Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
From The Archives: Present Moment
I’m swimming in a sea of sun salutes, with a room full of avid yogis pouring through 108 rounds of this classic yoga flow. We’re warming up the world together on this cold, wet February morning. All shapes and ages float, stumble and drag their way through round after round, and I’m up near the stage, counting. Each teacher leads six or seven rounds, and then I ring a bell to let them know they’re done. I update the tally board as the next teacher climbs onto the stage.
I glance up and see my friend Racquel enter the room – she’s so shiny since she’s returned from her pilgrimage to India. I notice three-year old Sam choreographing his own yoga sequence near the piano. And then I peek at the clock and silently wish we’d pick up the pace so I can get home by mid-afternoon. I look back at the warming room and then at the teacher on stage. She’s staring at me with wild and pleading panic in her eyes -- how many sun salutes left?
For about two seconds, the world goes white. How long have I been daydreaming, and just how long can a sun salute last anyway? I muster a crooked smile and whisper with false confidence, "One more round." And then I pray I’m right. Or at least that no one else is counting.
Am I so inattentive that I can’t even count to seven without spinning into other worlds? Honestly, I’m afraid the answer may be yes. Most of the time, I’m gone. Dreaming up fantastic possibilities of future joy or terror. Replaying past moments in search of some hidden meaning or mystery or message.
Somehow, I doubt that I’m alone. I think most of us aren’t really here a lot of the time. We’re given the bare ingredients of life, which when we look closely at them are pretty breathtakingly phenomenal all by themselves. And then for some reason – yearning, fear, delusion, possibility -- we start dressing them up, playing with them, layering them with all kinds of crazy thoughts, observations, emotions, projections. Before long, we don’t even taste the naked truth of life anymore.
Could this be why so many of us are finding ourselves drawn to meditation and yoga these days? These disciplines bring us right back to the present, the only place to find real life. For at least a few frighteningly slender moments, we’re really here. We see, feel, hear, taste, know the raw ingredients of life and then we grow a little bigger. We rediscover the clean, blue sky in our brains and the sweet, bubbly nectar in our bodies.
Maybe that’s the ultimate message of all those ancient buddhas and yogis and saints anyway: that the secret of living well is to pay attention to what’s going on right here and now. Buddhists call it bare attention and say that over time it is transformed into a wise and honest mindfulness that helps us see life truly.
And in yoga, we learn this by taking ourselves on journeys where we can’t afford not to pay attention (try daydreaming while you’re wrapping your foot around your neck). And then gradually this concentration broadens into a deep and steady awareness, not just in triangle pose but in every breath we take. I love that about truly paying attention -- being so forced on the spot, so absorbed in the experience of the colors, the sensations, the breath, the moment that I come out the other side rinsed clean, with clearer vision and deeper sensitivity. Suddenly I start to feel like I’m here again for life’s big show.
Not long ago I dreamed that while teaching a yoga class in the church down the street, I stood up lazily from a pose and rambled out of the room. When I eventually returned to a room full of puzzled students, I heard a voice boom out, "Never leave the room you’re in!"
Finally I understand. And at last I’m trying to heed that dream’s mantra to stay where I am -- in this room, in this moment, in this day. Sometimes I just follow my breath. Sometimes I lie on my back with closed eyes and listen to the sounds of life. Sometimes I follow the advice of Gestalt psychologists to keep answering the phrase: "Here and now I am aware…" Occasionally I have to say it aloud to make sure I’m here. "Here and now I am aware that I’m driving my little blue Toyota down Marion Avenue. Here and now I am aware that my left shoulder feels a little achy. The sun is shining, it’s Tuesday, and now I’m exhaling."
I’m learning that by continually bringing myself back to the raw ingredients of life – the sights and sounds and feelings of now – I feel more like a living, breathing, feeling human being. I feel like I’ve drawn all my little lost sheep back home to some vast and rich amazement, to a kind of earth-solid happiness and gratitude just to be here for the game. I’m beginning to soak up every word of life’s big book and liking it a lot, instead of halfheartedly skipping through the pages just to get to the end.
And you know, I think when my attentional muscles grow a little stronger, I’ll be a wiser person. That’s because as we cultivate attentiveness, we see more honestly what truly brings us ease and what perpetuates our suffering. We start to see how much we cling to what we like and defend ourselves against our fears. We grow a little more sensitive to the feelings inside ourselves and the people around us. And we start to see that as painful as it sometimes is, right here and now is still a miraculous place to be. As Zen teacher Charlotte Joko Beck wrote, "You can’t avoid paradise, you can only avoid seeing it."
