it; I frequently find myself completing ajapa mantras to close out my own practice in other classes, and I never end any of my classes without at least a few rounds. I also want to integrate the Surya Mantra into my own practice then possibly into my classes. While I currently sing a cappella, I would also like to start incorporating some droning using my shruti box and, possibly, one day, the harmonium.

Photo Credit: Sanjin Kastelan

Work Cited:

Girish. Music and Mantras: The Yoga of Mindful Singing for Health, Happiness, Peace, and Prosperity. New York: Atria, 2016.

Backgound

The fall of 2005 was a truly devastating turning point in my life: my dearest father lost his battle with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma – attributed to his exposure to Agent Orange while stationed in Vietnam.  It was a rough summer leading up to his passing as my mother was also diagnosed with breast cancer. My son, Jace, was a rather difficult 2-year-old at the time as I was helping to care for my parents who lived 2-hours away while also maintaining a full-time position as a high school English teacher.  After my father’s passing, I returned to college to obtain my Master’s Degree. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I was flinging prana in every direction. My father’s passing projected me into taking on more responsibility in an attempt to cope with the loss. Needless to say, I was devastated and sought comfort in being “busy” – too busy to think about it – what Levine would term as “hypervigilance” (Levine 155).  Indeed, my life was a “giant elastic-band ball” (Stone 73).

In hindsight, this “hypervigilant” path lead me to a path of healing.  I was so busy that I had abandoned my home exercise routine – courtesy of The Firm – and sought refuge in a local yoga studio.  When I first began practicing yoga in 2005, my intention was solely external – to get back into shape. However, this gradually shifted and yoga had become so much more – it became a restorative, healing practice of self-love as well as a means to regain control and maybe loosen those rubber bands. Fast-forward to 2011 when my husband encouraged me to take advantage of a summer-intensive yoga teacher training: my sole intention was not to teach others but to enhance my own practice. So, I set aside my doubts and fears in order to complete the training, and as a result, my svādhyāya truly began. The journey continues thirteen years later as I share my practice, as well as attend classes, festivals, retreats, and trainings.  Overtime, my elastic-band ball has diminished in size.

My Ahaṇkāra of Dvesha

I am a survivor of child abuse and neglect; the abuse I suffered at the hands and from the words of my mother was not only physical, but also psychological. In Levine’s Waking the Tiger, I suffer from Developmental Trauma.  According to Levine, “Traumatic symptoms . . . stem from the frozen residue of energy that has not been resolved and discharged; this residue remains trapped in the nervous system where it can wreak havoc on our bodies and spirits.” (19). This was evident in many aspects of my life which became my ahaṇkāra: fear of becoming an abusive parent, fear of change (no matter how small and insignificant), fear and distrust of others, fear of loving and being loved, feeling unwanted, untrustworthy, undeserving, and unimportant.  I was even afraid of my own voice (Levine 151, Stone 145). Despite being in choir all through high school, I refused to sing a solo and participate in auditions since my mother’s degrading comments after my first performance in grade school.

On a family trip to Colorado, I remember having my palms read – the reader stated, “You been through this life many times.”  Being 7-8 years of age, I was ignorant as to what she meant, much less able to confirm its validity. However, these words have been ingrained in my mind ever since, and have affected the great shift in my perspective from anger and shame to immense gratitude: these experiences of suffering have contributed to making me who I am today: forgiving, empathetic, compassionate, and loving. In fact, it became my purushartas – “[t]hat difficulty is also our potential for liberation.” (Stone 81).  After all, “no mud, no lotus.” However, it’s also interesting to note that if I have been through this life many times, my samskara apparently runs deep.

