I thought it was appropriate on Valentine's Day to talk about love. When I was growing up I was very suspicious of those 3 little words: I love you. I knew even as a child that there was something else going on there. The words almost never seemed to be a spontaneous outpouring of love and affection and I never used them myself. I didn't want to have anything to do with them until I had some sense of what they actually meant. Because what I heard was "I love you...(expectant pause...don't you understand what that MEANS?? You're supposed to love me back.)" or "(I really can't believe how stupid and selfish you're being but) I love you (anyway I guess because it's what I'm supposed to do.)" or "I love you (but I'm going to sigh now and be a martyr because you're not turning out to be who I wanted you to be.)" It rarely sounded like, "I love you (because you are such a fabulous over the top incredible person that really who wouldn't love you just for being you?)"
Even as I got older and got some experience at falling in love, I didn't feel like it was a terribly practical emotion. And I had to empathize with the folks who sent me the mixed messages of my youth once I had a few of my own under my belt. Here are some of my own personal favorites that I trot out periodically: "I love you (you asshole! You can't do this to me!)" and "I love you. (Don't you dare leave!)" and "I love you (and I need reassurance that you're still here.)" oh and here's a good one "I love you (even though you're being really shitty, because I am a better person than you are.)"
Even with all that craziness, I still do have a sense of a deep and abiding love that I am connected to, and that connects me to all of these other people, somewhere deeper than these frantic emotional blips on the screen. But how to find that part and express it clearly? You know how Air Supply (oh, come on, admit it...you LOVE these guys too!!) sings about being Lost in Love? Well, sometimes I feel like it's more like the love gets lost underneath all these other things that seem to come along for the ride.
But recently my journey has taken me to some interesting stops along this particular ride. I had begun taking meditative walks at the turning of the seasons, opening to the energy of the earth and sun and sky at the times of solar holidays. On one of my walks on Samhain, I had a sense of something saying to me, "Nothing is required of you." And I kept waiting for the "except....", as in "except to be loving", "except to be nice to people", "except to go organize your basement", or something along those lines. But nothing else came except my own thought...does that mean that I am enough? Exactly as I am?
Around that same time, I had an assignment to write some sort of affirmation. I was very focused on human limitation at that time because a friend of mine was dying so I was trying to find something endless and infinitely large to hold on to. And this is what I wrote: I am created of divine love and my capacity for joy is endless. And you know I actually believe the damn thing.
I just read a book called Lovingkindness by Sharon Salzberg and began adding meditation on this Buddhist principle to my other thoughts on love. And I realized two things (well, three if you count the fact that my basement really DOES need to be organized): One was that I believe that the universe wants me here, that it has organized all its energy and its molecules to make space for me, and that it rejoices in my presence, and two was that almost always when we say "I love you" it's bound to be more about the "I" than the "you", simply from the construction of the sentence (subject/verb/object). But when I thought about the people whom I love, but with whom I have these very human difficulties, I realized that I also believe the universe rejoices in their presence, too, and that the world is better off with them here, and that regardless of what happens between us, I'm really glad they're here, on this earth, in this life. It doesn't get rid of the difficulties of "I love you" but it's good to know.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Gem City
Gem City is the beautiful name of the third chakra, located in the region of the solar plexus. This is the seat of personal power, where the self comes into its own. I am particularly attached to the name of this chakra because it brings up an image for me of many facets, polished and gleaming, turning to reveal its different aspects at different times, and all of them shining out like my own personal sun.
When I was younger it used to confuse me that people would form very strong impressions of me that all seemed quite true and yet were conflicting. My grandmother would say, "You are just so stubborn. Even when you were a baby, people would come up to you and smile and baby talk at you and you would just fix them with a glare. You were always very definite about what you liked and didn't like." A friend would say, "You're so easygoing. Everything that comes up you just say okay and follow along." In high school I was a bookish stressed out workaholic, while my college buddies couldn't believe how mellow I was about exams. To a co-worker at one point in my life I was the "Queen of Calm". I particularly enjoyed that one because I never really FELT all that calm, and especially in that particular work context, so it was a revelation to me that I came across that way. At that same workplace, another co-worker made me a pin that says "Gentle Spirit" because to her that's what I was. A lover later saw the pin and couldn't stop laughing; she thought the pin should say "fiery vortex of passion and fury". I didn't think it was that funny myself.