I played around with all this on a recent vacation. Before I left I decided to have no other agenda but to pay attention -- no planning about the future, no worrying about the past. Instead I’d just invite myself to see and smell and feel and absorb as much of the experience as possible. In the quiet of the morning, I’d sit down and close my eyes. I’d grow as receptive as possible in my body and mind, and let myself absorb the sounds of the moment -- the bright yellow chirping of the birds, the low roar of the surf, a splash and a giggle in the pool below. Then I’d open my eyes and drink some more. I’d soak up the turquoise, the emerald, the sapphire of the Caribbean stretching to the far horizon. And sailboats as small as snowflakes on the sea, the white railing of the balcony, my knee shining in the sun.
All this raw beauty pierced so hard, so full, so deep into my tender spots inside that a few times I had to slam my eyelids shut again. The real world seemed almost too dazzling for my soft and settled body, and I really thought I might implode or dissolve or catch fire or melt away. French mystic Simone Weil once wrote that "absolute attention is prayer," and finally I knew what she meant.
Of course, learning to pay attention on a Caribbean vacation is remedial education in here-and-now department. Real wisdom comes from paying attention not just to the easy sweetness we find but to ugliness and pain and death as well. That comes a little slower. When I do muster up the guts to be here for the pain, I’m amazed at how fast and far I ache to run. I notice, too, how much more suffering and angst I create for myself in the running and armoring and swirling than I do when I have the courage to just settle down and let the sharp sensations touch my softer spots inside.
Somehow life has a way of taking care of itself when we don’t get in the way too much, when we just let ourselves be here for it -- to receive it, accept it, welcome it, whatever it brings. And then we grow into bright and beautiful vessels that are perfectly designed to watch, to witness, to swaddle the ever-changing play of life. Nothing too solid or lasting, nothing too serious or stuck. Just a walk out of the shadows and into the summer sun.
I glance up and see my friend Racquel enter the room – she’s so shiny since she’s returned from her pilgrimage to India. I notice three-year old Sam choreographing his own yoga sequence near the piano. And then I peek at the clock and silently wish we’d pick up the pace so I can get home by mid-afternoon. I look back at the warming room and then at the teacher on stage. She’s staring at me with wild and pleading panic in her eyes -- how many sun salutes left?
For about two seconds, the world goes white. How long have I been daydreaming, and just how long can a sun salute last anyway? I muster a crooked smile and whisper with false confidence, "One more round." And then I pray I’m right. Or at least that no one else is counting.
Am I so inattentive that I can’t even count to seven without spinning into other worlds? Honestly, I’m afraid the answer may be yes. Most of the time, I’m gone. Dreaming up fantastic possibilities of future joy or terror. Replaying past moments in search of some hidden meaning or mystery or message.
Somehow, I doubt that I’m alone. I think most of us aren’t really here a lot of the time. We’re given the bare ingredients of life, which when we look closely at them are pretty breathtakingly phenomenal all by themselves. And then for some reason – yearning, fear, delusion, possibility -- we start dressing them up, playing with them, layering them with all kinds of crazy thoughts, observations, emotions, projections. Before long, we don’t even taste the naked truth of life anymore.
Could this be why so many of us are finding ourselves drawn to meditation and yoga these days? These disciplines bring us right back to the present, the only place to find real life. For at least a few frighteningly slender moments, we’re really here. We see, feel, hear, taste, know the raw ingredients of life and then we grow a little bigger. We rediscover the clean, blue sky in our brains and the sweet, bubbly nectar in our bodies.
Maybe that’s the ultimate message of all those ancient buddhas and yogis and saints anyway: that the secret of living well is to pay attention to what’s going on right here and now. Buddhists call it bare attention and say that over time it is transformed into a wise and honest mindfulness that helps us see life truly.
And in yoga, we learn this by taking ourselves on journeys where we can’t afford not to pay attention (try daydreaming while you’re wrapping your foot around your neck). And then gradually this concentration broadens into a deep and steady awareness, not just in triangle pose but in every breath we take. I love that about truly paying attention -- being so forced on the spot, so absorbed in the experience of the colors, the sensations, the breath, the moment that I come out the other side rinsed clean, with clearer vision and deeper sensitivity. Suddenly I start to feel like I’m here again for life’s big show.