Svādhyāya

According to Levine, “Body sensation, rather than intense emotion, is the key to healing trauma.” (12). Over the years, yoga has been instrumental in helping me to reveal and transform the deeply-embedded traumas of my childhood.  Through the many years of practice, I have learned a lot about myself as the “decades”, maybe “lifetimes”, of suppression and these conditioned patterns surfaced in my practice – my fear of inversions, my difficulty with backbends, a general distrust of my intuition, and even the fear of my voice – all spilled out and exposed on my mat (Levine 149, Stone 21). Through the continued practice and various trainings, yoga became a “transformative” way of life for me (Levine 1); Stone refers to Freud’s “the return of the repressed.” (Stone 73). In fact, I began to identify with the ebb and flow of sensations as “compressed energy” that I have held onto for so many years as they were revealed in my practice (Levine 76). I recall struggling through various asanas in the very beginning, being ego-driven to simply accomplish the posture in the basest physical form.  Years later, I was able to connect these sensations with the developmental trauma of my childhood.

According to Levine, “. . . the solution to vanquishing trauma comes not through confronting it directly, but by working with its reflection, mirrored in our instinctual responses.” (65). This quote stood out to me the most: while I have participated in numerous counseling sessions throughout my adolescent years, the true healing occurs on my mat. When I set aside my “ahaṇkāra” (the “I-maker” composition rooted in my traumatic experiences), I try not to focus on the end goal, but on the single, fleeting moment, and how I respond or react to each one physically and mentally – “it becomes a practice of finding within ourselves freedom from being caught in impermanent and limited situations.” (Stone 27, 99). Almost every time I come to my mat, something new is revealed; under the right guidance, an inner freedom is opened or released in the form of an inversion, a back bend, or even singing.  It is through these experiences that I also became aware of how my sense of self was heavily based on past experiences and how new information was filtered through that previously determined sense of self (121). Indeed, yoga has become my adaptive process allowing for the gradual renegotiation of the “sheaths of memory” relating to the traumas of my lifetime, and quite possibly the traumas of lifetimes before.

The Tapas

Janet’s equating the sequencing of one’s practice to that of a story was rather curious since “narratives are only ideas” that, according to Stone, “the practice is to move beyond the story line and to stay, with acceptance patience, and curiosity with the changing sensations that appear from moment to moment.” (139, 173). However, Janet’s extended metaphor also really spoke to me as an English teacher; I can visualize the “exposition”, “rising action”, “climax”, “falling action”, and “resolution” in the construct of a class. The exposition is to “expose” or reveal what is already there: characters are introduced and relevant background is provided.  As a student/teacher, I always begin the practice with a few moments of complete stillness to silence the mind (savasana, danda pranam, child’s pose, a yin pose, or seated meditation). According to Michael Stone, “the present moment begins in silence” and “everything is crafted out of silence.” (7, 125). In this physical stillness, I focus on what’s already there – in that moment – bringing my attention to the points of contact with Prithvi (earth) to help me ground, then drawing my attention to the Prana and Apana Vayus to enhance my focus and gauge my energy level.  In this physical and psychological stillness, the patterns of grasping and inflexibility are revealed (9, 125).

The “story” continues to unfold with the “rising action” – connecting with Apas (water) as I find more fluidity in movement while maintaining a connection to the earth and to the various Vayus as I draw in, ground, circulate, rise, and emanate energy.  Beyond the postures, the practice is purely a “technique of moving the body into pure feeling and then dissolve the mind into that deep experience of feeling.” (11, 125). In fact, “the posture sequences open up different layers and movements of mind and body” (118).  As the connection between mind and body begins to solidify, I also try to find the balance between steadiness and ease, effort and non-effort. As the Vinyasa flow sequence builds to become more rigorous, Angi (fire) is ignited as the “climax”, and a dramatic shift in the story occurs towards intuitive expression: spurring the creative energy of nirodha by offering an opportunity to tap into one’s intuition by allowing one to alter the sequence by adding, deleting, modifying, or varying postures as intuition dictates. Throughout the flow, there are moments of “staying in the tension of opposites” as I will pause to notice “the patterns and disruptions of breath, the nervous system, the heart rate, the feeling tone” in the physical body – again noting my physical and emotional responses (77, 126, 138).

