inside out

Confession

2012-02-03T06:00:00.000-05:00

My son snuggles into my lap and
tells me he has a confession.
Sometimes when I don't know
what to say to you, he says,
I just tell you I love you.

And for a moment I imagine
how beautiful the world would be,
how much softer, how much kinder,
if we all filled our empty, awkward
spaces with a simple I love you.

~ C. C.

What Really Matters

2012-02-02T06:00:00.002-05:00

Tough morning.
Cranky kids, not enough sleep.
Wondering how to survive the day.

And then,
while walking through the room
in search of a lost toothbrush,
my eyes glance at the computer.

Up pops a photo of a happy woman
cradling a small boy just minutes old,
nestled next to the world's newest big brother.

The world stops spinning for just long enough.
I remember.
I smile.
I breathe.

And in that moment
I am taken into another world,
a larger world,
where mussed up hair and angry words
no longer matter.
Where all that matters, really, is love.

My heart restored,
and with it kindness, gentleness, softness,
I give thanks for the morning's
first lesson in what really matters.
And then I dash down the stairs to
toss my kids into the car
and head off - in love - to school.

~ C. C.

Yoga Basics: Relaxation 101

2012-02-01T06:00:00.001-05:00

originally published in Yoga Journal (December 2003)

If peace of mind were as simple as reminding ourselves to calm down and relax whenever our minds grew agitated, most of us would wander around like blissed out Buddhist monks most of the time. The hard truth is that like any other worthwhile skill, relaxation takes practice.

Thankfully, yoga offers us a training ground where we can cultivate this fine art. And the skills we learn in our daily practice can support us in the rest of our lives, helping us manage stressful times with clarity and balance.

What can we do to deepen our ability to drop into a state of relaxation and ease? The following tricks of the trade may help you make your way back to balance and tranquility, both on and off the mat.

Exhale. One of the best ways to bring yourself right back down to earth is to lengthen your exhalation. This form of breathing encourages the nervous system to calm and quiet, moving the body into a more restful state of being.

Focus your mind. Sometimes when the world sends us spinning we want nothing more than to drop into an easy chair and do absolutely nothing. But often this approach gives the brain free rein to continue its obsessive and agitated thinking. Instead, offer your mind a constructive and engaging focus. In yoga, practice a challenging asana or an absorbing breathing practice. In your day-to-day life, dive into a project that concentrates your mind so fully the rest of the world disappears, at least for a little while.

Minimize external stimulation. Turn off the television, unplug the telephone, dim the lights and put on your coziest pajamas. Turn down the volume of your life, remembering that outer calm nurtures inner calm. During yoga practice, use an eyebag or eyewrap during restorative postures to quiet the eyes and brain.

Substitute positive thoughts for negative ones. The ancient yoga sage Patanjali counseled that when we are disturbed by negative thought patterns, we can recover our balance by inviting opposite thoughts instead. So the next time your mind sends you spinning with an agonizing fear or depressing thought, notice the negative habit, toss it out, and use your creativity to develop a more peaceful and positive observation about the world.

~ C. C.

***

Simple Gifts

2012-01-31T06:00:00.000-05:00

remember simple gifts
warmth between friends
fragile love
brilliant skies
feeling happy together
listen for the joy

~ C. C.

In Love With Clouds

2012-01-30T06:00:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I fall in love with clouds, he tells me
as we round the corner and drive past the wintry field.
I sigh, and smile, and say, Oh yes, me, too.

And I fall in love with the trees and the grass.
And the sky so blue it looks like the ocean.
And the ocean, too, of course.

And the stars and the sun and the moon.
And the ones I hold so dear, and
quite possibly even the ones I've never met.

A surge of love moves through me,
and my heart grows as vast as the field
and the sky and the clouds and everything else.

And by the time we are home,
slamming the car doors shut,
I am in love with the whole wide world.

~ C. C.

Yoga Class

2012-01-27T06:00:00.000-05:00

How often are you told that
your only job is to relax,
to soften, unclench, let go?

Where else are you invited to
accept, to feel,
breathe and be kind?

Where else will you learn to
grow deep roots from your heels into the earth,
let lotus flowers bloom in the palm of your hand,
or slip the clean blue sky deep inside your head?

We turn our lives inside-out and upside-down,

and in the process we remember how to breathe,
we remember how to live, we remember who we are.

~ C. C.

Busy

2012-01-26T06:00:00.001-05:00

She told me she wanted to come visit, and
just as soon as she wasn't so busy she would.
I said I understood. And I did.

But still I whispered to myself, "If this were important
enough, really, you'd find a way to make it happen."
And then I remembered how just this morning

I lamented that I had no time today to meditate.
And how I told myself that when life slows down,
I would surely call you to say I'm thinking of you.

And I heard my words echo back to me,
"If this were important enough, really,
you'd find a way to make it happen."

In that moment I saw that life never does slow down,

and that busyness is just an excuse we hide behind.

There are words, there are promises,

and then there is the truth of how we live.
If you want to know what's important to someone,

you need only study how they spend their days.

I vowed then to spend my time more carefully,

to stand up, declare my priorities, and live them.
Each moment is a testament to who we truly are.

~ C. C.

Yoga, Simplified

2012-01-25T06:00:00.000-05:00

Beside my bedside sit three books of poetry, four meditation books, two novels, two cookbooks, a yoga philosophy book and a biography of Dipa Ma I've been hoping to read for months. On my iPhone are dozens of dharma talks, interviews, and guided meditations. And beside my yoga mat two thick books await, along with a book about yoga for kids and a beautiful book of quotations by Buddhist meditation teacher Thich Nhat Hanh.

I have a feeling that when I am able to finally turn to these gems, I won't have to look far to find a few passages praising simplicity and spaciousness. Reminders to relinquish greed and not overcrowd our lives. And probably, too, teachings that everything we need already resides within us, waiting to be discovered.

We live in an era of information, and I imagine I'm not the only one tempted by the many incredible resources that lay just beyond our fingertips. Lately, though, I've realized that I will never be able to keep up with the flow of information the world now spouts forth. I have decided to give up trying to keep up with it all. I can dip in and dip out, and surely find some beautiful wisdom in the process. But I don't have to carry the whole load. What a relief!

I've carried this resolve into my practice, as well. As I've settled onto my yoga mat these last few days, I've pushed aside books and notes and even my cavalcade of props, and invited my practice to grow beautifully simple and sweet. And in the process I've made a little more room for my own inner wisdom to bloom.

Each day I sit, I breathe. I watch, I wait. I look within, wait for inspiration to bubble up (it always does, eventually), and then I move. I slip through a few favorite postures - downward facing dog, child's pose, a few luxurious twists. I move slowly and with presence. I breathe. Sometimes I repeat movements several times in a gentle, wavelike rhythm. And then in between postures, I simplify again, sitting quietly and observing what has changed.

I climb into each stretch with quiet enthusiasm, paying close attention to the shifting sensations in muscles, joints and bones. I watch my breath, how it responds to the movement by smoothing itself out, by growing fuller and deeper and more life affirming.

Oh, how sweet this simple practice tastes in my body! I feel returned to the basics, full and open and reconnected with yoga's essential gifts. I feel both full and spacious, both grounded and uplifted. I even feel a taste of that beautiful innocence we all felt when we first stepped onto a yoga mat, when every stretch and pull was wondrous and beautiful and inspiring.

And then, when I finally settle into savasana, I feel deeply nourished and restored. I feel more content than I would have had I pulled out someone else's yoga book or tried to cram my body into someone else's asana flow. I feel I've crafted a yoga practice that has been just perfect for me. And at the same time, I feel like I have clicked into some timeless, universal state of grace. I feel deliciously, utterly rinsed clean.

Tempted to join me in yoga, simplified? Admittedly, it takes a little courage to climb out of the shadow of others and to shape your own yoga destiny. But it's well worth the journey.

First, put away your yoga books. Roll out your mat. Sit or lie quietly for a few moments, and let Thoreau's reminder to "Simplify, simplify" be your mantra. Notice what sensations are rippling through you. Are you energetic? Sleepy? Scattered? Quiet? Angry, sad, happy? Just wait for answers to bubble up within, perhaps in the form of words, but maybe even images or sounds or colors.

Breathe and soften. Relax. And then when you know what you're feeling, ask yourself what you need to slip toward a deeper state of balance. Do you need to build energy? Release it? Smooth it out? Move it down into your legs? Do you need to cultivate a little strength and stamina, or would gentleness and rest bring you back home to your true self?

And then let go of even your answers, and invite simplicity to slip into your bones. Trust yourself and be patient. When a wave of insight ripples through (be patient, it will eventually!), move with it. Maybe your body yearns to twist, and if so, slip into a very simple, easy one. Or maybe you dive toward a forward bend. Be curious, and watch where this movement carries you.

Don't over-complicate your practice with too many instructions or rules about how you "should" do a particular pose. Climb into your own inner teacher and trust the wisdom she offers. You may even find yourself slipping into homegrown yoga postures you've never seen in a book or video. This is good!

And then stand or sit quietly again, breathe, and observe how your movements have changed you. Feel and breathe, And remember your watchword, "Simplifly." Perhaps you have an image that evokes feelings of simplicity and ease: a lovely vase of flowers, a beautiful blue sky, or a contented monk slipping through a field. If so, let the image waft through you.

And then, perhaps you'll be called to move again. Stand up in mountain pose, or settle into downward facing dog or another favorite pose, and move from there.Drift into the poses several times, if you're moved to. Breathe, watch, and wait. Be patient and move slowly - otherwise you may just trample right over your own insight and wisdom.

Don't be discouraged by doubt or uncertainty. Relish that moment when you're honest answer to a question is, "I have no idea." Not-knowing is a beautiful and innocent place to be, and it means you're wide open to possibility and growth.

Continue to move and breathe and stretch and sit - unencumbered and attentive - for as long as you like. (But remember, less is often more, so practice until you're pleasantly full but not overstuffed!). On a good day, you'll eventually settle into a place of utter spaciousness and ease, where your sense of self grows so vast you become the whole world. "You" will fall away, and all that will remain is a simple creature breathing and stretching and utterly at home in the world, and merging into the vast and beautiful play of life.

And when you feel delightfully simple - clean and clear and fresh, and ready to rest - settle onto your back for savasana, final relaxation. Don't over-complicate things - just lie down comfortably onto the floor. Let go of technique, of how you've been taught to relax. Just rest. Breathe. Empty. And float in the sea of sweet simplicity - quiet, spacious and at peace.

~ C. C.

***

Take A Stand

2012-01-24T06:00:00.000-05:00

stand
like a mountain

stretch
like a cat

move
with ease

release
negativity

listen
to the wind

be
happy

~ C. C.

Hand-in-Hand

2012-01-23T06:00:00.007-05:00

"Mommy, I'm going away from you,"
my son said when he was two.
"Will you come with me?"

And I thought, yes, please.
Let's run away from me.
Tiresome, demanding, ever-present me.

But where should we go?
Where else is there?

How about the land of we,
where there are no small selves
or petty demands or self-serving actions.

Where together we are a one living creature.
Where everyone is everything.
And concepts like you and I dissolve.

Let's go there together, you and I,
hand-in-hand.

~ C. C.

Yoga Basics: Breathing for Relaxation

2012-01-22T06:00:00.000-05:00

originally published in Yoga Journal (November 2004)

Beginning students often ask for instructions on the “right” way to breathe. Alas, there’s no single answer to this question, since the optimal breathing pattern at any given moment depends on the circumstances we face. When we’re running a marathon, one breathing pattern will be most efficient. When we’re defending ourselves from danger, another way of breathing will likely be optimal. And when we’re lying on the beach with not a care in the world, the natural breath will likely find a completely different pattern that best supports the moment.

Much of yoga focuses on relaxation, though, and so the discipline often emphasizes breathing patterns that accompany calm and tranquil states of being. When you’ve settling your body, mind and breath into a quiet, restful state, look for the following breathing patterns that are hallmarks of relaxation and wellbeing.

The belly moves to the tune of the breath. When we are at ease, the diaphragm becomes the primary engine of the breath. As we inhale, this dome-like muscle descends toward the abdomen, displacing the abdominal muscles and inviting the belly to gently swell. As we exhale, the diaphragm releases back toward the heart, enabling the belly to release toward the spine. Don’t confuse this action with tensing and releasing the abdominal muscles, though. The rise and fall of the breath is initiated from the breathing muscles, while the belly muscles remain quiet and unrestricted.

The upper body remains relatively quiet. Although the ribs and chest do open and release with the inhalation and exhalation, in a resting body the muscles of the upper chest remain soft and unstrained during each cycle of breath. The real work occurs deeper in the ribcage, minimizing feelings of heaving or gripping in the shoulders and throat. To promote this breathing pattern, consciously relax the jaw, throat, neck and shoulders, and envision the breath sweeping into the deepest parts of the lungs as you breathe in and out.

The breath is smooth, soft and rhythmic. Although some breaths may be deeper or faster than others, in a quiet body the alternating rhythm of the inhalation and exhalation feels like a lullaby – smooth, soft, rhythmic, and uncluttered by jerks and jags. Consciously relaxing into this wavelike, oceanic quality of the breath deepens our sense of peace and ease even more.

The exhalation lengthens. When we’re stressed or threatened, our exhalations grow short and choppy. When we’re relaxed, the exhalations extend so completely that they are often longer than the inhalations. Some yogis even teach that in a body truly at ease, each exhalation will be twice as long as the inhalation. To facilitate this pattern, when you reach the end of your exhalation consider whether you might be able to gently extend the breath by just another second.

A short pause develops at the end of each exhalation. In our most relaxed states, the end of each exhalation is punctuated by a short pause that leaves the body completely at rest. Lingering in this sweet spot where the body is neither swelled or settled by the breath can be deeply satisfying and can evoke feelings of profound quiet and stillness within.

The whole body breathes. In a body that has been softened by ease and well-being, the whole body participates in the breathing process – not just the ribs. Consider a sleeping baby – when he breathes in and out, the belly swells and releases, the hips rock to and fro, the shoulders bob, and the spine gently undulates to the tune of the breath. This offers a mini-massage for the muscles and organs of the whole body, and turns each breath into a soothing melody that further calms and quiets every cell within.

~ C. C.

***

Survival Strategy

2012-01-20T06:00:00.001-05:00

BREATHE.
Find the waves of the breath, and ride them.
Exhale especially, long and slow and deep.

RELAX.
Soften your shoulders, unclench your fists.
Release your belly, let tension melt away.

FEEL.
Tune into the raw sensations of the moment.
Let go of the storyline. Be present for real life.

TRUST.
Have faith in yourself and the world around you.
Remember that everything is going to be alright.

~ C. C.

Knitting A Life

2012-01-19T06:00:00.002-05:00

All along I thought I was knitting
sweaters, blankets, mittens, scarves.