I've always thought of myself as a patient person, having spent a huge amount of time in my life waiting for buses, trains, and subways, and coping with plans and schedules gone astray, but when I described myself as patient to my partner, she thought I was out of my mind. "Patient? Really???," she said.
And maybe she's right. But so am I, and so is everyone else. What I finally understood is that I contain all of that within me and there is no contradiction. Contradiction is what we see when we look through human eyes. But I am formed of the universe and there is star stuff in me. I contain both chaos and order and all the possibilities. The more I look within the more facets I can find and polish and show to the world. It's all just more evidence that we don't actually live in a binary either/or world but in a we've got it all both/and world, where contradiction lives and is held sweetly by continuity. You can never get lost in Gem City.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
When I was younger it used to confuse me that people would form very strong impressions of me that all seemed quite true and yet were conflicting. My grandmother would say, "You are just so stubborn. Even when you were a baby, people would come up to you and smile and baby talk at you and you would just fix them with a glare. You were always very definite about what you liked and didn't like." A friend would say, "You're so easygoing. Everything that comes up you just say okay and follow along." In high school I was a bookish stressed out workaholic, while my college buddies couldn't believe how mellow I was about exams. To a co-worker at one point in my life I was the "Queen of Calm". I particularly enjoyed that one because I never really FELT all that calm, and especially in that particular work context, so it was a revelation to me that I came across that way. At that same workplace, another co-worker made me a pin that says "Gentle Spirit" because to her that's what I was. A lover later saw the pin and couldn't stop laughing; she thought the pin should say "fiery vortex of passion and fury". I didn't think it was that funny myself.
I've always thought of myself as a patient person, having spent a huge amount of time in my life waiting for buses, trains, and subways, and coping with plans and schedules gone astray, but when I described myself as patient to my partner, she thought I was out of my mind. "Patient? Really???," she said.
And maybe she's right. But so am I, and so is everyone else. What I finally understood is that I contain all of that within me and there is no contradiction. Contradiction is what we see when we look through human eyes. But I am formed of the universe and there is star stuff in me. I contain both chaos and order and all the possibilities. The more I look within the more facets I can find and polish and show to the world. It's all just more evidence that we don't actually live in a binary either/or world but in a we've got it all both/and world, where contradiction lives and is held sweetly by continuity. You can never get lost in Gem City.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Get on the bus
I've never really trusted buses. Not in comparison to other forms of mass transit. Some history: I've never actually owned a car so I probably have a little more experience than most with various forms of transportation. And since Seattle is a bus town, that's been my favored mode of getting around for 17 years.
But back to my trust issue. My theory is that trains and trolleys and subways are on tracks or lines or in tunnels and therefore can be trusted to get from point A to point B as anticipated. But buses? They have no such restrictions and are subject to the call of the open road. I know they have signs on the front and schedules and such, but the point is they have the POTENTIAL to go astray. You never really know. You can't be sure. And that makes me a little nuts.
And the thing is, you could really just put this all down to paranoia except that it's happened to me. Bus drivers do get lost or re-routed occasionally, or maybe they forgot to put the express sign up. I've even had the experience of being absolutely certain that I saw a particular route number on the front of a bus, and then looked up from a 20-minute absorption in my book to find that I'm nowhere recognizable to me. And the little printed maps aren't always meaningful. Once in Edinburgh, my flatmate and I studied a particular bus route to get out to the airport to reclaim our luggage that had gone astray a couple of days earlier. The map seemed clear enough, but, once on the bus, we spent an hour doing a scenic tour of Edinburgh without ever getting anywhere near the airport and finally landed right back where we started in front of our flat. There was nothing to be done but disembark, eat a tuna sandwich and re-group.
But over the years I've made a kind of peace with buses and their vagaries. I figure I never really quite know where I'm going either so we've got something in common. We can work together on this. And I've developed a certain amount of skill in accommodating all of the different possibilities inherent in riding buses. It's like we've both got this idea of where we might be going and when we'll get there but we're flexible about it. And in an odd way after spending so much time on them, they have become a second home for me. Something that fits me and is comfortable and feels safe.
