I had a good chat this morning with a guy down in the park where I teach an outdoor yoga class. I had noticed him–note to anyone doing an outdoor practice: it's always good to stay aware of your surroundings!–with his coffee and cigarette, standing at the overlook watching the water. He approached me when I sat on a bench, told me he did yoga for about 4 months and it had really made a change in him for the better, then he went overseas with the military for several years, and when he returned, he just kind of went crazy wanting all the stuff he hadn't had for so long–beer and cigarettes and tv. He talked with regret about how unhappy his body is now with the choices he's making and how he's trying to figure out how to change.
We did an interesting exercise back at my yoga teacher training. Yoga works with the idea that each of us incorporates 5 koshas, or bodies. There's the physical body, the mental/emotional body, the breath/energy body, the witness body and the bliss body. They're all present all the time, and because of that we are all already living in bliss, but a lot of times we don't realize it. Thus, the yoga practice to help us become aware of it. In this exercise we split into groups of 4; in each group one person became the physical body, one the mind, one the prana or energy, and one the witness.
So often in our culture some part of ourselves becomes the enemy, the bad one. So, we have the bad body–too fat, too flabby, too weak, too wobbly, too pale, too wimpy, too skinny, too misshapen, too hairy, too....well, you get it, you probably have your own litany. Or we have the bad mind–too up and down, too all over the place, too unfocused, too obsessive, too emotional, too stupid, too...yeah, okay, you get that one, too. Worst case, we've got both: bad body bad mind. Both of them have to be overcome, whipped into shape. Often our workouts are punishments, the critical trainer in our heads on patrol for any mistake. Our meals are overlaid with do's and don't's that have nothing to do with pleasure. Our minds have to be constantly monitored or they just drift off into la-la land. Every emotional reaction has to be rated. (One of my personal alter egos is someone I've named "Stop That!" because that's all she ever says in my head. She tries to censor not words and actions but every thought.)
Back to the exercise... In my group I was the body so I showed up first, quickly followed by Prana. Prana and I had a great time together, just roaming, exploring, no thinking, no judgment, no analysis, no real direction or purpose, just the physical acts of moving, breathing, sensing, resting. Then mind showed up. Now I have to admit, despite enjoying the use of my mind in my life, I tend to think of it as something that has to be overcome, that's in the way. I'm not sure I even realized I had this belief until we did the exercise. Oh, I knew I had lots of body issues, but my beliefs about the mind were buried a little deeper. But you know, when Mind showed up things certainly got more complicated and more tiring, but Mind was also fun! He was curious and witty and interesting to talk to and intriguingly complicated. Who knew? In our little exercise, things weren't so great when the 3 of us worked at cross purposes, but when we were all in tune with each other, it was fantastic!
Back to guy in the park... Seems to me that this is really how it's supposed to work for us. Here's this guy, and his body isn't happy, it doesn't feel good with what he's doing to it, and in his mind he's recognized it and has a sense of the direction he needs to go. As far as I can see, he's in great shape! His body and his mind are in agreement; if he can witness that, and really see it for what it is, and allow his energy to follow that line he will transform himself by being present for this moment. If he drops into bad body (I'm too fat, my ribs hurt, I'm out of shape) or bad mind (I can't believe how stupid I was to allow this to happen, I know smoking's bad for me, what's wrong with me?) he'll be delayed in his desire. Body and mind just are what they are; it's our beliefs and our stories about our bodies and our minds that delay us.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Opportunities
I had a wonderful geometry teacher in high school. He would dress up in crazy costumes, and sing little math ditties for us, and though I loved math already, I loved it more that year. We were tested or quizzed every Thursday but they were never called tests. No, Mr. Rhoades always called them opportunities.
Earlier this week I was thinking that I needed to write another entry, and probably this time on getting lost, rather than yoga or meditation. I took myself back to a couple of times that I was lost and walked myself back through the experience.
The first memory was of being in Venice. I was in Venice kind of by mistake, having gotten on the wrong train car; the train split sometime in the night and here I was in Venice. I had intended to get there sometime but had planned to spend a little time. Instead, I now had to make the choice to either spend only one day in Venice, then board another train, or do something different and watch my later travel plans unravel. Since I was planning to meet up with another traveller in a particular place at a particular time one week from now, with no way to contact her and change our plans (these were the days before cell phones), I decided to make a short visit to Venice.
I wandered happily through the little streets and alleys, over bridges and around corners, map in hand. I found everything I wanted to see and then needed to make my way back to the station as the fog rolled in and dusk came over the city. As I began to pick my way back to the train, I realized that the map was of no use; many street names and bridges were missing and soon I was hopelessly lost. Finally, as I started to panic, I found the station–almost 3 hours early for my train but too afraid to venture back out again and risk losing myself in the mist.