And now sitting here clicking away
in white and snowy silence

I finally see that I have actually
been knitting together my life.

~ C. C.

Presence

2012-01-18T06:00:00.000-05:00

Place your mind in the
same room as your body.

Place your heart in the
same room as your mind.

Place your breath in the
same room as your heart.

And then will you know
what it means to be whole,

what it means to be present,
what it means to be alive.

~ C. C.

Stretch

2012-01-17T06:00:00.000-05:00

Such beautiful words:
stretch
release
open
bloom

Followed by:
exhale
accept
soften
shine

~ C. C.

Storyless, Happy

2012-01-16T06:00:00.004-05:00

Once I heard about a woman who attended a workshop
where everyone dove deeply into their own stories,
trying their best to make sense of their lives,
to craft something stable and lasting and meaningful.

Exasperated by their tangled efforts to layer meaning upon the
raw experience of life, she walked out of the meeting hall
and into the summer sun, where she sat on a bench,
looked up at the open sky, and sighed in happiness and relief.

I, too, tire of the mind's endless prattle, the futile effort
to tuck the enormity of it all into one small package. We may be storytellers,
but we aren't stories. Or if we are, our stories are so much more vast
and beautiful than our small minds could possibly comprehend.

Perhaps the answer to happiness lies not in the stories we tell.
Maybe the answer lies in the bench, the blue sky, the easy breath.
In being present for the play of life while it washes through us.
In living each moment with whole heart and arms spread wide.

~ C. C.

How Not To Get Hurt

2012-01-14T06:00:00.000-05:00

The yoga world has been turned upside down by a recent article published in The New York Times called, “How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body.” In it, science writer William Broad shares stories of individuals who have suffered debilitating injuries as a result of their yoga practices.

Many members of the yoga community have dismissed the article for both its sensationalism and its inaccuracies. And yet, most yoga experts agree that the discipline is not immune to injury. (If they’re honest, many of these experts will even tell you about their own yoga injuries - some minor and some significant.)

So, what’s a yogi to do? A few simple steps can help us prevent harm and foster healing in our yoga practice.

Choose your teacher carefully. Not everyone who calls herself a yoga teacher is experienced and well trained, so ask about an instructor’s background before you sign up. And don’t be satisfied by a teacher’s assurance that she is certified. Because there is no formal certifying organization in this country for yoga teachers, certification can mean anything from a teacher having taken a one-day workshop to having spent years apprenticing under the watchful eyes of a senior teacher.

Seek out someone who has been teaching for at least a few years, and who has been a student of yoga for several years more than that. (There really are people out there who call themselves yoga teachers but have never actually taken a yoga class in their lives!) Look for someone willing to go into detail with you about their yoga training and background. Ask what steps she takes to help students prevent injury. Steer clear of anyone who dismisses this question or tells you that yoga is “totally safe.” And be suspicious if the teacher only speaks of the physical aspects of yoga without mentioning its deeper, spiritual roots.

Follow your instincts. What if you’ve settled on a teacher you trust, but once you’re in the class you sense that something is a little off? Sadly, there are teachers who push students beyond the boundaries of safety, who teach without regard to the needs and requirements of the students in the room, and even who create a hostile environment through yelling or insensitive comments. If this happens to you, trust your gut, back off and look elsewhere.

Find someone who sets you at ease, who offers a supportive environment, who offers modifications for students of varying abilities, and who asks about and responds to your specific needs. And remember, the yoga world is vast, and there are many different styles of yoga – some sweaty and rigorous, others mellow and gentle – as well as many different styles of teaching. You’ll learn best with a teacher who matches your style and your temperament.

Check your ego at the door. Yoga is not a competitive sport – it’s a spiritual discipline that often involves a physical component. An easy way to hurt yourself is to push your body beyond its physical limits, especially when your practice is new. When you settle onto your yoga mat, remind yourself that yoga is an internal discipline, that it’s not about achieving a perfect shape, and that while strength, stamina and flexibility are wonderful byproducts of the practice, they’re not actually the aim.

Keep your eyes on your own mat to help you avoid the tendency to compare yourself to others. (I find it helpful to remember that just because someone is able to perform a perfect backbend doesn’t mean she’s spiritually evolved, or even happy). If you tend to be a perfectionist in the rest of your life, be especially careful because this tendency will follow you to your mat. Remember, there are no gold starts or door prizes in yoga!

Pay Attention. Mindfulness – paying attention to the present moment in a balanced and welcoming fashion – rests at the heart of an authentic yoga practice. As you practice, either in a class or on your own, pay close attention to the signals your body and mind offer you. Tune into your breath. Notice where you feel warmth or coolness, strain or release. Check in with these sensations continually.

When you sense physical resistance or discomfort, back off. When your breath grows ragged, slow down or take a break. And when you hear that little voice in your head that says, “I’m not so sure about this,” heed that wisdom and give yourself a rest. Your ultimate teacher lies within, after all. Why not follow her wisdom?

Remember that less is often more. Avoid the tendency to go full-throttle, which will increase the likelihood that you’ll hurt yourself. When a teacher offers modifications (as all good teachers do), consider the possibility that they may be for you. Try them out, even if you don’t think you need them – you may learn something new.

One of my favorite yoga instructors, Victor Van Kooten, once counseled a class full of experienced yogis to aim for 85 percent of our ability in order to respect our bodies’ needs, and also to leave room for experimentation, playfulness and ease. “You only get a headache when you try your very best,” he said.

Practice peace. The very first moral precept of classical yoga is ahimsa, usually translated as non-violence but sometimes defined as non-injury. Yoga teaches us that aggression toward ourselves or others leads not to peace but to peril.

Pushing your body too far too fast, making unreasonable demands on yourself, or even judging yourself harshly are all forms of violence. So when you climb onto your yoga mat, think like Gandhi, and commit to practicing peace. With this approach you’ll be well on your way to cultivating a yoga practice that avoids injury while fostering radiant happiness and health.

***

Family Blessing

2012-01-13T06:00:00.001-05:00

Inspired by Buddhist lovingkindness (metta) meditations, my kids and I crafted our own family blessing. We recite it together every night as our bedtime prayer:

May we be safe and protected from harm.
May we be healthy, happy and strong.
May we have faith in ourselves and the world.
May our lives unfold with ease.

May we be patient, loving and kind.
May we care for the world around us.
May we savor each moment together,
Living and laughing in peace.

~ C. C. (and L. C. and G. C.)

Beautiful Silence

2012-01-12T06:00:00.000-05:00

stand happy
flower open
practice with feeling
always connect
listen for beautiful silence

~ C. C.

Your Own Best Friend

2012-01-11T06:00:00.001-05:00

You're standing on your yoga mat in tree pose. You sway, you wobble, and then you fall. What happens next? Do you curse yourself for being a bumbling klutz? Strike out at anyone or anything around you with blame? Look around in agony, wondering what everyone thinks of you now? Or use your tumble as evidence against yourself, proving once and for all that you're a yoga failure, even after all these years?

The way you respond to a challenging yoga posture is likely also the way you respond to any challenge in your life, on or off the mat. Consider how you respond when you've been battered by surprises at work, when you drop that carton of blueberry yogurt onto the floor, or when you say something you know you shouldn't have to someone you love. Often the words we speak to ourselves aren't that kind... or constructive. And my experience is that, unless we make a point of paying attention, we often aren't even aware of the harshness of our inner monolog.

What channel would you like to have playing as mind's background music as you move throughout your day? The red-hot critical one? The blame channel? Radio defeat? How about tuning instead to my favorite channel: the soothing and supportive voice of your very best friend, reassuring yourself that you're doing just fine and everything is going to be okay?

Next time you climb onto your yoga mat, consider meeting up making friends with your own internal support system. As you progress throughout your practice, key into your own inner commentary, the thoughts that spin through your mind. If you don't like what you hear, change that inner radio dial until you find a station that restores your sense of ease and balance, preferably one that offers support, kindness and care.

If you find this difficult - or perhaps ridiculously contrived - channel the most supportive and affirming person you know. Imagine she is right there by your side, practicing on her own mat next to you, and imagine what she would say as you move together through your practice, falling out of tree pose, struggling through a challenging backbend, inching your way into a forward bend or two. How does this feel to you? Does this experiment offer even a hint of another way to live?

Breaking old habits and establishing new ones isn't easy, so keep practicing. And when you've mastered being supportive and self-assuring on your mat, take it out into the world. Watch your monolog as you move throughout your day, and see if you can tune into the music that most supports you, that brings out your best, that evokes sunshine instead of storms. It's not a bad life, having your own best friend with you everywhere you go.

Chances are good that you won't be able to keep this inner support to yourself. Before long you may find yourself growing into an even more gentle and forgiving person than you already are. And in this way, you become one more beacon of kindness and support in a banged up world that badly needs a little love.

~ C. C.

Kisses

2012-01-10T06:00:00.000-05:00

There is nothing in this world -
no ache, no fear, no wrong -
that can't be healed by their
hot
slurpy
sweet
jumpy
little boy
kisses.
Especially the ones that appear out of nowhere,
that land high on my cheek,
and leave a sticky wet buzz behind.

~ C. C.

Meditation Teacher

2012-01-09T06:00:00.000-05:00

Hot tea, quiet moment,
sunrise, breath.
I sit quietly and watch the day begin.

My meditation teacher arrives and hops into my lap.
He sits. I sit.
He purrs. I exhale.

An urge arrives to hop up and check my email.
My meditation teacher refuses to budge.
He sits. I pet.

I decide to brew a second cup of tea.
My meditation teacher says, no.
He purrs. I sit and watch.

Gradually, the urge to be anywhere else eases.
He sits. I purr.
He looks up at me and winks.

And then as if the ending gong had sounded,
he bounds off my lap and disappears.
Morning meditation has ended.

~ C. C.

Yoga Basics: Restorative Poses

2012-01-08T18:00:00.000-05:00

originally published in Yoga Journal (May 2003)

Let’s face it, some yoga poses taste a little sweeter than others. And if yoga were a smorgasbord, restorative postures would most definitely be at the dessert table. These soothing, well-supported poses offer us the opportunity to linger quietly for a few moments and savor the simple sweetness of life.

In an ideal world every asana should feel restorative. But those that fall into the special category that bear this name have a particular ability to leave us nourished and well rested. These postures are usually deeply supported by blankets, blocks or other props, and are held for several minutes at a stretch. In them, gravity becomes your best friend, encouraging every ounce of your to surrender delightedly into the earth beneath you.

Keep in mind the following tips as you dip into your favorite restorative postures.

Start out with a few minutes of gentle movement before settling into a restorative pose or practice. A little stretching will warm the muscles and create space in the body to prepare it for relaxation. Movement will also give the body a chance to shed its restlessness and busy-ness before settling into a place of stillness.

Don’t skimp on props. Blocks, straps, blankets, balls, towels, chairs, walls and pillows are all fair game when supporting yourself in these postures. The more fully your body is supported, the deeper will be your sense of relaxation and surrender. So go ahead, strip your bed and raid the linen closet – your body will thank you with profound sighs of relief.

Give yourself plenty of time to readjust your body or the props before you settle in. In restoratives, the distance between heaven and hell can be as little as a half an inch. A small readjustment of a blanket or a minor shift in the body's position can transform a moment of exasperated agony into pure rapture. Be creative and use your inner wisdom to guide you toward greater comfort, making any modifications you need to encourage deep support and relaxation.

Incorporate restoratives into your yoga practice in a balanced way. Peruse a few yoga books – Judith Lasater’s Relax and Renew: Restful Yoga for Stressful Times is a great place to start – for ideas about crafting a well-rounded restorative practice. You might be inspired to include just one or two restorative postures into your daily practice. Or you may choose to devote one entire practice each week to restoratives. In addition, stay attuned to specific periods in your life - while recovering from an illness, suffering from emotional loss, or traveling, for example – when restorative yoga may be a particular comfort.