One very early morning I caught a bus on a very foggy day. The fog sat all around us down to the ground, enclosing us in a bus-shaped space, and I had this sense of a sequence of bus-shaped spaces opening and closing as we moved through them in the fog. Each one existing as a clear place for us to be and yet not clearly seen from the space before. And I thought about how each of us exists as a long, flesh-colored worm through time, from birth to death. And I had the sense of all the me's who came before the me right in this moment, and of all the me's who come in the moments after the me right now. And I have this sense of all of us together, all of us me's, holding the space open for the me right now, holding it in the very shape of me, cheering me on to BE me right now, having had my place in the line of the future and on my way to the line in my past. And the thing is, despite this sense of a line of self extending out before and after, I don't have the feeling of being on tracks. I'm more like a bus, with a sign on the front and a schedule, but with the POTENTIAL to go astray. You just never know. But right now, here I am.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
But back to my trust issue. My theory is that trains and trolleys and subways are on tracks or lines or in tunnels and therefore can be trusted to get from point A to point B as anticipated. But buses? They have no such restrictions and are subject to the call of the open road. I know they have signs on the front and schedules and such, but the point is they have the POTENTIAL to go astray. You never really know. You can't be sure. And that makes me a little nuts.
And the thing is, you could really just put this all down to paranoia except that it's happened to me. Bus drivers do get lost or re-routed occasionally, or maybe they forgot to put the express sign up. I've even had the experience of being absolutely certain that I saw a particular route number on the front of a bus, and then looked up from a 20-minute absorption in my book to find that I'm nowhere recognizable to me. And the little printed maps aren't always meaningful. Once in Edinburgh, my flatmate and I studied a particular bus route to get out to the airport to reclaim our luggage that had gone astray a couple of days earlier. The map seemed clear enough, but, once on the bus, we spent an hour doing a scenic tour of Edinburgh without ever getting anywhere near the airport and finally landed right back where we started in front of our flat. There was nothing to be done but disembark, eat a tuna sandwich and re-group.
But over the years I've made a kind of peace with buses and their vagaries. I figure I never really quite know where I'm going either so we've got something in common. We can work together on this. And I've developed a certain amount of skill in accommodating all of the different possibilities inherent in riding buses. It's like we've both got this idea of where we might be going and when we'll get there but we're flexible about it. And in an odd way after spending so much time on them, they have become a second home for me. Something that fits me and is comfortable and feels safe.
One very early morning I caught a bus on a very foggy day. The fog sat all around us down to the ground, enclosing us in a bus-shaped space, and I had this sense of a sequence of bus-shaped spaces opening and closing as we moved through them in the fog. Each one existing as a clear place for us to be and yet not clearly seen from the space before. And I thought about how each of us exists as a long, flesh-colored worm through time, from birth to death. And I had the sense of all the me's who came before the me right in this moment, and of all the me's who come in the moments after the me right now. And I have this sense of all of us together, all of us me's, holding the space open for the me right now, holding it in the very shape of me, cheering me on to BE me right now, having had my place in the line of the future and on my way to the line in my past. And the thing is, despite this sense of a line of self extending out before and after, I don't have the feeling of being on tracks. I'm more like a bus, with a sign on the front and a schedule, but with the POTENTIAL to go astray. You just never know. But right now, here I am.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
True Story
What I realize as I write these posts is that I am really telling the same story over and over again. It's me trying to remind myself of something, something important. Here is the story again.
I have a memory of being in Austria. I approached my travel abroad in very characteristic fashion. I read, I researched, I packed carefully, and I knew before I went what my experience would be because I had it planned. I used Let's Go Europe (1987) as my bible for travel. I would tear out the sections on the countries I would visit and figure out what to see. I took my Austria section with me to Salzburg.