This energy culminates in the “falling action” of the story – generally in an inversion, followed by a yin or restorative posture to provide an opportunity to connect with Akasha (ether) by creating a space of stillness to pause, to listen, to observe, to notice, as “stillness becomes nothing other than a contented mind that is open and receptive, sharp and still,” – to “sit in the midst of opposition creates the heat necessary for change” and to embrace “the energy of the moment rather than with our storytelling” (11, 78). The “resolution” portion of the class ends with savasana as an opportunity for one to surrender into the infinite – īśvara praṇidhāna.  Even in my own practice, I like to begin in stillness and end in stillness – bringing the practice full-circle much like the “life-death cycle of the breath” (34). This stillness is also an opportunity to ““sit with what is arising from moment to moment with acceptance and patience, steadiness and ease” – to go to a deeper level to reflect on what was revealed, released, and/or transformed to “bring about a fundamental shift in perception” (92-3, 116, 127). It is here that one’s true “narrative” arises free of the presuppositions of the old narrative – through an intimate and interior awareness of one’s authentic self and one’s interconnectedness with everything – after all, “[t]here is a whole universe even within one breath cycle” (128-129, 137, 142, 168).

Sankalpa

The lessons I have learned in my practice extend well beyond the four corners of my mat – indeed it infiltrates throughout many aspects of my life (173).  Over the years, I have become better able to concentrate, more tolerant of change, less reactive to chaos, and more aware of my physical and mental responses – indeed, I am beginning to find comfort in discomfort (128, 143, 145).  I am a better mother, wife, friend, teacher, human being. But, as with most journeys, this one continues. There are still moments when I cycle back through the samskara of habits and reactions of the old narratives as I continue to work on “. . . cultivating a kinder and more compassionate story to break down the tendency toward self-judgement.” (Stone 84). But perhaps cycling back is not necessarily a bad thing, but an integral part of the journey because “. . . they are the details and encumbrances that we’ve struggled with most, know most intimately, and have learned how to wrestle, restrain, and transform.” (48).  Shifting my perspective has helped me with vidyā – with being with what is (89). But the work is far from complete as I continue to create space in my relationship with myself (179). After all, the most difficult relationship we have is the one we have with ourselves.

Works Cited
Levine, Peter A. Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma. North Atlantic Books: Berkeley, 1997.

Stone, Michael. The Inner Tradition of Yoga. Shambala: Boulder, 2008.

Upon reflection of the JSYTT in Mexico and the required readings, I have been able to build, deepen, and incorporate a better understanding of the 5 elements into my practice and teachings.  At the same time, I also have so much more to learn.  Below is what I have been able to “glean” thus far.  In my deciphering of the phrase “brief reflection,” I have opted to detail how I have attempted to incorporate the knowledge gained from the training and readings into my teachings – which are a reflection of my own personal practice.  I am going to exercise “santosha” and be completely content with the following submission.

The Internal Practice:  Establishing Sacred Space and Connecting with the Inner Divine

The practice begins by creating a sacred space that enables students to feel safe in their own bodies.  According to Michael Stone, “The body is the best place to begin to reconnect with reality, because it is right here all the time.  We need not make a pilgrimage any further than the felt body at this moment.” (146).  In this safe space, we are better able to “engage ourselves completely with our human characteristics and to accept the whole of what we are.” (Odier 41).  In either a seated or reclining meditation, students are guided to observe the parts of the body that are in contact with the earth (back of the head, shoulders, elbows, wrists, sacrum, hips, thigh, calves, heals, etc.) as“[w]e open to experience from a place of stillness.” (Stone 6).  Students are directed to practice equanimity (upeksā) physically in order to set aside their ego and expectations; to accept their limitations; to accept themselves exactly as they are at that given moment (49).  It is also an opportunity to set aside those habitual “stories rooted in fear [that are fueled by] greed, anger, and confusion.” (89).  As the body settles, the “monkey mind” tends to come alive . . . rather than fight these distractions (citta vŗitti), students are cued to allow them in, and imagine letting them go on the exhale.  By beginning in this space of self-love and self-acceptance, “the restoration of intimacy through body, mind, and heart” better enables students to connect within as “. . . the divine is at the very heart of the awareness of breath, sensations, emotions, and thoughts.”  (Odier  42,148; Stone 14).  After all, “[w]hen we are safe in our own bodies, we have a ground from which to step out into the world” – in the practice, we are mentally prepared to step out onto our mats (Stone 155).