Although they look peaceful, restoratives can be challenging for beginners. Just because the body rests quietly doesn’t mean the mind will settle into stillness, too. So be patient, and be prepared for days when every inch of you rebels. In time and with practice you will be rewarded with the ability to drop with ease into a place of deep contentment. This is what yoga is all about, after all: stilling our fidgety bodies and calming our rambling minds, so we may rest quietly in the present moment and see clearly the amazing truth of life.

~~~

Puppy Love

2012-01-07T06:00:00.000-05:00

My friend Martha writes of her dog's death, and how surprised she is by how deeply she misses the sheer physicality of her beloved's presence. The canine zest, the companionship, the exuberance, the total absorption in the sensory world.

And my thoughts wander to my young boys, so exuberant and eager that I often call them pups. They romp, they stomp, they howl. They jump, they bump, they growl. Sometimes in their sheer exhilaration they knock each other down. They are vital, present, full, and so very happy bounding through the world.

Suddenly, I am struck by puppy love so strong I myself want to howl. Oh, how beautiful is their joyful physicality! Their energy, their strength, their unbridled enthusiasm!

And finally I find myself falling in love with all those noisy, canine habits I so often brace myself against. The sharp elbows that jab me in tender places. The piercing yowls of delight. The love of balls and sticks and chasing cats.

The ridiculous delight when they hear the slightest shriek of a far-off siren, and the predictability of their hopping to the window and nearly slobbering in anticipation of seeing something shiny, loud and fast.

Their inability to "stay," when I pull out my yoga mat and beg for quiet mercy. The magnetism with which they're pulled to my body when I settle myself onto the ground.

The slobbery kisses. The inappropriate sniffs. The way they hog the bed.

I sigh with Martha as she mourns the loss of her dear dog Lily. I sigh again as I consider how quickly the sweetness of a life can pass, how brilliantly and how briefly each of us passes through the world. I recommit to celebrating even the loud and bumpy moments of the romp.

And then I whistle, pat the comforter, and call for my pups to jump on up for one last snuggle before bed.

~ C. C.

The Trouble With Stories

2012-01-06T06:00:00.000-05:00

I'm kneeling in the bathroom next to my son in the icy dark of night, nursing him through the agony of stomach flu. I'm doing my best to be motherly, calm and supportive. I'm whispering to him that everything will be alright.

But inside, my mind spins. My poor family has been buffeted by illness for weeks. Pip's string of illnesses - strep, then stomach flu, then viral rash - corresponded perfectly with his brother's school break. And here we are stumbling in frail health into the new year. Why can't my kids fight these things off? Why can't I keep them healthier? What am I doing wrong?

I cycle back through the weeks in search of a peaceful night's sleep, but can't find a single one. I sink into the mud of self pity, imagining how crabby we'll all be tomorrow, wondering how I'm going to keep a four-year old entertained while sitting by the toilet with his brother. Surely I'll be sick in a few days, too. And our vacation next month? Likely doomed.

My son sighs and drops back down on the little bed of blankets I've made for him. I clear my eyes and settle in beside him. We snuggle tight. I exhale. And in this moment of quiet, the words I uttered just hours ago to my yoga students bubble up within.

We're storytelling creatures, I had explained, and stories can infuse our lives with meaning and delight. But we get ourselves into trouble when we hold too fast to our colorful interpretations of our lives, especially when we mistake these stories we create with reality.

"Next time you find yourself facing a tough moment, observe the mind's tendency to blanket a story line on top of the experience of the moment," I had suggested. "And then watch what happens when you let the story line fall away and simply return to the raw sensations of the moment."

And now, I soften as I watch my own pitch-dark melodrama - my moans, my groans, my worries, my hopes - fall away. I untangle the elemental facts of the moment from the assessments I have crafted about them, and I resolve to ally myself with the facts.

I don't have to figure out exactly where the germs first jumped onto my son's body. I don't have to blame anyone for this sickness passing through our house. We aren't better or worse because these germs have come to call. And who knows. we may be crabby tomorrow, but maybe we'll all rally in a beautiful (if sickly) way. And regardless, life will march forward in its own spectacular way, whatever story I choose to impose upon it.

What am I left with when the story line falls away? This sick, small body. The cold tile floor and the chill from the window above us. The quiet of the deep, dark night. This larger body called mother, tired and bleary-eyed, sitting beside the hurting child. One hand stroking another. This love so deep it melts the boundaries between us.

This feels so much better - this being with what is, this nestling into the raw sensations of life with acceptance and loving presence. The here-and-now is more than enough; no adornment or melodrama is necessary. This is where I want to live, in sickness and (hopefully soon enough) in health, anchored in each passing moment, open and peaceful and finally seeing clearly what is true.

~ C. C.

Shopping for Words, Part Two

2012-01-05T06:00:00.000-05:00

On second thought, maybe I'm wrong to be so serious about my choice of words to buy at our fictional word mart. Maybe I'd do better to scout for words that do no more than please the palate and tickle the tongue.

How about LILTING and MELLIFLUOUS? WHIMSY, FLAMBOYANT and FANTASTICAL? LOLLYGAG and LOQUACIOUS?

Or maybe I'd just stick with those words I love the most: RADIANT and ILLUMINATE and SPARKLE and SHINE...

~ C. C.

Shopping for Words

2012-01-04T06:00:00.000-05:00

In our book, Milo stumbles upon a word market and is invited to shop for words. I pause and ask the boys what words they'd buy if they were by Milo's side.

Big brother, in a pragmatic mood, says he'd shop for lots of ANDs and THEs. The little brother, silly as usual, spits out a slew of nonsense words... GHIIRP and GLUMPAH and WILLAWOOCRUSH.

And me? I'd like HAPPINESS, please. And LOVE of course. And would it be greedy, while we're there, to sneak a little PEACE in my pocket, too?

~ C. C.

Sanctuary

2012-01-03T06:00:00.000-05:00

"Sometimes I feel a black ball in my stomach," he says.
"I don't know what it is, but I know what makes it disappear."

Isn't that what we all need, in the end? A refuge,
a sanctuary, where troubles dissolve and faithfulness returns?

I smile in the knowledge that my young son has already found
his place of peace, that he knows how to heal the dark ache within.

His lean fingers touch the white keys,
his body softens, and he plays his way home.

~ C. C.

Yoga Basics: New Year's (Yoga) Resolutions

2012-01-02T11:06:00.001-05:00

Originally published in Yoga Journal (January 2004)

Let’s face it, each of us practices yoga because we want to change something in our lives. We may be seeking peace of mind, or perhaps improved health, a good night’s sleep, or a serene and steady temperament.

We’re in luck. Yoga offers a myriad of techniques designed to help us change. And so as we contemplate our goals and resolutions of the New Year, it's not a bad idea to consider just how we will get from here to there. Or more precisely, how we will follow through with our intentions and move in the direction of healthy transformation.

Be clear about what you’re seeking. Why are you practicing yoga? If you are looking for a good night’s sleep, your practice will likely have a different flavor than if you want to ease chronic hip pain, dissolve the mid-winter blues, or learn to stand on your head. But if you have no idea what you're hoping to unearth each morning when you climb onto your mat, how are you going to know what path to follow? And how are going to recognize transformation when it comes your way?

Be methodical and intelligent about your practice. Pay attention to how different poses and practices change your body, your breath, your mood and your mind. Use these observations to craft daily practices that help move you in the direction of your goal. If forward bends soothe you, make these postures your focus during times of stress when you’re seeking a little downshifting. If sun salutes leave you energized, incorporate them into your practice when you are looking for a burst of energy.

Be creative. With a little practice and intelligence, you will unearth creative ways to personalize your yoga in a way that helps move you toward your goal. If you notice that propping your body with blocks and blankets promotes calm and support, for example, then during times when you are seeking tranquility, consider ways you can use your props in a range of postures to increase support and diminish tension.

Listen to the experts. Ask a teacher, consult your favorite yoga book, or study the ancient yoga scriptures for guidance on how to evoke change and meet your goals. Those who have traveled the yoga path before you can offer techniques and strategies to help you move you wisely and efficiently toward your goal.

Be flexible. If you are seeking better breathing and you find that a particular posture or practice impedes your progress, eliminate it from your practice for a period of time and see what happens, or at the very least modify it wisely. Some postures are better than others at meeting specific goals, and there’s no reason to expect that every yoga posture will be right for every yoga practitioner. In fact, certain postures and practices might move you farther away from your goal rather than helping you reach it.

Practice patience. While goals and game plans are important, don't forget that the joy is in the journey. The process of exploring, trying, failing, reassessing, and moving forward is what yoga - and life - is all about. Be curious, enthusiastic and engaged, and enjoy the process of opening yourself to the ever-changing play of life that yoga offers.

***

Morning Haiku

2012-01-02T06:00:00.000-05:00

Sitting quietly
Empty teacup in my hands
Chocolate on my tongue

~ C. C.

Resolved

2012-01-01T06:00:00.000-05:00

I do love the resolutions of the new year:
the possibility, the hope, the aspiration.
And yet I remain suspicious.
Why do we assume we need to change?
Why do we believe who we are is not enough?

Let's turn our new year's resolve on its head.
Instead of marching toward perfection,
let's relax into the moment, let's cultivate acceptance.
Let's embrace our selves, our lives, exactly as they are.
Let's welcome each moment with arms spread wide.

~ C. C.

Yoga With (My) Kids, Part One

2011-12-30T19:18:00.000-05:00

First there was this, which would have stung if he hadn't looked so cute. ("This is called MEAN MOMMY POSE...")

And then there was the redemption, which looked like this ("...And this is a new pose I've created called STAR GAZER.")

Meditation, Anxiety and Kindness

2011-11-24T12:22:00.001-05:00

I so love this beautiful essay by Susan Piver about fear, kindness, connection and well-being. I hope you enjoy it, too.

May we all be thankful for Captain Denny - and all the hands that love and support one another - in our lives!

A Beginner's Guide to Pranayama

2011-11-01T09:48:00.000-04:00

Originally published in Yoga Journal (October 2006)

The day I enrolled in my first yoga class, I chuckled to learn my school offered a course on breathing. Friends had promised the exotic contortions of yoga would loosen my tight knots, strengthen my weak spots, and clear my frazzled brain. But they hadn’t mentioned anything about inhaling and exhaling, and the thought that someone would sign up for a course specifically to study the breath amused and even perplexed me. Who would be nutty enough to enroll in a so-called “pranayama” class? We breathe in, we breathe out. How hard can that be?

A year later, after dancing through hundreds of downward dogs and boatloads of upward bows, I signed up for the very breathing class that had once bemused me with its outlandishness. I had fallen under yoga’s spell, and the physical practice had begun to beckon me toward more subtle and sustaining energies within. Perhaps by design, the poses piqued my interest in the mind, the spirit, and, yes, even the breath.

That first pranayama class not only changed my breath, it also changed my life. Quiet but attentive exploration of my inhalations and exhalations transported me toward an inner oasis of tranquility and ease that had previously eluded me. Mindful breathing also left me feeling buoyant and gently energized, as if all my inner channels had been rinsed clean and refilled with a bright and soul-satisfying vitality.

As my practice deepened, I began to understand why ancient yogis offered the breath as a vital link between our inner and outer lives, as well as an introduction to meditation and the deeper dimensions of yoga. I began to rely upon my pranayama practice as an invisible doorway between the big bangs of my backbends and the soft, warm stillness that accompanies a quiet mind and an open heart.

Pranayama, the term used to describe yoga’s vast array of breathing exercises, has been cultivated over thousands of years by adepts seeking to quiet their restless minds while nourishing their stores of vital energy. According to yoga philosophy this invisible vitality, called prana in Sanskrit, flows through every inch of the universe. Both ancient and modern yoga masters tell us that by consciously controlling the way we breathe, we can learn to concentrate, store, and even direct this life-enhancing flow of prana within us. Unlike seated meditation, where the breath is used as an object of meditation but is not manipulated in any way, pranayama focuses explicitly on changing the way we breathe.

The catalog of yogic breathing practices is impressive, and includes a host of exotic exercises with imposing names, including “skull-shining breath” (kapalabhati), “bellows breath” (bhastrika) and “buzzing bee breath” (bhramari). Some exercises require practitioners to hold the breath for long periods of time. Some require them to breathe in and out in a ballistic fashion at a rate of more than 100 breaths per minute. And still others require exacting contortions of the tongue, perfection of various energetic “locks,” or bandhas, and precise manipulation of the belly, ribs and chest. These advanced practices are difficult and demanding, and require years of study with an experienced teacher.

Fortunately, some of the discipline’s most powerful techniques are also its simplest. Not only do these basic explorations serve as essential preparation for those hoping to huff and puff along with great yoga masters, but they also serve as potent tools in and of themselves that can revolutionize the way we breathe, feel, and relate to the world around us. Befriending your breath, quite literally, can transform your life.

Interested in getting started? Establishing a home practice requires little more than 15 minutes a day, a few blankets and a clean, quiet space. (See "Extras," below,for additional hints about getting started). Be forewarned, though: Pranayama is said to require more skill and attentiveness than even the most demanding asana. Yogis compare the process of regulating the breath to taming a wild animal.

They advise patience and caution, and counsel us to proceed slowly and mindfully through our explorations. Since respiration is closely linked to both the nervous and cardiovascular systems, they warn that moving beyond one’s abilities can harm the body and mind.

That means it’s always best to study under the tutelage of an experienced instructor. If you have a yoga teacher, seek out his or her guidance before setting sail on your exploration of the breath. If you practice on your own, stick with introductory breathing techniques such as the ones offered here, and be sure to give yourself ample time to grow comfortable with the subtleties of each new exercise before advancing to the next. When you feel ready to befriend more advanced practices, find a teacher to guide you.

In addition, if you suffer from a physical or emotional ailment – including respiratory conditions, cardiovascular conditions, depression, anxiety, or glaucoma – or if you are pregnant, consult your physician and an experienced yoga instructor before beginning a pranayama practice.

Experts offer one more essential bit of wisdom for anyone beginning a pranayama practice: Never, ever force the breath. If a breathing exercise causes strain or discomfort, it’s not for you – at least not for now. Back off, seek the advice of an instructor, and stick with explorations that leave you softened and soothed rather than restless and rattled.

Pranayama is at heart a deeply receptive practice, and is as much about undoing as doing. So throw away all the words that come to mind when you consider working with the breath, like control, force, push or hold. Instead, think about inviting, nudging, yielding, perhaps even sweet talking the breath as you guide it in new directions.

As you embark on your exploration of pranayama – curious, wide-eyed and without strain – awareness of your breath may sneak into not only your asana practice but also your day-to-day life. You may begin to observe that your breath changes along with your moods and emotions. You may notice that a simple shift in your breathing can transform the way you respond to a stressful situation. And you may also learn how soothing and sustaining the simple ebb-and-flow melody of your breath can be.

Welcome this newfound awareness into your life. Nourish, cherish and befriend it. The breath begins as a stranger, but in the course of one’s exploration it becomes a friend, ally, and even healer. As yoga masters discovered centuries ago, awakening to the magic of the breath can open you to boundless oceans of peace, contentment and vitality within.

MONTH ONE: BREATH AWARENESS
Pranayama begins with basic breath awareness, a simple inquiry that serves as the foundation for every other pranayama technique. The principle is simple: Before attempting to regulate your own respiration, you need to know something about it. And the best way to gain this understanding is to rest quietly and use your powers of perception to sense the movement of the breath within.

It’s possible that you haven’t spent much time attuning yourself to the sensations that accompany your inhalations and exhalations. If so, you probably have a lot to learn. Think of this beginning phase of pranayama practice as a blind date with the breath.

To begin, rest on your back in corpse pose, or simple savasana. After settling here for a few minutes, draw your attention to the breath. Consider where you feel it as it moves through you. Which parts of the body move as you inhale and exhale? Do you sense the breath more fully in the belly or chest? In the front body or the back? In the left side of the torso or the right?

Once you’ve familiarized yourself the location of the breath, consider its flow. Does it feel fast or slow? Deep or shallow? And which is longer, the inhalation or the exhalation? Do you notice a pause at the end of the inhalation or exhalation? How do the breaths compare to one another – are they uniform or unpredictable?

Finally, you might consider the breath’s feel. Is it smooth or rough? Warm or cool? Moist or damp? Light or heavy? And does a particular color or image or emotion come to mind as you breathe? Remember, you’re not trying to change the breath here, you’re just trying to get to know it.

When your exploration feels complete, let go of the breath let your awareness spread beyond the breath. Rest here for several more moments, and consider how this breath awareness practice has changed you. Do you feel soothed? Frustrated? Delighted? Confused? Enlivened? Uncertain?

If you’re like me, in the beginning you’ll feel a little lost – like a neophyte traveler in a foreign country without a map. Rest assured that over a period of weeks, months and even years, you’ll discover a captivating array of sensations and feelings associated with the breath. You’ll begin to love this new country you’ve come to inhabit. And you’ll wonder how you could have lived for so many years with little awareness of how it actually feels to breathe.

MONTH TWO: RELAXED BREATHING
As you’ve grown familiar with the breath, it’s likely you’ve encountered days when your respiration feels choppy and agitated, and others when it feels smooth and deep. Advanced pranayama practices rely on the steadiness that comes with relaxed breathing, so before proceeding any farther it’s a good idea to explore techniques that allow your breath to feel as easy and tranquil as a quiet lake on a calm summer afternoon.

A relaxed breath has several important characteristics: It is slow, smooth, and deep. The abdomen is soft and the diaphragm at the base of the lungs becomes the primary engine of respiration, causing the belly to swell gently as you inhale and recede toward the spine as you exhale.

One of the most effective ways to cultivate slow, deep, and easy breathing is to rest on the belly in crocodile pose, or makrasana. Once you’ve settled in, draw your attention to your lower back. Do you sense it sailing upward toward the sky as you inhale and sinking back toward the ground as you exhale? Don’t force the action - just wait, watch, and open to it. (If you have trouble sensing this movement, place a small beanbag on your lower back - or better yet, ask a friend to gently rest his or her hands there as you breathe.)

After several moments attending to the sensations in your lower back, shift your awareness to your side waists. Linger here for several breaths, noticing how the two sides swell away from one another as you inhale and shrink back toward one another as you exhale, like gills on a fish. After another few moments, shift your awareness to your belly, sensing it press toward the earth with each inhalation and relax toward the spine with each exhalation.

Finally, spread your awareness throughout all the areas you’ve just explored independently: back, belly and sides. As you breathe in, sense the entire belly area blooming outward; as you breathe out, sense it softening toward your body’s core. Invite each breath to be deliciously slow, smooth, and soul-satisfying.

Remain here for five to 10 minutes. Before you emerge, consider how these few moments of relaxed breathing have affected you. It’s possible you’ll feel as settled and stress-free as a cat emerging from an afternoon nap - calm, quiet, and at ease.

After a few months attending to the breath’s sensations through both Breath Awareness and Relaxed Breathing, you’ve likely reached a point where you can’t imagine NOT noticing your inhalations and exhalations. As your breath has morphed from stranger to friend, you’ve been prepping yourself for the next step in pranayama’s journey: gently directing the breath. We’ll begin by nudging the breath toward a smoother, rounder and more even shape.

We’ll explore this practice, called samavrtti, in supported corpse pose, or supported savasana. After resting quietly for a few moments, key into your breath. Notice whether there are any segments that feel a little choppy or rough. Compare the inhalation and the exhalation: Is one smoother than the other? Rounder? Steadier? Longer? Finally, examine a string of breaths in a row. Do the breaths feel similar or do they vary in rhythm and shape?<

Invite the inhalations and exhalations to grow rounder and more even. Fill out all the spaces in your chest evenly. Let the breath feel silky and fluid as it moves through you. Imagine ironing all the wrinkles out of the breath until every phase feels as even and undisturbed as every other.