Now, if I think very carefully back to that time and work at it, I can remember visiting lots of beautiful old buildings with my Austria section in hand and a map. I would follow the directions in my guide put together with the map and find myself at some building somewhere. I was never quite sure that I was really and truly where I thought I was, because all of the buildings were old and beautiful and they all kind of looked the same. I didn't speak the language and I couldn't afford to take a tour in English and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to get IN to the buildings. Were they closed for the day? Was I at the wrong place? I kept feeling like something was supposed to be happening. I was supposed to be having a revelatory experience and instead I was wandering aimlessly looking at pretty buildings and wondering what on earth they were for. I even splurged on a piece of torte that the city was famous for and it was dry and nasty.
This is what I remember if I work at it: aimlessness, frustration, confusion, self-criticism, disappointment.
This is what I remember if I don't work at it: magic, beauty, wonder, belonging.
When I let my memory drift back to that time, here is the story that comes to me: I walked one day down a street. I can't remember what I was trying to find, but what I saw was an old beautiful building with several big trees in front. The trees had something in them, something shining and colorful, so I went closer to have a look. The trees were filled with chimes and bells and streamers tied into the branches, and, when the wind blew, the trees would ring out and the streamers would flutter. The building was open and people were going in and out so I went in, too. I walked in and it was some sort of children's fair/fundraiser for something. I wandered through and saw craft booths for kids to make masks or crowns, cardboard mazes to go through, bake sales. I went to a bake sale table and bought a bag of what I thought were shortbread cookies. It turned out that they were lemon and I hate lemon. But I munched on them anyway and wandered and listened to people talking in a language I didn't know. And then I walked out into a beautiful day, eating my lemon cookies and listening to the trees chime and ring out into the air.
I always smile when I think of Salzburg. Which story is true?
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
I have a memory of being in Austria. I approached my travel abroad in very characteristic fashion. I read, I researched, I packed carefully, and I knew before I went what my experience would be because I had it planned. I used Let's Go Europe (1987) as my bible for travel. I would tear out the sections on the countries I would visit and figure out what to see. I took my Austria section with me to Salzburg.
Now, if I think very carefully back to that time and work at it, I can remember visiting lots of beautiful old buildings with my Austria section in hand and a map. I would follow the directions in my guide put together with the map and find myself at some building somewhere. I was never quite sure that I was really and truly where I thought I was, because all of the buildings were old and beautiful and they all kind of looked the same. I didn't speak the language and I couldn't afford to take a tour in English and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to get IN to the buildings. Were they closed for the day? Was I at the wrong place? I kept feeling like something was supposed to be happening. I was supposed to be having a revelatory experience and instead I was wandering aimlessly looking at pretty buildings and wondering what on earth they were for. I even splurged on a piece of torte that the city was famous for and it was dry and nasty.
This is what I remember if I work at it: aimlessness, frustration, confusion, self-criticism, disappointment.
This is what I remember if I don't work at it: magic, beauty, wonder, belonging.
When I let my memory drift back to that time, here is the story that comes to me: I walked one day down a street. I can't remember what I was trying to find, but what I saw was an old beautiful building with several big trees in front. The trees had something in them, something shining and colorful, so I went closer to have a look. The trees were filled with chimes and bells and streamers tied into the branches, and, when the wind blew, the trees would ring out and the streamers would flutter. The building was open and people were going in and out so I went in, too. I walked in and it was some sort of children's fair/fundraiser for something. I wandered through and saw craft booths for kids to make masks or crowns, cardboard mazes to go through, bake sales. I went to a bake sale table and bought a bag of what I thought were shortbread cookies. It turned out that they were lemon and I hate lemon. But I munched on them anyway and wandered and listened to people talking in a language I didn't know. And then I walked out into a beautiful day, eating my lemon cookies and listening to the trees chime and ring out into the air.
I always smile when I think of Salzburg. Which story is true?
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The Perils of Pigeon Pose
I had a defining moment during my yoga teacher training. Well, really I had a few. But one stands out because it was a moment that began at the beginning of my training and extended out to the end of the month. I went to our very first early morning yoga class at the very beginning of training. We swept through a multitude of poses in a very vigorous vinyasa, or flow, sequence over the course of 2 hours. At one point we landed in Pigeon pose.