Students are then directed to notice those parts of the body in contact with the Air (Vayu) element (crown of the head, back of the neck, low back, behind the knees and ankles, soles of the feet, and the entire front body).  Students continue their journey inward by connecting with Air element through their breath – first through observation:  observing the length, depth, and breadth of each inhale and exhale; observing any natural pauses.  By “[r]eturning to the arc of the full inhalation and exhalation, the mind comes back to neutrality, back to the present experience.” (14).   By deepening the breath, students are cued to fill the belly, allow the ribs to expand and the heart to rise on every inhale; to allow the back body to ground and grow heavier while allowing the front body to soften, drawing the naval towards their spine on every exhale.  As students begin to create their own rhythmic breathing pattern, the external practice begins with subtle movement as the students begin to sync their movement with their breath – cuing inhale (prāna) to expand and lengthen, exhale (apāna) to soften and release (17, 34).

The External Practice: Sun A, Vinyasa, and Yang Sequences

The external practice continues with a warm-up sequence where students are cued to engage ujjayi pranayama and core activating postures to incorporate the Fire (Angi) element.  Guided first through Surya Namaskara A or similar variation, students are reminded to ground those areas of the body in contact with the earth (hands, feet, toes) to include their drishti.  Students are also reminded to stay connected with the air through the breath as they continue through the flow on their own while I hold the space and offer support as a guiding observer (Stone 158).  The Water (Apas) element is incorporated with the fluidity of movement as students transition from one pose to the next – creating a flow: “[l]et us be like the wave that accepts its pathway, it strength, its weakness, its freedom, the absence of choice.” (Odier 28, Stone 34, 40).    These reminders to connect to the elements are reiterated as the Vinyasa flow is introduced in 2 to 3 segments with subtle verbal and tactile adjustments, as well as modifications and variations.  The element of Ether (Akasha) is then introduced in the pauses between the postures and between the segments of the sequence.  As the sequence is built in 5-6 posture segments, students are cued to “expect the unexpected” as additional postures are introduced or a sudden shift in perspective takes place (from top of mat to side to back of mat) – oftentimes in the middle of previous segments serving as an opportunity of “seeing reality as a contingent and impermanent flow.” (Stone 108, 142).  This provides the students an opportunity to break the habitual pattern that they have developed for “[i]f the practices are to be vibrant and challenging, they must also interrupt the habits . . . .” (105).  This experience also serves to build “a trust in the complexity of life” – to “live as the water and function as the wave.” (87, 128).  Once the flow is established, students are released to drop deeper into the flow on their own providing them with an opportunity to be creative, to apply their own modifications and variations – an opportunity to connect with their Heart Sútra – to be “light, random, and uninhibited.”  While students are flowing on their own, I will introduce the Ether (Akasha) element by having students intermittently pause before transitioning to the next posture.  In these pauses, students are reminded of their connections to the 5 elements; it also serves to interrupt their “habit” – symbolically reflecting reality to be in constant flux.  To close the warm-up sequence, students are invited to elevate their practice with the air element by taking an inversion they can safely execute for 10 complete yogi breaths.

Students are then directed to child’s pose or seated meditation to return to the complete yogi breath before being introduced to the yang sequence.  The yang sequence is anywhere from 1-3 postures (standing or seated) that are held for longer periods and engage every fiber of their being.  Here the elements of Earth, Air, Fire and Ether are emphasized:  Earth for grounding and rooting down those points of contact with the earth; stoking of the Fire not only through the breath, but also the muscles that are actively engaged in each pose; Air as students are directed to breathe through the hold as they maintain the space (ether) while holding the posture(s).  It is within Ether that “[w]e reach toward the infinite and we touch the heart, we come back toward our center and touch the infinite space.” (Odier 26).  By guiding students to notice the “attachment (rāga) and aversion (dvesa)” they encounter in these difficult asanas, they are encouraged to move into the uncomfortable in order to “open to an answer or any other strong feelings and not take immediate action” – to indeed, wait and see (Stone 13, 33, 51).  Students are also encouraged to let go of the effort in order to embrace the moment for “[e]ffort must relax for intimacy to appear” (34).  It is another opportunity to practice equanimity – “[e]quanimity (upeksā) is not a silent witnesses of our psychic lives but an opening toward what is.”  (49).