When you feel comfortable with this first step, begin fine tuning the inhalations and exhalations until they feel equal in length. Over time, the inhalations and exhalations should even out not just within the same breath, but also among several breaths in a row. When this happens your breath will feel steady, smooth, and rhythmic. Your mind might begin to feel this way, too.

After five minutes exploring this practice, release control of the breath and rest easily. Observe the impact gently reshaping the breath has had on your body and your mind.

MONTH FOUR: LENGTHENING THE BREATH
Once you’ve reached a general level of comfort with the breath and have also tasted the possibility of shaping it without strain, you’re ready to begin gently lengthening it.

We’ll focus here on lengthening just the exhalation, a practice yogis for millennia have offered as an effective means of quieting a restless mind. Start out in crocodile pose, settling the body and relaxing the breath. Once you’ve established a slow and steady breath, draw your awareness to your exhalation. When you reach the endpoint of your normal breath, consider whether you might be able to press just a teeny bit more air out of you - increasing the exhalation by just a second or less. When you’ve done this, inhale naturally and breathe freely for several rounds.

After three or four normal breaths, repeat this exercise. Don’t push or strain, just invite a long, satisfying exhalation to emerge. If it helps, gently contract the abdominal muscles at the end of your exhalation to press that last smidgen of breath out of you. Imagine removing all the inner roadblocks that are obstructing a complete exhalation. When that happens you may find an enormous sigh of relief flowing out of you.

After practicing this breath for five minutes – lengthening every fourth or fifth exhalation - return to natural breathing. Soften, surrender, and observe what effect this exercise has had. If you’re like me, it will have lulled you into a calm and quiet oasis of peace.

Over the course of several weeks, you may feel ready to drop the rest breaths, one at a time, until you reach a point where every exhalation is an extended one. You may also find that over time the exhalations begin to quite effortlessly stretch out even farther. Some experts suggest that one of the most relaxing breathing patterns has an exhale that is twice as long as the inhale. Your body may be heading in that direction on its own.

MONTH FIVE: THE PAUSE
According to some ancient texts, the goal of pranayama is to learn to stop the breath for extended periods of time in an effort to help silence the fluctuations of the mind. This practice of breath retention, or kumbhaka, is considered an advanced technique that should be undertaken under the guidance of an experienced yoga teacher.

It is possible, however, to briefly pause the breath without jumping into advanced waters. In the fifth month of breathing exploration, we’ll consider one way to do that: accentuating the pause at the end of the exhalation.

Begin in crocodile pose. After you’ve settled into a relaxed breathing pattern, notice what happens when you reach the end of the exhalation. Do you detect a slight pause? Over the next several moments attend closely to that gap between the breath out and the breath in, however infinitesimal.

Once you’ve familiarized yourself with this little rest at the end of the exhalation, consider lingering in that pause for just a half-second longer than usual. Don’t think of holding or freezing the breath. Instead envision simply resting in the stillness. Keep your throat relaxed as you do this, and your eyes cool and quiet. Don’t stay here any longer than you’re comfortable, and discontinue this exploration if it feels disquieting or unnerving.

When you feel the urge to inhale, do so, and then breathe normally for a few moments. When you’re ready, settle again into that brief pause at the end of the exhalation, extending it ever so slightly. Enjoy peace and stillness it offers. Many practitioners find this silent moment the most tranquil and blissful of their entire yoga practice.

After several rounds of lengthening the pause – with three or four natural breaths in between each - emerge from this exploration, noticing how it has affected your state of being.

MONTH SIX: ALTERNATE NOSTRIL BREATHING
Once you’ve built a solid foundation of breath awareness and gentle breath control over the course of several months, you may feel ready to explore the classic practice called alternate nostril breathing, or nadi sodhana.

In this technique the fingers are used to close off one nostril at a time, restricting the breath to the opposite side of the nose. This practice emerges from yogis’ belief that each nostril is allied with a particular sort of energy. Breathing through the left nostril is considered to engender feelings of calmness and receptivity, while breathing through the right is associated with feelings of brightness and invigoration. Alternating between the two is said to promote a balanced, fortifying melding of these energies, and a calm and centered mind.

To begin, sit upright with your spine long and erect. Nestle your chin to your chest while remaining uplifted through the heart. When you’re ready to begin, curl the index and middle fingers of the right hand toward the base of the right thumb and then draw that hand to your nose. Gently rest your thumb on the outside of the right nostril, and the fourth and fifth fingers on the outside of the left nostril.

To get the feel of this practice, first restrict the breath only as you exhale. Inhale normally through both nostrils, and then gently close the left nostril while exhaling through the right. Reverse this action on the next round of breath, inhaling normally through both nostrils and then exhaling only through the left. Practice this exercise for 10 to 20 breaths.

Once you feel comfortable with this pattern, perhaps over a period of days or weeks, practice alternate nostril breathing only as you inhale. Exhale normally through both nostrils, block the left nostril and breathe in through the right. Exhale normally through both nostrils and then inhale through the right.

After spending several weeks exploring nadi sodhana bit by bit, you may feel ready to try the complete practice. Start by exhaling and then inhaling through only the right nostril while blocking the left with your fingers. And then change sides, exhaling and inhaling through only the left nostril while closing off the right. You’ve just completed two breaths, or one cycle of nadi sodhana. If you’ve enjoyed this taste of alternate nostril breathing, continue with it until you’ve completed 10 full cycles, or 20 breaths. End just as you began with an exhalation through the right nostril.

Check in with your body and mind. Observe the effect this exercise has on you. Do you feel a little more centered and grounded? A little more balanced and at ease, perhaps? Enjoy the sense of wholeness and wellbeing this classic pranayama practice offers you.

EXTRAS

GETTING STARTED
- If you have a yoga teacher, seek out his or her guidance. If pranayama classes are offered in your area, sign up!

- If you suffer from a physical or emotional ailment – including respiratory conditions, cardiovascular conditions, depression, anxiety, or glaucoma – or if you are pregnant, consult your physician and an experienced yoga instructor before beginning a pranayama practice.

- Devote at least 15 minutes each day to exploring the breath. Practice in loose, comfortable clothing and on an empty stomach.

- Always begin your pranayama practice with several minutes of relaxation in corpse pose. Once you feel settled, spend a few minutes practicing Breath Awareness before moving to additional pranayama exercises. End each session as you began, resting quietly for several moments in corpse pose.

- Practice with your eyes closed, and whenever possible breathe through your nose.

- The exercises offered here are progressive. Introduce them into your practice in the order they are offered. Stick with each new practice for at least a month before moving on to the next. Progressing through this program even more slowly will deepen the benefits you gain from the practice.

- With the exception of alternate nostril breathing, learn each exercise while lying on the ground. If you are able to sit comfortably with an erect spine for at least 15 minutes at a stretch, consider transitioning to an upright position only after exploring each exercise for several months on the ground. On days when you feel particularly tired, spend your entire pranayama practice resting on the floor.

- As you add new elements practices to your practice, mix and match them to suit the needs of your day. Some days, simple Breath Awareness may be enough. Other days you might like to explore extending the breath and then lengthening the pause. The possibilities are endless. As you learn the effect each exercise has on your body and your mind, you’ll know just what you need in order to soothe and settle your mind.

- Never, ever force the breath. Any time you feel uneasy, lightheaded, dizzy, nauseous, or anxious, let go of the breath entirely, and return to simple relaxation.

PRANAYAMA POSTURES
Traditionally pranayama is practiced on the ground in an upright seated position – such as lotus pose (padmasana), simple cross-legged pose (sukhasana), or adept’s pose (siddasana). In the beginning, though, you’ll have an easier time focusing on the breath while lying down. Instructions for the breathing postures in this program follow:

- Simple Corpse Pose (savasana) – Rest on your back with a pillow or folded blanket underneath your head and neck, making sure that the forehead is slightly higher than the chin. Rest your arms comfortably at your sides. Position your legs so they are either outstretched evenly on the ground, or, if you prefer, with the knees bent and resting on a pillow or folded blanket.

- Crocodile Pose (makrasana) - Lie on your belly with the upper arms on the ground alongside the ears, the elbows bent, and one forearm on top of the other. Rest your forehead on the top wrist. If this is exceptionally uncomfortable for you, rest in child’s pose (balasana) instead, with your hips on your heels and your head resting atop your wrists.

- Supported Corpse Pose (supported savasana) – Fold a blanket to form a long support that is approximately three feet long, 10 inches wide and three inches thick. Lie back over this support, with your hips on the floor and the rest of the back atop of it. Slip an extra pillow or folded blanket underneath your head and neck. Your body will form the shape of stair steps: Your hips will be on the ground, your back will be one step higher on the long bolster, and your head will be another step higher on both the long bolster and the extra head support. Take care to let the chin nestle toward the chest, and even when your eyes are closed invite the them to gaze downward toward your belly.

- Simple cross-legged pose (sukhasana) – Sit on the edge of one or two folded blankets, with the knees bent, the shins crossed, and each heel directly under the opposite knee. Position yourself on your sitting bones, with the spine long and erect. Gently nestle the chin toward the chest, while maintaining an uplifted and broad feeling across the heart. Rest the hands on the thighs. If you prefer, adept’s pose (siddhasana), lotus pose (padmasana), or hero’s pose (virasana) can also be used for seated pranayama. If you are unable to sit in any of these with ease, consider lying down or sitting on the edge of a chair instead.

Mindfulness With Children

2011-10-16T15:36:00.003-04:00

With two young kids, I don't have the chance to sign up for many yoga or meditation retreats. And so I cheered last week when I learned that a daylong workshop called "Developing Mindfulness With Children" - led by two outstanding teachers whom I deeply admire - would be streamed live over the web. Here was my perfect opportunity to learn something new about a topic I care about deeply, without even leaving home!

I parked myself at the computer just after 10 o'clock and smiled as the dim, grainy view of Sharon Salzberg and Susan Kaiser Greenland appeared on my screen. I marveled at the miracles of our virtual world that allow me to eavesdrop - in my pajamas - on a conversation occurring hundreds of miles away. I patted myself on the back when I realized that later I could tune in on my iPad and carry this workshop around all day as I cooked, cleaned and refereed my kids' Sunday squabbles.

I listened to Sharon's introductory remarks, and something inside softened as I heard her offer the Buddha's instructions to "develop a mind so filled with love it resembles space."

"That's just what I want, for both my children and myself," I thought with a hopeful sigh.

Just then my four-year old ran into the room, climbed onto my lap, and asked me whether cows really can jump over the moon. My seven-year old followed, and announced this was the perfect morning for a stroll through the woods in search of fall's most fiery leaves.

I hushed my boys and lured them back to the race track that snaked its way around the playroom. I snuck out of the room and turned up the volume on my computer.

When they both screamed back in and climbed onto my lap just a few moments later, I realized the futility of my beautiful plan. Once again, my grown-up agenda for our day had bumped right into their simple needs for companionship, presence and love. I noted the irony of shooing my children away in order to learn how to teach them about mindfulness.

"Your teachers aren't in New York City," I thought. "They are right here on your lap. Go learn from them."

And so I turned off the computer, bundled up my two little buddhas, and headed out the door for a simple Sunday walk in the woods. And on that walk I received more beautiful and important teachings about developing mindfulness with children than I ever could have imagined when I sat down at my computer this morning.

One Sip At a Time

2011-10-01T21:35:00.000-04:00

originally published in Yoga International (May 2006)

I'm driving to the apple orchard on a soggy Saturday afternoon, listening to my favorite public radio quiz show. A cell phone sits on my lap with a tape recorded message blaring through the speaker, telling me I have five more minutes to wait before I can talk to an airline reservation agent.

A mug of milky Earl Grey tea cools in the cup holder by my side, and every few minutes I reach for a sloppy sip. All the while I offer my son a running commentary about our journey through the hilly countryside. "Look at those horsies in the field," I sing, as I reach my arm blindly back toward his car seat, in a hopeless attempt to shove another piece of graham cracker into his mouth.

The stoplight ahead turns yellow, and impulsively I gun the engine so we can slip through the intersection before it turns red. And then suddenly I change my mind, and slam my foot onto the brake. The screech of the tires jolts me awake. "What am I doing?" I ask myself, looking first at the cell phone, then at the spilled tea, and then finally at the perplexed expression on my son's delicate face.

Liam and I are out for an afternoon adventure to pick up a cool jug of cider and a peck of juicy apples, and maybe to stop by the book shop before heading home. We have no one to meet, and we have no reason to be in any particular hurry. Nonetheless, my ferocious multitasking has left me breathless and frazzled.

I snap shut the cell phone, and instantly feel a little calmer. I turn off the radio, and breathe another sigh of relief. I close tight the lid of my commuter mug, hand the rest of the cracker back to my son, and feel an immense load lift from my soul. The light turns green, I place two hands on the wheel, and settle my eyes firmly on the road ahead.

Tackling one task at a time feels infinitely sane. The world grows brighter and clearer, and for the first time all day I feel truly mindful of the sights and sounds around me. I'm no longer gunning my inner engine, but instead am settling cleanly in the here and now. And all because I’ve pared down my to-do list to a single task at a time.

I feel so soothed, so relieved, so happy to do less that I resolve to stay on the lookout for other sweet spots in my day when I can practice the fine art of doing one thing at a time. And it doesn't take me long at all to discover that there are many.

When my son nuzzles in to my chest to nurse, I catch myself picking up an outdated magazine. I pause, consider the possibilities, and then toss The New Yorker onto the floor. I place my hand on Liam's lean back, and sink into the sensations of the moment. My breath deepens, my muscles slacken, and I feel myself settling into an oasis of calm. The sweetness of this simple, quiet moment with my child overwhelms me, and the recognition that I had almost trampled right over it brings salty tears to my eyes.

Later that evening, I settle in front of the computer to check my email with a cup of tea in one hand and sliver of rich, dark chocolate in the other. Just as I'm debating which hand to reach toward my mouth, I stop. I decide to choose just one activity - sip, chew, or surf. The jasmine tea wins, and I sit quietly in my favorite chair, my back long and straight, my cheeks moistened by the steam, and enjoy every sweet, fragrant mouthful. Another sweet and peaceful moment has just stitched its way into my day.

The next morning, I opt out of a harried attempt to simultaneously answer phone calls, throw a load of laundry into the washer, and trail behind my son in a futile attempt to maintain some sense of order in his wake. Instead, when he hands me a purple scarf and asks me to play his favorite John McCutcheon tune, I abandon my other tasks and turn on the stereo. Liam swooshes his scarf, I swirl mine, and we dance. He smiles mischievously from across the room, looks directly into my eyes, and then with a running start hurls himself into my arms. I laugh almost as hard as he does as we spin about the room, clutching tightly to each other, watching our scarves dance through the air.

With these giggles, my full-blown devotion to mono-tasking is born. The world may be bustling with multi-taskers, but I decide to shift into the slow lane, where the drivers aren’t weaving and swerving as they talk on the phone while listening to the radio, reaching for a sip of latte, and rummaging through their Palm Pilot. One task at a time, becomes my new motto. One step at a time, one sip at a time, one breath at a time.

The first thing I notice as I pare my life down to a single task per moment, as best I can, is that the world grows a little quieter. I'm surprised by how much background music I have injected into my world in the form of the droning voices on the radio, small talk on the telephone, and the endless loop of music programmed into my iPod.

And then I notice that as I choose to do fewer things at once, I feel like I’m actually getting more accomplished. I'm not sure whether I'm truly growing more efficient, or whether I just feel less hassled as I plow through my daily to-do list. Whichever it is, I like it. I am surprised to recognize how much frenzy and commotion I had piled into my life simply through my hurried ambition to get everything done at once.

My days begin to feel a little airier and my breath feels like it’s slowing to a more leisurely pace. I feel brighter and more playful. My mind grows quieter and clearer, and my meditation practice is reborn. And for the first time in months I find myself pulling my favorite poetry books off of the shelf and savoring the sweet peace I find within them. A good poem, after all, can’t be appreciated when you’re on the run. You have to sit still, breathe deeply, and listen carefully in order for its magic to slip under your skin.

As I dive a little deeper into my sip-by-sip experiment, I ask myself what lay beneath my multitasking habit. Am I so busy that I need to do four things at once? Am I afraid of the peace and quiet that comes with doing less? Do I buy into the unspoken notion that a busy body must surely mean that one is valued and important? Or am I merely a victim of the thoughtless multitasking habit that seems to have overtaken our go-go world?

I’m not sure. But as I ponder these questions I am surprised to discover that beneath my ceaseless activity lies a funny combination of carelessness and greed. Somewhere, it seems, I’ve picked up a notion that more is always better. It’s as if I’m wandering through a smorgasbord, mindlessly filling my plate with salad, sweet potatoes, rice, beans and bread, without once asking myself whether I am even hungry at all.

Do I need to heap more onto my life’s plate just because I can? Is more necessarily better? Are two tasks better than one? And what happens when I stop and say, “Wait, I’m full, I’m happy with just this much and no more?”

I begin to understand more deeply the gift of a simple yoga practice, where we rest our awareness cleanly and compassionately on the sensations of the single stretch and deliberate breath of the present moment. Our mind learns to focus on the task at hand, and our impulses are slowed enough for us to examine them more closely. The yoga mat, I learn, is the perfect training ground for a mind wishing to savor the sweetness of one simple sensation at a time.

And meditation, I decide, is merely an opportunity to practice the extreme edge of mono-tasking. What could be more basic than sitting quietly, observing the breath, and focusing on the raw ingredients of the here and now?

Day after day, on my mat I learn that a few deep breaths, and a few quiet moments of settling and softening are enough. I taste with renewed contentment the bounty of the present moment. And I begin to see more clearly that less is often more, or at the very least, less is almost always enough.

As I continue shedding my frenzied, pile-it-on habits, I begin to wonder what would happen if the whole world began to explore the “less is more” approach to daily living. What would happen to our highways, our relationships, our words, and our waistlines, if we kept our hands and our minds focused on one task at a time instead of carelessly struggling to juggle it all?

My hunch is that many of us have become such habitual multi-taskers that we’ve actually forgotten how to slow down. We’re so used to gulping that we barely remember how to sip. But my guess is also that if each of us devoted just a few minutes each day to focusing our attention cleanly and clearly on one single task before us - whether it's downward facing dog, an evening commute, or a few moments with a loved one - our world would instantly grow happier, kinder, softer, and saner.

Life is busy, and I do want to be flexible and adaptable enough to know how to juggle a phone call, a load of laundry, and a looming deadline with finesse when I’m in a crunch. But when the afternoon ahead promises to be full of blue sky and easy breathing, I want to be able to shake the need to pile ever more onto my plate and then return to mindfully taking one step at a time. I want to move slowly and deliberately enough to enjoy each step, every breath, and each sweet and spicy mouthful of Earl Grey tea - one sip at a time.

***

Yoga From the Heart

2011-09-01T20:50:00.000-04:00

Originally published in Yoga International (June 2003)

I’m in a yoga class in San Francisco. We’re stretching our arms out to the sides, exploring whether we can let the movement be carried by some deep inner energy rather than raw muscle power. I don’t really get it, because of course I’m using muscles. Then the instructor says, "It might help if you think of a person or a place somewhere you’d like to reach out to." Instantly, my three-year old niece and nephew appear in my mind’s eye. My left hand reaches out to Lucy and my right to Henry, both two thousand miles away in Ohio. I smile with good wishes for these twins, and feel my arms grow just a little longer.