I had done Pigeon before, but only when forced to in class. I never practiced it at home. Why? I absolutely despised the pose. And now here I am, the first day of my new life as a yoga teacher, and we're doing Pigeon. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I'm on my mat. I'm really hot and sweaty. I have no props. And I'm doing Pigeon. Only that's really overstating the matter because what's actually happening is that my body is clenched up, quivering and shaking and sweating, hovering OUT of Pigeon pose, because I have very tight, inflexible hips and I can't actually DO Pigeon pose.
That day I began what I came to call my hate mantra. It went something like this, "I hate this pose. I hate this pose. I hate this class. I hate this teacher. I hate everyone here. I hate this pose. I especially hate YOU, girly in the cute little top who just drops right into Pigeon. I hate this pose." And so on. Whew! It was always such a relief to get out of it and move on to balance poses, which I CAN do.
The whole first week we did Pigeon in class and every day I did my hate mantra and I shook and sweated and cursed and hovered OUT of the pose. My hate mantra became more complex as the training continued. We were taught to allow our inner witness to watch our practice, with curiosity and benevolence and no judgment. So I added a few lines to my mantra. Now it sounded like this, "I hate this pose. I hate this pose. Isn't that interesting how much I hate this pose? I hate this pose. Why do I hate this pose? Because I can't do this pose, because my hips are too tight, and I can't do this pose. Isn't that interesting that I can't do this pose? I still hate little girly in the cute top. Isn't that interesting? I hate this pose." And like that.
One day, my hate mantra took an interesting turn. "I hate this pose. I hate this pose. Isn't that interesting? I hate this pose. I'm scared of this pose." Well. Isn't THAT interesting? Now I've got fear in there with the hate. And I'm actually really curious-why am I scared of this pose? It's a pose on the floor so I'm not going to fall. There's very little risk of injury with this pose, especially when I'm holding myself up so far out of it. I'm hooked because I really want to know the answer.
The next day in class we didn't do Pigeon. We were always allowed time at the end of class to do our own series of poses and I felt a little nudge. I actually wanted to do Pigeon. But I held firm; I didn't allow myself to do it. This was a pose that I hated and couldn't want to do, so I didn't do it. But the next day we still didn't do Pigeon in class. The nudge happened again. My curiosity won out and I did it myself at the end of class. And I continued my hate mantra, and I shook, and I sweated, and I cursed. And I watched myself and listened. "I hate this pose. I can't do this pose, because my hips are tight, and that's why I don't do this pose and maybe if I did this pose, I'd be able to do this pose."
That was it, the source of the fear. I realized that I had a certain picture of myself, a belief about myself, and part of that belief was that I was not a flexible person. That, in fact, I was a person with very tight hips. I had been doing yoga and dance for many, many years and yet I was not a flexible person despite all that. And I didn't want to let go of that because it was part of my identity, it was part of my belief system. If I became a person able to do Pigeon, I would have to let go of that piece of my identity and be a new person. A person I didn't know.
The next day in class when I did Pigeon something changed. My mind had opened and my body could no longer hold itself out of the pose, and phffft! I collapsed into Pigeon pose. And I lay on the mat in Pigeon pose and I cried and cried.
And now I'm learning how to be a flexible person with wide open hips.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
I had done Pigeon before, but only when forced to in class. I never practiced it at home. Why? I absolutely despised the pose. And now here I am, the first day of my new life as a yoga teacher, and we're doing Pigeon. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I'm on my mat. I'm really hot and sweaty. I have no props. And I'm doing Pigeon. Only that's really overstating the matter because what's actually happening is that my body is clenched up, quivering and shaking and sweating, hovering OUT of Pigeon pose, because I have very tight, inflexible hips and I can't actually DO Pigeon pose.
That day I began what I came to call my hate mantra. It went something like this, "I hate this pose. I hate this pose. I hate this class. I hate this teacher. I hate everyone here. I hate this pose. I especially hate YOU, girly in the cute little top who just drops right into Pigeon. I hate this pose." And so on. Whew! It was always such a relief to get out of it and move on to balance poses, which I CAN do.