My second memory is from much later in life. I had taken a bus to an area somewhat familiar to me for a meeting. I found the building and the meeting, we met, we finished, and I strode out the door into the night with my head full of what we had talked about and eager to catch the bus and get home. Unfortunately, it was a different door from the one I had walked in, and on a different side of the building. When I strode out into the night, I strode out in the wrong direction. A few blocks later, I began to wonder what was going on because the area wasn't looking familiar to me. I wasn't exactly sure what had gone wrong, so instead of immediately going back in the direction I had come from, I turned a corner and walked a little in that direction. That wasn't right either and, now worried because it was dark and I didn't want to miss my bus and there was no one to ask because it was a residential neighborhood, I finally managed to work my way back to the building, figure out what had happened, and retrace my steps along the correct route and find the bus stop.
In both cases, what I was really struck by as I ruefully relived the experiences, was the tremendous flow and sequence of emotions that ran through me each time in quick succession. In Venice I was annoyed at myself for being on the wrong train, then accepting, good-humored and decisive, then pleased and relaxed, curious and engrossed, then complacent followed quickly by anxious, confused and worried, a little frightened, then thrilled and relieved when I found the station, but then kind of irked that I had to wait so long and discouraged, and finally just plain bored. After my meeting, I was feeling competent and absorbed, then anxious and confused, a little frightened again and annoyed with myself, relieved when I found the building again and ashamed this time of my incompetence, and finally just very happy to be on the bus on the way home.
And now I'm right back to yoga again. Well, you knew it had to happen. Part of yoga practice is self-study, and I realized that getting lost had provided me with many opportunities for that practice. Because in each case, nothing was really happening, nothing was really changing, but my mental and emotional state was in constant, chaotic flux based on how I was perceiving my experience. I can't even really look back at those memories and label them as "good" or "bad" because I can see that they are just experiences, value-neutral, just stuff that happened, stuff I did, choices I made, and not even terribly interesting as story material. Except that the memories are strong. Probably because I remember them for what they were: opportunities.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Earlier this week I was thinking that I needed to write another entry, and probably this time on getting lost, rather than yoga or meditation. I took myself back to a couple of times that I was lost and walked myself back through the experience.
The first memory was of being in Venice. I was in Venice kind of by mistake, having gotten on the wrong train car; the train split sometime in the night and here I was in Venice. I had intended to get there sometime but had planned to spend a little time. Instead, I now had to make the choice to either spend only one day in Venice, then board another train, or do something different and watch my later travel plans unravel. Since I was planning to meet up with another traveller in a particular place at a particular time one week from now, with no way to contact her and change our plans (these were the days before cell phones), I decided to make a short visit to Venice.
I wandered happily through the little streets and alleys, over bridges and around corners, map in hand. I found everything I wanted to see and then needed to make my way back to the station as the fog rolled in and dusk came over the city. As I began to pick my way back to the train, I realized that the map was of no use; many street names and bridges were missing and soon I was hopelessly lost. Finally, as I started to panic, I found the station–almost 3 hours early for my train but too afraid to venture back out again and risk losing myself in the mist.
My second memory is from much later in life. I had taken a bus to an area somewhat familiar to me for a meeting. I found the building and the meeting, we met, we finished, and I strode out the door into the night with my head full of what we had talked about and eager to catch the bus and get home. Unfortunately, it was a different door from the one I had walked in, and on a different side of the building. When I strode out into the night, I strode out in the wrong direction. A few blocks later, I began to wonder what was going on because the area wasn't looking familiar to me. I wasn't exactly sure what had gone wrong, so instead of immediately going back in the direction I had come from, I turned a corner and walked a little in that direction. That wasn't right either and, now worried because it was dark and I didn't want to miss my bus and there was no one to ask because it was a residential neighborhood, I finally managed to work my way back to the building, figure out what had happened, and retrace my steps along the correct route and find the bus stop.
In both cases, what I was really struck by as I ruefully relived the experiences, was the tremendous flow and sequence of emotions that ran through me each time in quick succession. In Venice I was annoyed at myself for being on the wrong train, then accepting, good-humored and decisive, then pleased and relaxed, curious and engrossed, then complacent followed quickly by anxious, confused and worried, a little frightened, then thrilled and relieved when I found the station, but then kind of irked that I had to wait so long and discouraged, and finally just plain bored. After my meeting, I was feeling competent and absorbed, then anxious and confused, a little frightened again and annoyed with myself, relieved when I found the building again and ashamed this time of my incompetence, and finally just very happy to be on the bus on the way home.
And now I'm right back to yoga again. Well, you knew it had to happen. Part of yoga practice is self-study, and I realized that getting lost had provided me with many opportunities for that practice. Because in each case, nothing was really happening, nothing was really changing, but my mental and emotional state was in constant, chaotic flux based on how I was perceiving my experience. I can't even really look back at those memories and label them as "good" or "bad" because I can see that they are just experiences, value-neutral, just stuff that happened, stuff I did, choices I made, and not even terribly interesting as story material. Except that the memories are strong. Probably because I remember them for what they were: opportunities.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
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