I breathe. I imagine aunt-ie love pouring from my heart through my shoulders and right out my fingertips, through the clean blue sky all the way to Ohio and into their warm and lively bodies. The ache in my deltoids disappears. I realize I could stand here in the hills of California for hours, reaching my arms out this way, because at last I have a good reason to. That’s when I finally get it – it’s not a movement, a stretch, an exercise, it’s an offering. My heart wants to do what my brain has instructed my body to do. My thoughts and feelings and actions have been united, integrated, made whole. Intention matters, I realize with a start.

A week later, I walk into a different class. I hear a whisper that the group before us did 40 sun salutes in honor of B.K.S. Iyengar’s birthday. Inside I groan and wonder how I’ll make it through. We begin. I hear, "Inhale arms up, exhale fold forward. Inhale look up, exhale, head down..." and know this will be the steady heartbeat of the next hour. In desperation I remember intention, and decide that if I’m going to survive the morning, I’d better find a way to engage myself.

I remember that surya namaskar is a prayer, an expression of life and of thanksgiving for the sun rising into the new day. My arms reach up and I glimpse the sky above me, through a window just over my head. I’m surprised to hear a fragment of a childhood bible verse inside: "I lift up mine eyes into the hills…" I bow forward and remember surrender, devotion, thanks. I look up again in thanksgiving, and jump back in humility. This becomes my mantra, and in a funny way, it takes me right back to the beginning. I’m not just doing the poses, I’m feeling them, creating them, expressing them. I might as well be an ancient yogi waking thankfully to the sun after a long, dark night. My thoughts, my feelings, my actions have all become one. For the first time ever, perhaps, my sun salutes ring true.

I’ve come to California to help pull together a video about yoga. Day after day, I bury myself in a tiny editing room, where I struggle to keep myself afloat in hour upon hour of footage. Throughout it all, one fragment of the video ricochets through my brain: "Why would you want to do that stretch anyway?" asks yoga teacher Angela Farmer. "Unless you desperately want to do it, don’t do it. Unless the urge inside is so bursting to come out that you move out in that stretch, don’t do it!" She’s speaking about where yoga came from, about how total the experience was for the original yogis. About how they completely immersed their whole being into the experience – head, heart, breath, movement, feelings, thoughts, instincts, yearnings. Her point, I think, is that so many of us today practice yoga without letting vast realms of our inner world be touched or moved or engaged in the experience. That brings me right back to those ancient sun salutes, right back to my arms reaching all the way back to Ohio, right back to attention, to engagement, to heartfelt intention.

Why AM I doing this, I ask as I fall into a forward bend one morning. I ask the same question when I hop into dog pose, when I squirm into cobra, when I float off into movement that has no name. My first honest answer emerges from that raw, uncertain land of "I don’t know." And then a whole lifetime of answers emerge -- to work out a kink in my left hip, to remember how to exhale, to undam the rivers of life inside, to tranquilize those chattering monkeys upstairs in my brain… Because I’ve been told to practice more forward bends, because I love the challenge, because it helps me express something untapped inside, and because it just feels good. I find as many answers as there are poses.

As intrigued as I am by this unanswerable question of "why," my California experience points me toward its more pragmatic, earth-bound cousin: "How?" I’ll probably never figure out why I’ve been drawn to the world of yoga, why I climb onto my mat each morning, why I’ve come here to help with this video, why I’m here on this earth at all. But given that I AM here, given these are the cards I’ve been dealt, how am I going to play the game? How am I going to live the life I’ve been given? Not just why, but how?

And that’s an easier question for me to answer. Whatever it is, whyever it is, I want my life’s how to be wholehearted. I want my awareness, my intelligence, my emotions to be clean and clear and total and true. And I want everything about me, everything inside me, to find expression, to shine, in everything I do -- whether it’s an essay or a video or even a few morning rounds of surya namaskar.

Roar

2011-08-24T21:33:00.002-04:00

For most of my yoga life I've shied away from simhasana, or lion pose. Perhaps it has seemed a tad embarrassing, a little lost-in-the-seventies when adults were counseled to channel anger by punching and screaming at pillows. Or maybe the photos of those slightly frightening, scantily clad yogis practicing with their eyes wide open and their jaws ajar seemed too close to every skeptic's fear of what yoga might be like after all. (Don't believe me? Look here and here and here.)

Simhasana is a simple pose in which you sit quietly on the floor, drop your jaw, thrust out your tongue, peel open your eyes as if in the throes of delirium, and then let loose with a sound that ranges from a sigh of deep exasperation to a floor-rattling roar. Yoga masters tell us that this pose releases tension in the mouth and throat, gives voice to withheld emotions, and leaves the eyes and the heart shiny and bright.

Kids, of course, love simhasana, since it is loud, ferocious and impressively expressive. They enjoy the opportunity to alternate between the quiet prelude of stalking and the shocking surprise of the roar. Through it they learn to channel their unstoppable energy in safe - albeit noisy forms. And they are invited to practice managing and regulating their emotions constructively, rather than being ruled by them.

So perhaps I can thank my two young boys for helping me befriend my inner lioness. Like every child I've ever known, they never turn down an opportunity to practice simhasana, and will happily turn the pose into an afternoon's adventure of hunting and prowling across the African savannah.

They have also given me plenty of strong emotions to practice channeling through simhasana. Any mother of young children surely has a few stifled screams stuck inside somewhere, and these strong emotions do no good when left to hide out and wait for a vulnerable moment to set themselves free. Sometimes it just feels good to let loose with a howl (or at least a profound sigh) that releases pent up energy without necessarily pinning it upon a specific person or circumstance.

Are you ready to roar? I must admit, in class I teach this pose to adults gingerly, with a tinge of shyness. Always, I instruct my students to close their eyes. If you're like me, you may want to close your bedroom door when you take simhasana for a test drive. Or, better yet, recruit your favorite five-year-old to show you how it's really done. All you need are a few basic instructions, which you should feel free to refine to suit your body, emotions and needs of the moment:

Sit on the ground in any comfortable position. (Sitting with your hips on your heels in vajrasana is a good place to start, although experienced students are sometimes led into the pose from padmasana, or lotus pose.) Breathe quietly for a few moments, keeping your body soft and your awareness drawn inward. When you're ready to vocalize, inhale through your nose, and then as you exhale drop your jaw as far as possible, stick out your tongue as far as possible, and open your eyes as wide as possible. Accompany this action with a sound that suits the energy of the moment, ranging from a quiet "hahhh" to a window-shattering roar.

You may want to intensify the release by "pouncing," or shifting your weight forward and spreading the "claws" of your hands in front of you as you roar. And then when the exhalation is complete, retreat back to a quiet, internal posture, closing your mouth and eyes, relaxing your body and breathing easily through the nose. Observe the feeling and flow of energy within you as you rest quietly and breathe freely. Enjoy the calm that follows the energy's storm. If you feel the urge, repeat simhasana a few more times.

Over time, you'll even be able to refine the pose until you can practice it internally, letting out a secret, silent roar on the spot, whenever you need to release a little tension and regain a sense of balance. Try out your silent roar it in the line at the grocery store, when you're stuck at a red light, or perhaps when you're on the kitchen floor, cleaning up your third spilled milk of the morning.

Want to learn more about the grown up version of simhasana? Additional explorations can be found here and here.

With kids, this pose can be varied in interesting ways by altering the intensity of the sound (silent roar, whispering roar, fierce roar, happy roar, sad roar, lost-in-the-woods roar, I-like-you roar, etc). It's a wonderful way to help wiggly children release their energy with creativity and good humor. And as long as a few quiet breaths of stillness are included afterward (when the lion curls up and goes to sleep!), simhasana can help transition kids into a gentler activity. The exploration can be deepened even further by asking kids to reflect on their feelings before, during and after they roar. More about teaching lion pose to kids can be found here and here.

Come on, don't be shy. Give it a try. Each of us has a strong and beautiful lion inside, just waiting to be set free.

Blueberries of Happiness

2011-08-07T16:10:00.003-04:00

I'm standing in the middle of a blueberry patch, the long arms of the bushes reaching out to me, practically begging me to relieve them of their berries. The sun is hot and the air is cool. The boys charge ahead of me, picking and eating and musing about the best way to nudge a blueberry off its stem.

I look up at the brilliant blue sky, and I sigh. I catch myself smiling. I realize that I'm happy, right here and right now in this moment.

The women the next row over chat about their morning coffee and their cell phone plans and whether to abandon Netflix. On the other side a family from Florida ponders whether to make muffins or pie first, and wonders whether their friends in Italy eat blueberries, and if they do what beautiful words they shout out when the berries touch their tongues.

A few bushes down an elderly man and woman, the sort who look like they hold hands when they're not reaching for berries, slowly and methodically work their way down the hill. They exude the quiet contentment that so many of us spend our lives seeking.

What to do with all this happiness, I wonder. This lightness and ease shines so brightly and yet it feels so shy, so ephemeral. I long to clutch at it, to hold it close, but I know that never works. I remind myself to simply enjoy this lovely moment and to savor it fully.

I continue massaging the branches and enjoying the plunk-plunk-plunk as the berries fall like raindrops into my bucket. And I try to remember what those wise old Buddhists have to teach us about happiness. They've never failed me in times of difficulty, they've always offered me comfort and hope. But what do they tell me about happiness? Enjoy it but don't cling, I suppose. Be present for it. Don't over-personalize it, and remember that this feeling, too, will pass.

I move on to the next abundant blueberry bush. The words of the poet Naomi Shihab Nye bubble up from the depths of my body. "It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness," she writes in one of my favorite poems. "With sadness there is something to rub against, a wound to tend with lotion and cloth..."

I pause as I struggle to recall the rest of the poem, where surely she has something to teach me. I recall her words "happiness floats" with a smile, since that is exactly how I feel right now. "It doesn't need you to hold it down. It doesn't need anything." Yes, she's right. I understand.

All this happiness wafts through me like fresh air, and for a few moments I almost feel like we're all floating, carried in a little bubble of happiness that slips into the sky like a helium balloon set free. I realize that in the hour we've been picking I haven't heard a single sour word from anyone. Everyone around me, in fact, seems seized by happiness. My sons have been chattering and plotting and discussing and (sometimes) picking, but miraculously they haven't bickered once. The families around me have been kind and generous to one another, as sweet and as smooth as the blueberries we pick.

Is it the weather, perhaps? The brilliant sun that lifts our moods? The gentle focus that's required when picking blueberries? The blueberries themselves? Or could it be the incredible sense of abundance we all feel right now? There are so many berries, in all directions, that no one need fight over a row or a bush or a berry. There's plenty for all and no need for anyone to feel territorial or threatened or greedy. For a few moments I contemplate what the world would feel like if we all lived with our hands held open like this, in total faith of the world's abundant generosity. How beautiful a world that would be.

"Happiness floats," indeed. I savor. I enjoy. I ask the boys if they're happy, too, and they are, they say they could stay here and pick all day. "If you're happy and you know it," I call out. And they respond in our family's typical refrain, "Then know it!"

Finally we can carry (and eat) no more, so we head back to the cashier to pay for our bounty. A woman is just heading out into the blueberry patch, with a baby on her chest and four smaller ones clucking about her like noisy chicks. Even she is smiling, I notice. It's just that kind of day.

We return home. The boys carry in the berries while I dash upstairs in search of Nye's poem. When I find it, I devour it hungrily, happily, with a sigh. "Since there is no place large enough to contain so much happiness," she writes, "you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you into everything you touch."

I float back downstairs and pull out all the plastic give-away bowls that I can find. I rinse our berries in cool water, and I ask the boys who might need a little happiness today, who might like an offering of fresh berries. We begin naming names, and sending out wishes for happiness, as we spoon shiny purple berries into bowl after beautiful bowl.

Because of course, when you find yourself surrounded by a bumper crop of blueberries - or perhaps with an abundance of happiness - the proper thing to do is to share it, to spread it, to give it all away.

***

The poem So Much Happiness by Naomi Shihab Nye can be found here.

Falling Forward

2011-08-01T16:58:00.000-04:00

Originally published in Yoga International (August 2002)

I fall forward. My body folds into a yoga pose with an indecipherable name. I settle down into the earth and leave the busy world behind. My nose nestles toward my knees and my mind sinks into the dark of night, into unknown and mysterious lands. I begin to feel calm and still, cool and humble, wet and clear. And finally, fully breathable.

When I emerge from this forward bend, I feel refreshed. I am taller and more spacious. I am balanced and unruffled. My body feels anchored in a peaceful oasis of goodness and ease. And my brain feels rinsed clean, as it would on a quiet summer afternoon with no big plan ahead. I feel faithful and well nourished.

It’s no wonder we bow forward in devotion and thanksgiving.

And it's no wonder I've recently come to love the way I feel when falling into forward bends like paschimottanasana, settling my legs deep into the ground, challenging them to be alert yet at ease. I love the way my body briefly flies up when I move into the pose, as if wondering whether to arc backward before deciding to dive forward instead. I even love that first pull of resistance that always surprises me (I could go farther than this yesterday) and the brief flash of ambition that urges me to push hard, go far, bury my nose deeper than it’s ever gone before.

And then comes the whisper that less is more, that slow is sweet, that patience is well rewarded. Then that gentle give that lets the clingy parts inside release so I can melt a little farther. Most of all, I love disappearing altogether in this little nest of a pose, settling into that same oasis of calm and peace that must lie at the heart of the whole wide world.

I’ve fallen into forward bends through the back door. Generally I like mountaintops and thick coffee and electrifying sunrises full of possibility. Neither my body nor my brain stays still for long, and I thrive on challenge and effort.

It’s probably no surprise then, that I’m captivated by exotic and sky-shifting backbends. So entranced, in fact, that a few years ago I asked my fiercest yoga teacher if it was possible to do too many backbends. "For you," he proclaimed, "Four days of forward bends a week!"

I’m not one to follow instructions blindly – especially ones I don’t particularly like – so I didn’t exactly dive headlong into his forward bending prescription. But after mustering up the courage to try our his advice, I learned that his advice was wise and true.

If backbends are fireworks – big and expansive and attention grabbing – then forward bends are those clean and quiet moments when the spring rain has passed and freshness lingers on. They demand flexibility and freedom. They also require tremendous reserves of patience, perseverance and humility. They’re the antithesis of being active, bold, caffeinated and extroverted.

Forward bends are all about going back. Back inside. Back to the beginning. Back to the night, to our roots. And back to the oft-neglected lands inside that only make themselves known with calm and patient attention. There’s a quieter, more soulful presence that evolves from this way of being. A quietness that comes from being arced and rolled, softened and nurtured deep within the curl of a long and lovely forward bend.

Lately I’ve found myself sprawled out on my sticky mat, pouring through yoga books like a world traveler plotting the next forward-bending expedition. Some poses call out for no apparent reason, even ones I’ve never seen before. Guided by a photo in a book, I find my way into akarna dhanurasana, which really does feel like its name: an arrow pulled back tautly in its bow and ready to be launched across the landscape.

I've also made friends with kurmasana, the turtle pose, which some texts say is sacred to a yogi for the feeling it evokes of having awakened from a deep and blissful sleep. And I’m drawn to the rather daunting pose chakorasana, just because it’s named after a mythical partridge that feeds on moonbeams. I see these amazing shapes and my body yearns to transmute itself into a spider, a cricket, a bird, a primordial creature oozing across the oceans of the world.

Some days my forward bends are as quiet as a windless pond, as still as unmoved earth. I do nothing but settle in. As I do, I grow aware of the quiet throttle of my inner motor – like the little engine that could, never stopping, never resting. But after a few minutes, my energetic gears begin to shift and settle quietly into neutral. Thankfulness descends and I idle happily for a while.

Other days my forward bends crave movement. I inhale and my belly rolls up, picking my back up with it. I exhale and my belly surges forward in a deeply satisfying pulse. This action continues, guided by my breath, until my spine becomes as fluid as the waves rolling down the beach. I bob and soar and sink and roll, as my torso sails unfathomably forward. Yoga teacher Vanda Scaravelli once wrote, "There is such happiness in this undulation!"

Here’s my recent favorite recipe for falling forward: Start out in the most supported child’s pose imaginable, with the whole torso – from hips to head – supported on a pile of blankets, arms and legs dangling toward the floor like Tarzan’s vines hanging from the trees. Rest here for several minutes, until you can tear yourself from the quiet safety of this pose. Then slide your hips off the bolster, rearrange the legs into upavista konasana and rest the upper body on the support before you. Nestle a few beanbags underneath your belly, heart and forehead, so these vital energetic centers can release completely.

Then let go. Breathe, settle, surrender into that same deep peace you feel after a week at the beach with not a care in the world. Your front body relaxes in ways that seem unfathomable when holding your head up high. And the chain of armor inside your chest -- that part of me lifts and hardens and strains to say, "I am here!" – begins to quietly erode.

After a moment or two, slip one blanket out from under you, slowly sliding the torso a little closer to the floor. Every few minutes repeat this, allowing your bolster to grow smaller as your body melts farther into the pose. At some point along the way, watch your breath begin to arise from a deeper and more primal place, giving way to long and gentle waves of exhalation. Stay and enjoy this quiet peace for as long as you are able.

As I’ve been falling forward, I’ve begun to see more clearly the relationship between will and surrender, between effort and release, between pose and repose, between change and acceptance. My body has found new and quieter ways of being in the world. I’ve gotten a little better at waiting, at letting go of the reins I sometimes cling to so fiercely, and letting things blossom in their own remarkable way. Lately I've been just a little more content to settle in and watch the passing show.

And as I’ve been falling forward, I’ve begun to wonder whether enlightenment may just be the simplicity that comes with letting go of melodrama. When I'm deep within a forward fold I can sometimes see the wild fantasies swirling up inside of me, grasping and groping to pull me off my mark. When I’m patient and courageous I can outwait these deluded dramas until they drop away completely and I begin to see life as it really is, here and now, fresh and unimpeded. Breath by breath, falling forward returns me to that state of "bare attention" the Buddhists love so much -- simply attending to the raw and wonderful ingredients of the moment. Often we need less, not more.

Forward bends, I’ve learned, can be tenacious, for even when I run away they make their presence known. Some days I wake up and can't bear their quiet intensity, so I head off into an eager parade of backbends instead. There I’ll be, diving blissfully back, and from inside I’ll hear a whisper, "forward, falling forward." Suddenly I’ll remember that at the heart of the richest backbend lies the essence of a forward fold, just like the yin within the yang. And with this, my backbend takes on a more internal tone, one that keeps me grounded here on earth even as my heart soars high.

So perhaps forward bends help us remember the middle way. They help us see that life moves forward as well as back, that endless running in one direction may be the easier solution, but it’s not often the wisest or most healthy. They help us see that sitting still, quiet and undisturbed, can be as interesting and rich as facing big-bang epiphanies, and that surrender sometimes tastes even sweeter than will.

I love the idea that yoga is about equanimity, that we’re seeking not the extremes but the middle way. That yoga is about finding a calm and clear home inside and staying rooted there regardless of the passing outer weather. That yoga is about having the wisdom to see what we need and having the courage to seek it.

Sometimes we need just the opposite of what we think. And sometimes the path winds deep into unexplored territories in ways we never could imagine, merely to lead us happily back home.