The whole first week we did Pigeon in class and every day I did my hate mantra and I shook and sweated and cursed and hovered OUT of the pose. My hate mantra became more complex as the training continued. We were taught to allow our inner witness to watch our practice, with curiosity and benevolence and no judgment. So I added a few lines to my mantra. Now it sounded like this, "I hate this pose. I hate this pose. Isn't that interesting how much I hate this pose? I hate this pose. Why do I hate this pose? Because I can't do this pose, because my hips are too tight, and I can't do this pose. Isn't that interesting that I can't do this pose? I still hate little girly in the cute top. Isn't that interesting? I hate this pose." And like that.
One day, my hate mantra took an interesting turn. "I hate this pose. I hate this pose. Isn't that interesting? I hate this pose. I'm scared of this pose." Well. Isn't THAT interesting? Now I've got fear in there with the hate. And I'm actually really curious-why am I scared of this pose? It's a pose on the floor so I'm not going to fall. There's very little risk of injury with this pose, especially when I'm holding myself up so far out of it. I'm hooked because I really want to know the answer.
The next day in class we didn't do Pigeon. We were always allowed time at the end of class to do our own series of poses and I felt a little nudge. I actually wanted to do Pigeon. But I held firm; I didn't allow myself to do it. This was a pose that I hated and couldn't want to do, so I didn't do it. But the next day we still didn't do Pigeon in class. The nudge happened again. My curiosity won out and I did it myself at the end of class. And I continued my hate mantra, and I shook, and I sweated, and I cursed. And I watched myself and listened. "I hate this pose. I can't do this pose, because my hips are tight, and that's why I don't do this pose and maybe if I did this pose, I'd be able to do this pose."
That was it, the source of the fear. I realized that I had a certain picture of myself, a belief about myself, and part of that belief was that I was not a flexible person. That, in fact, I was a person with very tight hips. I had been doing yoga and dance for many, many years and yet I was not a flexible person despite all that. And I didn't want to let go of that because it was part of my identity, it was part of my belief system. If I became a person able to do Pigeon, I would have to let go of that piece of my identity and be a new person. A person I didn't know.
The next day in class when I did Pigeon something changed. My mind had opened and my body could no longer hold itself out of the pose, and phffft! I collapsed into Pigeon pose. And I lay on the mat in Pigeon pose and I cried and cried.
And now I'm learning how to be a flexible person with wide open hips.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Surrender Dorothy!
I've been thinking a lot about surrender lately. Surrender seems to be a recurring theme in my life. And, after all, getting lost does involve surrendering to the unknown and I've had lots of experience at that.
But lately what's been popping up for me in my life is the idea of creating your own reality through intention and positive thinking. It's showing up everywhere, and frankly I'm getting a little tired of it. I do believe in it to a certain extent and I'll probably even write a little on that possibility at a later date. But what about the possibility of surrendering to the reality that's already out there? What would it be like to just ride that wave?
In yoga there exists the idea of flowing evenly back and forth between will and surrender. You approach each moment intentionally, then you surrender to what the moment brings. And part of that philosophy is that will and intention are not actually goal-oriented which is a challenging idea for a lot of us.
A new friend was recently talking about how she feels when she reaches a certain state of bliss on her mountain bike. She talked about getting into that groove where she no longer thinks or calculates, she has no connection to past or future; she is simply riding in the moment, responding perfectly to each event which appears in her moment simply by being present with it.
I've had experience with that feeling she's describing. It's almost a feeling of the personality submerging into a larger field. I've often described myself as a chameleon because there are times that I feel like a field of potential energy shifting to take the form that is required of me. I have been asked if this makes me somehow less myself, or if it makes me a fake or a liar somehow. But what I feel when this happens is that it is the most perfect expression of what I truly am. You've heard the saying "We are spiritual beings having a human experience"? Well, I think maybe what we are is an energy field having a physical experience. And that, as in physics, our own observation of ourselves is creating the physical experience that we have; in other words, the moment we observe ourselves we drop from a state of potential, of possibility, of probability into a state of actuality.
Oh crap. There we are right back at creating our own reality. But...are we willful or are we willing in our approach? If we observe with attachment or judgment we've already limited our possibilities. But if we surrender as we observe, what might we be allowed to see without the limits of human thought?
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
But lately what's been popping up for me in my life is the idea of creating your own reality through intention and positive thinking. It's showing up everywhere, and frankly I'm getting a little tired of it. I do believe in it to a certain extent and I'll probably even write a little on that possibility at a later date. But what about the possibility of surrendering to the reality that's already out there? What would it be like to just ride that wave?