Internal Practice:  Yin Sequence and Savasana

As a transition from the external to the internal practice, students are lead through a yin sequence of 2-3 seated yin postures.  Since these postures require no muscular energy, they can bring the student back to an internal practice.  These restorative postures are longer holds that compliment the active asana practice.  Students are guided through the 5 elements as they relate to each the posture.  Here students may be guided to a symbolic representation of Spandakarika:  “the sacred tremor is the way in to this new manner of seeing and feeling things.  This is not a mental process, but a dynamic that engages both the body and the mind.” (Odier 19).  The sacred tremor can be symbolically represented in the waves of sensations the students notice in these static holds.  Here, students are encouraged to find stillness within the “tremors” that arise; to stay connected to the breath as the sensations ebb and flow like waves; to practice equanimity; to practice “limitless, formless space” (43).

Bringing the practice full circle, students return to the point in which they began . . . stillness in space (ether).  It is in savasana “corpse” pose that “. . . we do not slip into nothingness – we slip into existence.”  (Stone 165).  Here, Kundalini can be alluded to that “which unfurls from the heart and permeates the totality of space, is quite simply absolute love.” (Odier 43-44).  This spherical reference serves as a reminder that the world appears within us, and “the Divine is he who perceives the world, for he perceives only the reflection of the divine within him.” (17, 42).  In savasana, we surrender to the moment; we let go of our need to control; we accept the present moment; we open to absolute love; we experience joy (28).

Closing

As I direct students out of savasana, I briefly return their attention to the 5 elements; first air by taking a complete yogi breath; the earth as they notice the heaviness of their body grounding into the earth; the fire of their inner divine light ignited by the practice; the water as they begin making subtle movements; and ether as they pause on their side in fetal pose in a moment of gratitude.  Upon rising into a comfortable seated position, I close the class with a few rounds of a chant – which has not only been a throat-opening experience for me and my students, but a heart-opening one as well.

Final Observations

What is truly amazing about these elements is their interconnectedness; all are essentially formless and limitless in nature.  It is possible to experience this interconnection within ourselves in our practice:  “[p]ractice awakens the dormant and often invisible interiors of mind, body, and heart in order to establish a more tender, responsive, creative, and active self.”  (Stone 13).  And as it nurtures within us, it also radiates beyond us . . . beyond the four corners of our mat, beyond the four corners of the room as our “[i]nternal practices always flow back out into the world.” (Stone 58).  It moves us not only toward self-acceptance and self-love, but accepting our part in a greater whole . . . as a part of the earth, not separate from it . . . interconnected (samādhi) (21, 25, 50, 89, 93).

If we are open to all of this decisively and without pause, we encounter the world as a part of it. This generates trust and reinforces the truth of being part of a much greater whole. This is no dream, there is no gift to open or heaven to which we must one day ascend; when we arrive in present experience, we come to see that the long carpet of reality is already unrolled. (Stone 25).

I have a deeper understanding and appreciation for the sangha – it is the world of which I am a part because “[a]ll is radiating sacred tremoring – people, mountains, rivers, and emotions.” (Odier 45).  While I could continue with how this training has affected me, my efforts would be futile at this moment.  First, the information from this training continues to evolve in my practice and my teachings.  Additionally, the effects are too elusive to authenticate into words – and I don’t want to limit it with language or to box it into a “story.”  As such, I will close with this:  “The point of ethical practice is that we are reaching out to listen rather than speak, to be touched rather than to touch, to be affected rather than to manipulate.” (Stone 146).  As such, I will continue to listen, be touched, and affected by this and future trainings.

Submitted with much love, light, and gratitude.

Works Cited:

Odier, Daniel.  Yoga Spandakarika:  The Sacred Texts at the Origins of Tantra.  Inner Traditions: Rochester, 2004.

Stone, Michael.  Awake in the World: Teachings from Yoga and Buddhism for Living an Engaged Life.  Shambala: Boston, 2011.