~~~

61

2011-07-31T20:29:00.001-04:00

It's hot. It's been hot. It's likely to remain hot. Like everyone else, we've been doing our best to manage the heat with grace... and without too much whining.

The heat (along with the whining) never fails to remind me of one of my earliest classes as a yoga teacher. Another summer heat wave had struck and - hoping to treat my students with kindness - I made special arrangements to arrive early so I could crank up the air conditioner and soothe my students with a blast of cool air as they walked into our yoga oasis.

One after another student arrived with a sweaty frown that turned into a smile as she walked through the door. And then one last student walked in, flapped open her yoga mat, plopped down wearily, and whined, "It's way too cold in here. I can't practice like this!"

Too hot, too cold. Too hungry, too full. Too busy, too bored. Life is like that, isn't it? Always shifting, always in flux, and rarely entirely comfortable.

After recovering from my student's chilly comment, I did my best to gently draw my students toward a deeper exploration of our endless search for comfort. And perhaps even to question the wisdom of such a mindset. I shared the teachings of buddhist teacher Pema Chodron, who began her wise book The Wisdom of No Escape with these words: "There's a common misunderstanding among all the human beings who have ever been born on the earth that the best way to live is to try to avoid pain and just try to get comfortable."

Chodron offers an alternative approach, one that moves beyond a comfort-seeking mentality toward a broader acceptance of life as it is. "A much more interesting, kind, adventurous, and joyful approach to life is to begin to develop our curiosity, not caring whether the object of our inquisitiveness is bitter or sweet," she writes.

I keep these words in mind as I march through my hot, hot, hot sun salutes each day. I watch how I run for comfort, and I observe how much suffering I pile on by running from the discomfort. I consider how an enlightened being might respond to so many sweltering days. I imagine a buddha, sitting quietly at mid-day in the shade of a bodhi tree - sweating and smiling, neither running nor fighting, just welcoming it all.

As I rise up toward the sun in surya namaskar, I do my best to embrace the heat. How powerful the sun! How bright and beautiful the world! How generously it shares its strength and vitality! As I bow down, I pray that I may all grow as life-giving and energized as that firey orb in the sky. I'm still hot, I'm still out of my comfort zone, but leaning into the heat rather than running from it feels like a sweet breeze of relief.

"The way to dissolve our resistance to life is to meet it face to face," Chodron explains. "When we feel resentment because the room is too hot, we could meet the heat and feel its fieriness and its heaviness. When we feel resentment because the room is too cold, we could meet the cold and feel its iciness and its bite. When we want to complain about the rain, we could feel its wetness instead. When we worry because the wind is shaking our windows, we could meet the wind and hear its sound. Cutting our expectations for a cure is a gift we can give ourselves. There is no cure for hot and cold. They will go on forever. After we have died, the ebb and flow will still continue. Like the tides of the sea, like day and night - this is the nature of things."

Yes, it's hot now. But soon enough it will be cold. Too cold. And if we're not careful, we will find ourselves whining about the frigid air, the slippery ice, and perhaps even another record blizzard that freezes the front door shut.

Or, perhaps by then we will have grown just a wee bit wiser. From a distance, at least, it seems possible that we may rise to the challenge of winter's biting chill, embracing the beauty of the season and maybe even celebrating it as children so beautifully do. (My older son just told me he is eager for fall, because he so loves raking leaves. My younger son countered that he is looking forward to winter, because then we'll get to shovel snow. How I long for such unbridled enthusiasm, for such willingness to saying YES to it all!)

Maybe, like children, we can launch wholeheartedly into a celebration of the hot and the cold, of summer and winter, of the ever-changing ebb and flow of all life's seasons. How? For right now by befriending the heat. By feeling it, embracing it, celebrating it. Like a buddha, by saying yes to it all. Even as we sweat.