In yoga there exists the idea of flowing evenly back and forth between will and surrender. You approach each moment intentionally, then you surrender to what the moment brings. And part of that philosophy is that will and intention are not actually goal-oriented which is a challenging idea for a lot of us.
A new friend was recently talking about how she feels when she reaches a certain state of bliss on her mountain bike. She talked about getting into that groove where she no longer thinks or calculates, she has no connection to past or future; she is simply riding in the moment, responding perfectly to each event which appears in her moment simply by being present with it.
I've had experience with that feeling she's describing. It's almost a feeling of the personality submerging into a larger field. I've often described myself as a chameleon because there are times that I feel like a field of potential energy shifting to take the form that is required of me. I have been asked if this makes me somehow less myself, or if it makes me a fake or a liar somehow. But what I feel when this happens is that it is the most perfect expression of what I truly am. You've heard the saying "We are spiritual beings having a human experience"? Well, I think maybe what we are is an energy field having a physical experience. And that, as in physics, our own observation of ourselves is creating the physical experience that we have; in other words, the moment we observe ourselves we drop from a state of potential, of possibility, of probability into a state of actuality.
Oh crap. There we are right back at creating our own reality. But...are we willful or are we willing in our approach? If we observe with attachment or judgment we've already limited our possibilities. But if we surrender as we observe, what might we be allowed to see without the limits of human thought?
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Watch the monkeys
I teach yoga and you'd think that as a yoga teacher winding my legs up in lotus and sitting in silent meditation would come easily by now. I've been doing yoga for 28 years as well as doing lots of other things that require discipline, focus and a quiet mind. But....that's always the worst part of a yoga class for me. You know that part. You get to class, roll out your mat, do a couple of quiet stretches on your own while everyone else is arriving. Then the teacher begins. "Just sit quietly and bring your awareness to your breath. Notice how your breathing is, naturally, without trying to change anything. And now, turn your awareness to the rest of your body. If you notice any areas of tension, send your breath there and just sit quietly with it. Maybe an intention for your practice today comes into your mind." YEARGH!!!! By this time I'm trying to climb out of my skin. I would do anything to get out of just sitting and being quiet. And my intention for practice right at this very moment is simple: ESCAPE!
Even at my yoga teacher training the silent seated meditation didn't get any easier. The first day that we focused on meditation in class, we were sent off to the edges of the room to sit silently away from each other. I use the word "room" loosely because my training happened in Costa Rica and our yoga studio was a thatched roof held up with posts and no walls. I went off to the edge of the room facing out into the jungle. I sat cross-legged, closed my eyes, and began my mantra, "So" with the inhale, "Hum" with the exhale. And it goes something like this, "So....Hum....So....my back really hurts....Hum....okay, inhale....exhale....I'm bored....So...my back hurts...does it count as meditation if I wiggle a little....God, I hate this...okay, picture the mantra...So....ugh, this is awful....So....Hum...don't get on the train....So....my thoughts are like little boats floating by...Hum...what do I need to do today...I wonder what the beach is like right now..." and so on.
We saw monkeys every day we were in Costa Rica and often up in the very trees nearby. That day I could hear the sounds of a troop of monkeys coming towards us, until finally it seemed that they were in the trees right next to us. A dilemma! Do I continue my seated meditation and be disciplined about my intention, or do I watch the monkeys? Hoo boy, that's a tough one. Finally I thought, I'm in Costa Rica for heaven's sake....I'm going to watch the fucking monkeys! I opened my eyes and spent the rest of my time in that class sitting quietly with quiet thoughts focusing all of my attention on the monkeys and enjoying their show.
The next time we had a meditation class I skipped it and went to the beach.
Fast forward to just a couple of months ago. I'm feeling stagnant in my own practice and disappointed and tired in my efforts to get set up as a full time yoga teacher. I decide that the best way to approach my difficult feelings is to face one of my challenges head on; I decide to spend at least 10 minutes daily in seated meditation. No cheating either. My rules for myself are: sitting, not lying down; sitting, not moving; and sitting first, not after a really nice yoga workout to calm me.