Not long ago I dreamed that while teaching a yoga class in the church down the street, I stood up lazily from a pose and rambled out of the room. When I eventually returned to a room full of puzzled students, I heard a voice boom out, "Never leave the room you’re in!"
Finally I understand. And at last I’m trying to heed that dream’s mantra to stay where I am -- in this room, in this moment, in this day. Sometimes I just follow my breath. Sometimes I lie on my back with closed eyes and listen to the sounds of life. Sometimes I follow the advice of Gestalt psychologists to keep answering the phrase: "Here and now I am aware…" Occasionally I have to say it aloud to make sure I’m here. "Here and now I am aware that I’m driving my little blue Toyota down Marion Avenue. Here and now I am aware that my left shoulder feels a little achy. The sun is shining, it’s Tuesday, and now I’m exhaling."
I’m learning that by continually bringing myself back to the raw ingredients of life – the sights and sounds and feelings of now – I feel more like a living, breathing, feeling human being. I feel like I’ve drawn all my little lost sheep back home to some vast and rich amazement, to a kind of earth-solid happiness and gratitude just to be here for the game. I’m beginning to soak up every word of life’s big book and liking it a lot, instead of halfheartedly skipping through the pages just to get to the end.
And you know, I think when my attentional muscles grow a little stronger, I’ll be a wiser person. That’s because as we cultivate attentiveness, we see more honestly what truly brings us ease and what perpetuates our suffering. We start to see how much we cling to what we like and defend ourselves against our fears. We grow a little more sensitive to the feelings inside ourselves and the people around us. And we start to see that as painful as it sometimes is, right here and now is still a miraculous place to be. As Zen teacher Charlotte Joko Beck wrote, "You can’t avoid paradise, you can only avoid seeing it."
I played around with all this on a recent vacation. Before I left I decided to have no other agenda but to pay attention -- no planning about the future, no worrying about the past. Instead I’d just invite myself to see and smell and feel and absorb as much of the experience as possible. In the quiet of the morning, I’d sit down and close my eyes. I’d grow as receptive as possible in my body and mind, and let myself absorb the sounds of the moment -- the bright yellow chirping of the birds, the low roar of the surf, a splash and a giggle in the pool below. Then I’d open my eyes and drink some more. I’d soak up the turquoise, the emerald, the sapphire of the Caribbean stretching to the far horizon. And sailboats as small as snowflakes on the sea, the white railing of the balcony, my knee shining in the sun.
All this raw beauty pierced so hard, so full, so deep into my tender spots inside that a few times I had to slam my eyelids shut again. The real world seemed almost too dazzling for my soft and settled body, and I really thought I might implode or dissolve or catch fire or melt away. French mystic Simone Weil once wrote that "absolute attention is prayer," and finally I knew what she meant.
Of course, learning to pay attention on a Caribbean vacation is remedial education in here-and-now department. Real wisdom comes from paying attention not just to the easy sweetness we find but to ugliness and pain and death as well. That comes a little slower. When I do muster up the guts to be here for the pain, I’m amazed at how fast and far I ache to run. I notice, too, how much more suffering and angst I create for myself in the running and armoring and swirling than I do when I have the courage to just settle down and let the sharp sensations touch my softer spots inside.
Somehow life has a way of taking care of itself when we don’t get in the way too much, when we just let ourselves be here for it -- to receive it, accept it, welcome it, whatever it brings. And then we grow into bright and beautiful vessels that are perfectly designed to watch, to witness, to swaddle the ever-changing play of life. Nothing too solid or lasting, nothing too serious or stuck. Just a walk out of the shadows and into the summer sun.
This essay was originally printed in the June 2001 issue of Yoga International. For more of Claudia's essays, visit claudiacummins.com.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
A First Sip
For a long while I've wished I could find a corner of the world where each morning a simple thought or image would be waiting for me that would offer a daily dose of inspiration.
I've yearned for some small daily nugget of wisdom or beauty that I could mull over with my first few sips of morning tea. And that hopefully I could return to throughout the day to help me stay balanced, happy and true.
I couldn't find that special spot, so I decided to create my own. It's called "First Sip" and you can find it here.
I envision a few friends enjoying a cup of hot morning tea (or coffee) along with me, each of us savoring a few good sips of inspiration. I truly hope it will grow into a place of nourishment, happiness and illumination!