***

Reading Streak update: We've just finished our tenth chapter book of our summer reading streak, Freddy the Politician by Walter Brooks (We LOVE the Freddy books). We've moved right along to The Marvelous Land of Oz (the second book in Frank Baum's series). Oh, books, how easy it is to welcome them with open arms!

48

2011-07-18T16:20:00.001-04:00

I slipped into my erstwhile yoga room this morning, hoping to practice alone and in peace. As I stood in tadasana, my hands before my heart, Liam peeked his head through the doorway.

"Want a little musical accompaniment?" he asked as he sat down at the piano. "Just something soft and gentle to help get you going?" His fingers began skittering across the piano keys in a not unpleasant way. Like a gentle rain, I thought.

I reached my arms up toward the sky, beckoning the strong and vital energy of the sun to enter me. I bowed down and smiled at the familiar tug in my hamstrings. (Still there, tight twinge? Hello, again.) I hopped back, pleased that after a month my broken toe had healed enough to let me flow again. And then I heard a second set of footsteps treading down the hall.

"Can I join you?" asked Pip, as he marched across my mat. "I'll just fix things up in my quiet corner." He crawled behind our rocking chair - that sweet haven that held me for so many days and nights when my children were barely bigger than loaves of bread. I smiled to recall those days of chaos and confusion, of bleary-eyed bliss.

Liam continued improvising at the piano, his music rising and falling in waves. Pip fingered the buddhas and special stones he'd stacked atop the yoga props in his little corner, the place he hides when seeking safety and solace. I smiled again, as I noted how beautifully this room contained the three of us just now, how harmony had settled around us all. How rare and precious it felt, tucked in amid these days of little-boy busyness. I bowed forward again.

This wasn't at all what I had asked for this morning, when I entered the room seeking a few peaceful moments alone. But as I let my expectations slip away, as I stopped demanding of the moment something other than what it was, I could see that the moment before me was actually quite sweet. "This is beautiful," I thought to myself. "Here's a happy moment."

My throat tightened as I realized what I had almost missed. I had almost marched right past my own happiness!

How often do we do that, I wondered? How often to we miss our happiest breaths simply because we're looking the wrong direction, not paying attention to the here and now. How often do we let our expectations about how things should be spoil things exactly as they are?

I jumped forward one last time and rose up into mountain pose. I placed my hands again at my heart in that beautiful anjali mudra. And I prayed to never again miss the happiness that lay right before my eyes.

45

2011-07-16T10:13:00.002-04:00

This morning I enjoyed my 10 surya namaskars in my favorite Blue Canoe yoga duds, in silence and in peace, while the boys ran around in the back yard. Why am I always surprised by how deeply, how joyfully, yoga feels like a beautiful homecoming? Every time.

As I practiced, I pondered surya namaskar, that classic yoga flow that has grown so popular in recent years. In my early days as an Iyengar student, sun salutes, or "jumpings" were only taught occasionally in intermediate and advanced classes, mostly to add a little spice and variety to the practice. They were by no means considered an introductory practice.

Like many in my yoga generation, I got to know sun salutations a bit better when the ashtanga trend hit in the mid-90s. All of sudden it seemed everyone was sweating it out through 10 "surya A's" and 10 "surya B's" as an introduction to a yoga practice. And then suddenly yoga vinyasa classes - yoga flow - bloomed and sun salutations seemed like a pre-requisite for any yoga worth sweating for.

Still, I've never loved them. Despite their beauty, they seem a bit clunky in places and I'm always tinkering to find a variation that suits me happily. They ask a lot of the body, and therefore they're not easy to teach without significant modifications.

Funny, though, after spending these many days with them, I'm starting to feel like friends with them. Not best friends, but not longer just take-it-or-leave-it acquaintances. And I've found three lovely articles that have deepened my appreciation of surya namaskar even more.

Richard Rosen is a fabulous teacher with deep experience in both theory and practice, and I would trust anything he writes. Here's an article he wrote for Yoga Journal.

And I love this invitation by Kelly McGonigal to be mindful of the deeper meaning of surya namaskar, and to pair it with contemplation of solar energy and also classic yoga mantras that celebrate the sun.

Pandit Rajmani Tigunait and Sandra Anderson highlight another side of sun salutes. I love their description of surya namaskar as a gateway to the subtle body. I also appreciate their suggestion that cultivating the subtle energy inherent in sun salutations can help keep us strong, balanced and vital as we age.

29-42

2011-07-12T19:56:00.001-04:00

Home. Oh, home, how I love you so. I love your strength, your comfort, your peace. I love the simple beauty of my morning teapot. I love the familiar embrace of my morning chair. I love knowing just where to reach in the night to find my sons. I love how you contain the passage of our lives with such steadfastness and such beauty, in just the perfect mix of sunshine and shade.

I love the particular woosh of the shower water as it pounds my back in its own particular way. I love the children's artwork ringing the walls. I love knowing just where to find that Wendell Berry poem I'm struggling to recall. I love knowing where I am, I love how others know where to find me. Oh home, you do not disappoint!

Perhaps I sound acquisitive and materialistic, loving my creature comforts so. Perhaps I mistake comfort for transcendence. I do understand that familiarity is often mistaken for truth. But still, but still...

The Sun Streak continued throughout our family vacation, which my children loved but with which I struggled. I did my daily ten sun salutes staring at the beautiful blue water of the Georgian bay, I did them looking down at the prickly grass and creamy pansies. I did them happily and in peace, and sometimes begrudgingly and in a hurry.

I practiced yoga on an old mat in a cottage infested with ticks. I practiced in a small room with bats flying overhead. I practiced with kids splashing in the lake nearby, with a sick child by my side, and a few times with a small child shrieking inconsolably in the next room. Twice I got out of bed to do my sun salutes in the dark of night - once in a hotel room staring directly into the thundering Niagara Falls.

Suffering, it turns out, doesn't take a vacation, even when we do.

Going away can be splendid. There is much to be said for being released from our daily routines, from escaping our unending to-do lists, from waking to the light in a different way, and falling asleep to different night sounds. I love being reminded how little I need, and how easy it is to let the humdrum distractions of our daily lives fall away. I love the new discoveries, the quickly hewn rituals.

But oh, how I love coming home. I love walking in the door, inhaling that old familiar homey smell, dropping the bags, exhaling the strain of travel. I love pulling out the favorite mugs, opening the closets, putting everything back where it belongs. I love returning to the everydayness, and I love remembering how beautiful everydayness can be.

My happiest night of vacation came at the very end, when I slipped quietly into my favorite bed, in my favorite room, in my very favorite home of all. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered why we ever leave. In the end, perhaps we go away so we can remember how beautiful it is to come home.

**

Our family reading streak continued, too, throughout our recent vacation (and only once did we have to turn on the light and sit back up to read - in the hotel at Niagara Falls, on our trip home - because we'd almost forgotten our daily read). Together we read Edward Eager's Half Magic (192 pages),Thomas Rockwell's How to Eat Fried Worms (116 pages), and Megan McDonald's Judy Moody, MD: The Doctor is In (151 pages). That's nine books so far this summer!

In Praise of Poses

2011-07-01T19:12:00.000-04:00

originally published on YogaJournal.com (September 2001)

Rarely do I walk into a yoga class without hearing a teacher remind us that yoga isn’t about poses. Yoga is far more profound than simply striking a pose, the teacher will say, so much more than mastering a physical movement. I agree completely. And yet, I must admit, sometimes I feel a little guilty when I hear these words.

I like poses. I love the feeling, pure and simple, of the mindful movements of yoga. I love the ever-changing parade of poses that welcomes me each morning. Just as a child runs through the summer grass for no reason but simple joy, I love feeling my body move through space, shifting through amazing ancient shapes that feel so good from inside out.

I do know the asanas are just the door through which we pass as we set out on the shining path of yoga. I learned early on that what makes the movement yoga and not just gymnastics is the state of mind we bring to it – the intention, the awareness, the total presence of mind.

Still, sometimes I see a yogi in one of those amazing poses with an indecipherable name and a spark of recognition lights within. Every cell in my body shouts, "Yes, me, too!" Curiosity wells up from deep inside and I wonder what it feels like to be inside a body where a foot is wrapped around the head, where the hands and toes reach up to the sky in a graceful teardrop shape, or where a spine is so free it undulates like water with each breath.

I am swept by amazement of the beauty and its almost limitless capacity for life. Call it awe, call it wonder for the unimaginable creatures that we are and at the sheer complexity and possibility and beauty of life itself.

Just because I love the poses doesn’t mean I find them easy. In fact, their difficulty only seems to heighten their allure. A tricky pose glues my mind to the present moment, forcing me to be here now. I like staring a new challenge in the face, studying it from every angle, using all my wits and intelligence and ability to carve my body into the shape of the asana. And I love the childlike glee when I finally figure out how to balance free and clear in a big-sky backbend that has eluded me for years.

I love falling and falling and falling again out of full-arm balance and then one day, for whatever reason, not falling. Something inside has shifted; today I can do something that yesterday I couldn’t. What does that say about all the other things in my life I think I cannot do?

When I started yoga, poses were all I knew. But after several years of enthusiastic practice I found myself pooh-poohing poses, frustrated when they gained center stage as a "celebrity stretch of the day" while I knew that yoga meant so much more. Being able to stand on one’s head is no guarantee of great wisdom, after all.

But then one day a friend buoyantly told me that he'd finally managed to touch his foot to his head in that lovely and demanding backbend, eka pada rajakapotasana. I remember him recalling how lightning struck with that incredible electrical bliss of connection when his toe and head made contact. His enthusiasm rekindled something inside and I found myself eagerly diving into a discussion of the intricacy and beauty of yoga’s mysterious movements. And I gained a new respect for the raw simplicity and magnetic delight of the poses themselves.

Another friend tells me that asanas are like poetry – beautiful and deep and economical and expressive. Poetry helps us see and feel the world more clearly, helps us find a way into the deeper mysteries of the world in a way that is magnificent and mysterious and beautiful. Maybe I love the asanas for the same incomprehensible reason I love poems. They don't always make sense, but I still love the way they roll off my tongue.

I’ve heard it said that meditation is its own teacher, that by simply assuming a quiet, meditative posture with discipline and attention, we’ll eventually discover the same enlightened truths of books and saints. Lately I’ve wondered whether the postures of yoga might be a little like that, too. If I just practiced asana everyday, precisely and intelligently, without any mental commentary or philosophical inquiry, would I be changed?

I’d like to believe that the answer is yes, at least a little. Perhaps diligent and attentive practice alone would lead me toward a deeper, clearer vision of the world. Maybe the beauty of a pose lies in its ability to transform us without our knowing how or why – or maybe without our even asking for it.

Sometimes I wonder whether asanas take center stage simply because they are so real, so tangible. We stumble when trying to express the indescribable feelings and revelations of our inner experience and so we’re left with what we can see – how our hips move in triangle pose, or whether to inhale or exhale our way into bridge pose. Maybe the asanas make up the common language that offers us a way to share our experience. They may be fumbling and incomplete, but at least they offer us a starting point, a launching pad into deeper discussion about the energy of life that courses through us.

Like my teachers, I frequently remind my students that although our classes are made up of asanas, yoga isn’t just about the pose. I, too, explain that the pose is just a way in, a diving board into the clear, healing waters of wisdom and clear seeing. But that doesn't have to mean we can't enjoy every step along the way.

Aren’t we lucky that the poses – the medicine of yoga – feel so good? Can’t we love their precision and poetry and delight, while still remembering that they yearn to point us to a greater, sweeter land within? Poses may not be the be all and end all of yoga, and they may not even be the point, but that doesn’t mean I love them any less.

***

28

2011-06-28T21:20:00.000-04:00

Our entire household had a case of the mean hot reds today. I rolled out my mat after one child had finally drifted asleep, and after giving up on the second child ever doing the same. Standing in a half-hearted tadasana, I asked what I needed tonight. I decided to make "peace" my mantra as I cycled through my sun salutes.

Sadly, I didn't feel more peaceful after I'd finished my 12 or so surya namaskars (I added two extras today for good measure - that's how distracted my grumbly brain was.) My three-year old was still awake and wrestling with his sheets, my to-do pile still loomed before me, and my nerves remained full of that edgy anxiety that is just one breath away from transmuting itself into anger.

I downgraded. I tossed out any hope for peace and simply asked for acceptance. I invited myself to surrender to the moment just as it was - my sleepy yet somehow sleepless child, my worries, my dread.

That worked out much better. I settled into a few quiet poses close to the ground, exhaled, and I gave up the fight with reality. I turned and looked closely at the goods I was carrying, and, amazingly, my difficulties didn't look quite so ominous as I had thought. My body cooled. My brain slowed. My nerves softened.

I remembered buddhist teacher Pema Chodron's suggestion to "lean into the sharp points" of our lives, to turn toward our difficulties rather than to run from them. To look at them, perhaps even to use them as our teachers.

I smiled when I realized that's just what I was doing, and I understood a little better what she meant. Dropping the fight and accepting what is - even embracing what is - surely seems like a more enlightened way of living. At the very least, the suffering we create by resisting the moment drops away. We are left with our pain in its naked yet more manageable state.

I took a few more deep breaths and reminded myself that somehow the difficult moments always pass, that everything somehow works out just fine. I rolled up my yoga mat, ticked off a few last chores, and then gathered up my yawning child and took him downstairs for a midnight snack.

**

(We finished up My Side of the Mountain - a beautiful, lovely, inspiring book - and all felt a little sad for Sam, even though he did seem secretly relieved to be moving back into civilization. And we were thrilled to learn that there is another book about his adventures waiting for us to explore.)

**

I won't be posting here for a few days, but will surely be continuing my Sun Streak. I'll turn the lights back on here just as soon as I am able.

27

2011-06-27T22:30:00.001-04:00

The boys have been sprinkling the house with good wishes... little signs in unexpected places with words like Shine, Peace and Joy. I smile every time I stumble upon another one of their mini-blessings in little-kid scrawl.

It takes so little, doesn't it, to change the course of a day? A smile, a warm hand on a shoulder, a few kind words. A simple reminder to shine.

As I slipped through my 10 one-legged sun salutes, I let my sons' sweet words wash over me one at a time... Love.... Happiness... Kindness... Delight... Breathe... Peace. Each mini-mantra changed my mood, my mind, my energy.

I marveled at how powerful words are. I remembered how very powerful thoughts can be, even when they're small and quiet.

And I wondered how our lives - our world - might change, if we broadened our collective vocabulary to include more of these bright and shiny gems that infuse us with a sense of possibility and light.

***

(Sam has just celebrated Christmas in the wilderness in My Side of the Mountain. Our page count suggests his adventure will soon end, but we're desperately hoping for it to shine on.)