At first, I could think only of escape and I would keep sneaking peeks at the clock to see if I was done yet. With practice, I began to see glimpses of where a continued intentional practice could take me. I would drop down out of myself and find myself floating and gently held by light and love. Or I would have a sense of sitting with thousands of other people, including another version of myself, all of us sitting quietly with each other. Or I would truly see the words from my thoughts forming droplets and falling into the sea and disappearing, and I could watch all of this with interest and curiosity.
And, I found myself pulling out of my rut and finding fresh energy. I had lunch during that time with a fellow yoga teacher, one with many more years of experience teaching, and we talked about our experiences with meditation. She laughed when I told her the monkey story, but was also surprised and moved by it. She talked about how she will often, with her students and with herself in practice, talk about being a curious mammal, a curious monkey. That we often judge ourselves for our quick and curious minds that are constantly moving, but that this is our very nature and part of our beauty.
When we meditate, we ARE watching the monkeys; watching them with interest and curiosity and benevolence; watching them in deep quiet so we won't scare them away, and not trying to make them be anything but what they are, not lizards or trees, but monkeys. Raucous miraculous monkeys.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Even at my yoga teacher training the silent seated meditation didn't get any easier. The first day that we focused on meditation in class, we were sent off to the edges of the room to sit silently away from each other. I use the word "room" loosely because my training happened in Costa Rica and our yoga studio was a thatched roof held up with posts and no walls. I went off to the edge of the room facing out into the jungle. I sat cross-legged, closed my eyes, and began my mantra, "So" with the inhale, "Hum" with the exhale. And it goes something like this, "So....Hum....So....my back really hurts....Hum....okay, inhale....exhale....I'm bored....So...my back hurts...does it count as meditation if I wiggle a little....God, I hate this...okay, picture the mantra...So....ugh, this is awful....So....Hum...don't get on the train....So....my thoughts are like little boats floating by...Hum...what do I need to do today...I wonder what the beach is like right now..." and so on.
We saw monkeys every day we were in Costa Rica and often up in the very trees nearby. That day I could hear the sounds of a troop of monkeys coming towards us, until finally it seemed that they were in the trees right next to us. A dilemma! Do I continue my seated meditation and be disciplined about my intention, or do I watch the monkeys? Hoo boy, that's a tough one. Finally I thought, I'm in Costa Rica for heaven's sake....I'm going to watch the fucking monkeys! I opened my eyes and spent the rest of my time in that class sitting quietly with quiet thoughts focusing all of my attention on the monkeys and enjoying their show.
The next time we had a meditation class I skipped it and went to the beach.
Fast forward to just a couple of months ago. I'm feeling stagnant in my own practice and disappointed and tired in my efforts to get set up as a full time yoga teacher. I decide that the best way to approach my difficult feelings is to face one of my challenges head on; I decide to spend at least 10 minutes daily in seated meditation. No cheating either. My rules for myself are: sitting, not lying down; sitting, not moving; and sitting first, not after a really nice yoga workout to calm me.
At first, I could think only of escape and I would keep sneaking peeks at the clock to see if I was done yet. With practice, I began to see glimpses of where a continued intentional practice could take me. I would drop down out of myself and find myself floating and gently held by light and love. Or I would have a sense of sitting with thousands of other people, including another version of myself, all of us sitting quietly with each other. Or I would truly see the words from my thoughts forming droplets and falling into the sea and disappearing, and I could watch all of this with interest and curiosity.
And, I found myself pulling out of my rut and finding fresh energy. I had lunch during that time with a fellow yoga teacher, one with many more years of experience teaching, and we talked about our experiences with meditation. She laughed when I told her the monkey story, but was also surprised and moved by it. She talked about how she will often, with her students and with herself in practice, talk about being a curious mammal, a curious monkey. That we often judge ourselves for our quick and curious minds that are constantly moving, but that this is our very nature and part of our beauty.
When we meditate, we ARE watching the monkeys; watching them with interest and curiosity and benevolence; watching them in deep quiet so we won't scare them away, and not trying to make them be anything but what they are, not lizards or trees, but monkeys. Raucous miraculous monkeys.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
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