I've yearned for some small daily nugget of wisdom or beauty that I could mull over with my first few sips of morning tea. And that hopefully I could return to throughout the day to help me stay balanced, happy and true.
I couldn't find that special spot, so I decided to create my own. It's called "First Sip" and you can find it here.
I envision a few friends enjoying a cup of hot morning tea (or coffee) along with me, each of us savoring a few good sips of inspiration. I truly hope it will grow into a place of nourishment, happiness and illumination!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Yoga Classes
Hello, my long-lost yoga friends. I'm writing to let you know that I'm doing my best to pull together a gentle return to yoga teaching this fall.
My tentative plan is to teach a weekly Wednesday morning yoga class from 9 to 10:30 in Mansfield. I'm hoping to keep this as low-key and easy-going as possible. No pre-registration is required. You can just show up whenever you want. If you are inclined to help me pay for rent and babysitters, I'll have a basket in the corner of the class where you can contribute whatever you like. And we'll start at the very beginning (for all our sakes!), so anyone will be welcome to join us.
I mean this from the heights of my Tadasana (mountain pose) to the depths of my Savasana (corpse pose)... I am really looking forward to spending a little yoga time with you soon!
My tentative plan is to teach a weekly Wednesday morning yoga class from 9 to 10:30 in Mansfield. I'm hoping to keep this as low-key and easy-going as possible. No pre-registration is required. You can just show up whenever you want. If you are inclined to help me pay for rent and babysitters, I'll have a basket in the corner of the class where you can contribute whatever you like. And we'll start at the very beginning (for all our sakes!), so anyone will be welcome to join us.
I mean this from the heights of my Tadasana (mountain pose) to the depths of my Savasana (corpse pose)... I am really looking forward to spending a little yoga time with you soon!
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The First Day of Kindergarten
May you share your vibrant spirit with those around you. May you be inspired to set sail on new and exciting oceans of exploration and discovery.
May you love your new teacher. May you open your heart and your mind to her (I know you will). May your new teacher be gentle and kind and patient and understanding (I know she is). May she recognize your many gifts - your sharp intellect, your insatiable curiosity, your creativity, your playfulness.
May you not be afraid. May you remember that you already have a strong web of love and support strung throughout your school. (May you also remember that I am just around the corner if you need me.)
May you be kind. May you make at least one new friend today. May others be kind to you.
May you be so busy, so engaged, so present, that you forget all about me. But if I do creep into your mind, know that I have not forgotten you, not for a second. Remember that "mommies always come back," that I will be there at 3:05, and that I will find you wherever you may be.
May you return home with a smile as wide as the world, tired and dusty and dragging your red backpack behind you, eager to share the stories of your day's adventure. And may you fall asleep in ease and relief tonight, just after uttering the words, "I can't WAIT for school tomorrow!"
May you remember where the bathroom is. May you remember that the red bag is your lunch and the green one is your snack. And remember that I told you it doesn't matter if you confuse the two.
May you run fast and climb high (but please don't fall off the monkey bars). May you capitalize only the first letter of your name (but please don't worry if you forget).
May you run fast and climb high (but please don't fall off the monkey bars). May you capitalize only the first letter of your name (but please don't worry if you forget).
May you be brave and happy and unafraid to shine. May you remember that I sent my courage and my heart in your bulging backpack. (They are right there, in the little pocket next to your emergency juice coins.)
May the song we sang all summer - Everything's Gonna Be All Right - be the background music of your day. (I played it on the way to school just to remind us both).
May you be so busy, so engaged, so present, that you forget all about me. But if I do creep into your mind, know that I have not forgotten you, not for a second. Remember that "mommies always come back," that I will be there at 3:05, and that I will find you wherever you may be.
May you return home with a smile as wide as the world, tired and dusty and dragging your red backpack behind you, eager to share the stories of your day's adventure. And may you fall asleep in ease and relief tonight, just after uttering the words, "I can't WAIT for school tomorrow!"
Monday, August 24, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
A Morning Blessing
Today, may you live fully. May you open your eyes and truly see the beauty around you.
May you remember that presence is the key to happiness, contentment.
May you notice the perfect shade of blue in the morning sky. May you hear the bird's piercing afternoon songs. May you feel summer's warmth as it settles into your skin.
May you notice the rise and fall of your breath. May you remember that you are alive.
And may you love your life.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
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