Healing Wrists

2011-06-27T14:00:00.005-04:00

If you suffer from achy wrists, or are curious about the link between repetitive stress injuries and healthy posture, I highly recommend this article by Marla Apt in the Summer 2011 issue of Yoga International. It's clear and informative, and offers several simple stretches to help strengthen wrists (and promote healthy alignment and mobility in the shoulders and spine).

26

2011-06-26T22:06:00.001-04:00

Late afternoon sun salutes today, in the playroom we had spent all morning cleaning. Pip smiled at me from the bathroom shower as he slurped water from a washcloth. Liam lay by his CD player and listened to Van Morrison's greatest hits (he had announced he was ready for some rock-n-roll "other than, you know, the Beatles," and I'm feeding him leftovers from my disbanded CD collection).

I came of age before the era of yoga "playlists," and do generally believe that the best music to listen to during yoga practice is the inner kind. But today Van Morrison felt just fine. He managed to pump us up, boosting us out of a late-afternoon slump. Pip danced in the shower, Liam bobbed on the floor, and I shimmied through my sun salutes. Life feels good when everyone is dancing to the same beat, when we're all laughing together.

I've now managed to master a complete surya namaskar on one leg. (I very much look forward to doing it soon on the other leg, as well.) I'm particularly enamored of the one-legged swoop from plank through chatturanga dandasana and up to upward dog. There's a strong, beautiful dip-and-float swirl that surprises me every time.

Good things come from even broken toes, I suppose. It's all in our way of seeing.

**

(My Side of the Mountain still captivates. The boys found hollowed out rocks at the park today, and they are hoping to use them as primitive cups, just like Sam might use.)

25

2011-06-25T21:32:00.001-04:00

Ten languid surya namaskars in the front yard today, while Pip rearranged the hoses and Liam planned his first annual Family Bike Race.

Each tadasana offered a view of the Mona Lisa lilies that have just bloomed. Each reach upward offered blue sky and cotton-ball clouds. Each swan dive downward brought that supersaturated green that follows ample spring rain. I moved slowly, breathed deeply and savored each sensation in my shoulders, my back, my legs. I moved myself back toward balance.

In class we often imagine we have four wheels at the corners of each foot, like a car or perhaps those old-fashioned roller skates. We stand in tadasana (or uttanasana, or triangle pose) and observe whether all four "wheels" of each foot are evenly inflated, or whether perhaps we have a flat tire or two. We shift our hips, we adjust the muscles of our feet, we breathe and make internal adjustments that may be too subtle for the outer eye. We use this image to help not only build strong and balanced feet, but also to cultivate evenness, awareness and equipoise throughout our entire bodies.

My broken toe has left me with a flat tire, and maybe a few over-inflated ones, so I played with this image today as I moved as best I could through surya namaskar. I shifted left and right, observing how much weight I could bear on my recovering foot. I breathed into my heels and my toes. I lifted my arches.

I envisioned prana, the universal healing energy, flowing to my toe and to any other places in my body in need of a little vitality. I rooted down through strong legs into my feet, and let lightness bubble up through my spine.

And I watched with pleasure as ease snuck back into all the secret nooks and crannies within me, as I found my footing, my balance, once again.

**

(My Side of the Mountain continues. I realized a little too late that this would have been an excellent book to save for a journey into some damp, primitive, faraway woods. But even from our homebound comforts, we're captivated by Sam's ability to find his own sense of balance in the woods.)

24

2011-06-24T21:49:00.003-04:00

Today's sun salutes were perfunctory. Perhaps a little rushed. But I'm did them.

And this makes more than three weeks in a row of completely uninterrupted yoga practice, and I don't think that has happened since my 7-year-old was born. After whining for years about the loss of my daily practice, somehow in these busy summer days I've managed to at least roll out my mat each day.

What has changed? Nothing, other than my making a commitment and caring enough to stick with it.

And while I didn't set out to include a writing kickstart in the streak, I have managed to throw down at least a few words each day. Again, after whining for years about the loss of my writing life.

I'm starting to believe that if we want to know what's really important in our lives, we should look at how we actually spend our time rather than how we talk about how we'd like to spend our time. And this forces us to come clean... What are the real reasons we're not doing what we say we wish we could?

Perhaps "I don't have time" is one big cop out, just another way of saying, "That isn't important enough for me to find a way to fit into my day." (Or, possibly, "I'm not living mindfully enough to prioritize my time," but that's an investigation for another day.)

Is it possible that we don't need more hours in a day, just a more mindful way of spending them? Perhaps the limit on our time is actually a gift, forcing us to make choices about what is important, about what and who we truly care about.

How we spend our time is a public declaration of our values and our passions. And we will surely be remembered by our actions rather than our plans.

Perhaps it's time to investigate more deeply the words, "I wish I had more time."

**

(My Side of the Mountain continues. We're all inspired by Sam's courage and resourcefulness as he creates a home of his own in the forested Catskills.)

23

2011-06-23T21:35:00.002-04:00

Busy day. Many errands. Lots of drama. Plenty of doubt.

Happy, sad, rainy, fragmented, and then a patch of sun. Rushing. Waiting. Requesting, urging, cajoling, finally threatening.

Cleaning. Packing. Stepping on legos. Wondering. Planning. Calling. Sighing. Throwing out the plans. Winging it. Not knowing.

Bagels. Scones. Iced jasmine tea.

And then I step onto my mat and notice where I am. My fists unclench. My jaw releases. I move through my 10 sweet rounds of surya namaskar (and even sneak in a few soothing forward bends afterwards).

The world stops. I hear birds, and feel damp air graze across my arms, and listen to my breath. I smile and soften, and remember who I am. And I hear that faint echo that reminds me, "Everything is going to be alright."

***

(We're in the throws of My Side of the Mountain. The boys shrieked when I finally closed the book, and Liam said, "The worst thing about reading is having to close the book.")

22

2011-06-22T21:29:00.003-04:00

I settled into my 10 sun salutes (or maybe 11 - I added an "insurance" salute in case I'd miscounted) this afternoon while my kids picked up sticks in the blustery yard. Today I managed to practice without shoes, although I still practiced one-legged versions of each posture.

As amazed as I have been with the progress of my healing toe, I can feel my body - and my life - growing ever less balanced. I've shifted my life over to one side, and that hurts. I have new aches and pains in far-flung places in my body. Life feels just a little off-kilter, too. Our schedule is off. The playroom is a disaster zone. The refrigerator is growing bare.

Oh, balance, how I miss you. I'm not even sure what you are - evenness? steadiness? equipoise? harmony? - but I do know that when you're present the world shines so beautifully and with such ease. Life feels happy and effortless. Resistance disappears. Our arms and hearts grow wide enough to welcome the whole world.

We explored balance today in yoga class. In mountain pose, we shifted our weight to the extremes - forward and back and side to side - and observed what happened in our bodies and our minds as we fell out of alignment. And then we watched the ease return as we moved back toward a more balanced way of standing. As one student so beautifully explained, when we feel balanced, "everything flows."

Another student suggested that sometimes we learn the most about balance by being off-balance. Often the only path to the middle ground is the long one, the one that winds first to the extremes before spiraling back toward the center.

Perhaps balance is best viewed as a verb rather than a noun. Maybe it's an attitude, a commitment to living in a certain way. Do we ever achieve it, own it, once and for all? I doubt it. We slip into balance, we fall out. We find our way back to the middle, and we fall again. Clutching after it only leads us farther astray.

So here I am, out of balance. And in the perfect place to deepen my understanding of this elusive state of being. If I'm lucky, perhaps, I'll find some beautiful inkling of balance tucked within the imbalance. Or better yet, perhaps my sense of balance will grow deep enough to even welcome those moments when we fall.

(We started book six of our reading streak tonight. After quick deliberation, we settled on My Side of the Mountain, although I must admit I'm glossing over the "running away from home" parts and emphasizing the adventure. )

21

2011-06-21T21:31:00.002-04:00

"I'm not looking for perfect," I told the doctor as we stared at an X-ray of my foot. "I'm just looking for good enough." He turned to me with a slightly bewildered look on his face, as if my words did not compute in his brain.

But as the words sank into my brain, I smiled and sat up a little taller.

"Good enough." That's my seven-year-old's mantra these days. How was camp? Good enough. How'd you sleep? Good enough. How was dinner at the fancy restaurant with your grandparents? Good enough.

Initially I interpreted this expression as half-heartedness, or perhaps early-onset existential disappointment. But over time I came to see the beautiful wisdom that it is. Good enough, I've learned can be a perfect antidote to perfectionism.

While clearing the dinner table a few nights ago I said to no one in particular, "Well, that wasn't the best meal in the history of the universe, but I suppose it was good enough." The words sank in, and I smiled in deep relief as I realized that every single dinner doesn't have to send our taste-buds into orbit. Sometimes - maybe most of the time - good enough is plenty. What a liberating thought!

Good enough probably isn't a part of the typical orthopedic surgeon's lexicon, which is why I imagine he stared at me for so long. "I just want my toe to more-or-less point straight ahead," I said. "You know, so I can wear shoes and walk in a straight line and not be in pain." The doctor studied the x-ray for another 30 seconds and said, "Keep it wrapped as I'll demonstrate for three weeks, and if it doesn't improve by then, I'll send you on for surgery."

I pondered good enough all morning as I considered my teeny little broken toe and the healing process. And I decided that if, in the name of perfection, surgery is all my doctor can offer me, I'll have to rely on my own ingenuity to coax my toe into "good enough" shape. I'm the daughter of a woman who cured her own hand deformities with massages and popsicle sticks, so I must have something to work with.

On this hot and sticky summer solstice, I hobbled through my 10 sun salutes in the kitchen as three-year-old Pip alternately nibbled at his lunch, demonstrated "tinkling dog pose" and imitated a frightened vulture (which projectile vomits up to 15 feet, his big brother had just explained). Today I was able to manage just a little weight on my left foot, though I still practiced yoga fully-booted. My movements looked a little more like yoga poses and less like lurching spasms. I recovered just the slightest taste of fluidity and ease, just enough to remind me it's still in there somewhere.

My sun salutes were by no means cosmic, but they were good enough. And today, good enough felt perfect.

(Finished up Mouse and the Motorcycle tonight in the midst of a violent thunderstorm - our fifth book, 186 pages, in our Reading Streak.)

20

2011-06-20T19:33:00.001-04:00

I often tell my students that yoga is a lifetime practice. It can be done by anyone, any time, anywhere. All that's required is an open-minded attitude, a creative spirit, and a flexible vision of what yoga can be.

Some people (and some yoga systems) start out with an ideal vision of what a yoga pose or practice is, and do their best to cram each person into their rather stringent requirements. Others are more interested in asking yoga to shape itself around the individual, modifying individual poses and entire practices in ways that affirm and enhance each practitioners' needs.

In this second way, yoga becomes a universal balm. Can't sit on the floor? Use a chair. Achy wrists? Ease off on the downward dogs. Exhausted? Wrap yourself in a few of those glorious restorative poses. Bed bound? Close your eyes, turn inward and breathe.

I love this vision of yoga. And now it's my turn to put it into practice. Yesterday afternoon a collision with my seven-year-old led to a sharp pop and a scream of agony. A quick glance at my pinky toe (which was pointing out at a right angle from the rest of my foot) confirmed that my toe was broken. Off the emergency room I went.

One of my first thoughts was, "There go my sun salutes, just when I've fallen in love with them." Followed by, "I can't give up now, I've barely begun." Followed by, "Is this one of those cosmic jokes? ("So you're starting a streak, huh?" chides the universe). Followed by, "Okay, I get it. Here's a chance for us all to slow down." And then finally I worked my way around to, "We'll work this out. At least it gives me something interesting to rub up against, to learn from."

My older son suggested I broaden the focus of my streak from 10 sun salutes each day to just 10 daily yoga poses. The two of us then considered a slightly broader definition of what a sun salute could be. (So far, my general definition follows my three-year-old's description: "You do some up-and-downing, and then some back-and-forthing, and a little more up-and-downing."). But none of that sounded like an honest approach.

If I were being totally true to my "yoga wraps itself around your life, not the other way around" philosophy, my yoga today would have been a nice long savasana. And perhaps tomorrow a few seated and lying stretches, just enough to keep my body from completely collapsing around my injury. But I've been feeling inspired and energized by my fledgling experiment... the streak must go on!

And so today I stood in one running shoe and one "post-op boot," took a deep breath, and reached for the heavens. I did a little up-and-downing, and then hobbled at least into a back if not a forth, and made it up to standing. It wasn't pretty, but it was yoga. I kept breathing, I kept moving (and I only swore a few times.). By the end I had developed some creative one-legged variations, and had perfected my kids' very favorite posture, "peeing dog" (downward facing dog pose, with one leg high in the sky).

I certainly didn't float or fly, and I did not meld with the universe, but I did exercise those internal muscles that keep my strong and brave and faithful. I turned inward. I caught my breath. I found that quiet, faithful place inside that tells me, "It's going to be okay." And that felt good.

And then after 10 exquisitely modified sun salutes, I lay back, hoisted my foot on a pillow, and practiced a nice, long savasana.

(Here's our silver lining: We've had plenty of time to read together already today, so we're making good progress with Mouse and the Motorcycle. And we found a nice little clip to share about the beautiful young woman who has inspired our twin streaks.)

19

2011-06-19T14:51:00.006-04:00

I stand in tadasana with my hands pressed together in front of my chest as if in prayer, in that beautiful anjali mudra. Before launching into my 10 daily rounds of sun salutes, I ask myself, "What do I need today?" And before I can inhale again, I hear Thoreau's words, "simplify, simplify," echo through my body.

I nod and smile to the yellow wall before me. My hands float up and my gaze follows. I exhale forward into uttanasana and silently chant, "Simplify." I inhale and look up, and exhale and hop back. Simply, silently.

And so the dance of surya namaskar begins. With each new breath, with each sweet stretch, I consider the possibility of simplifying my practice and in my life. But how? What does it even mean? To do less. To let go of more. To streamline, to unclutter. To clear one's thoughts, one's actions, one's life, right down to the basics. To open. To release. To drop the agendas. All of them.

I hop forward, I rise up, I breathe, and I hear Picasso's words: "Art is the elimination of the unnecessary." And then in some small way, my movement shifts and becomes art. I breathe. I soften. I move. I let go. The chorus of birds outside my window brightens with the day.

I step, I twist, I reach. And with each passing round of movement, I become less than who I am. The names I call myself - mother, daughter, friend - dissolve. My fists unclench and my to-do list falls away. My worries slip into the background. My fears recede.

I remember that old zen proverb, "That which remains when there is no more grasping is the self." And I feel myself moving closer and closer to that place of non grasping.

I am this movement, this breathing, this breath. Or maybe not even that. A few more breaths and eventually, finally, even I will disappear. And all that will be left is this beautiful movement, this delighted breath, and the sweet birdsong echoing through the sky.

(In the Family Reading department, we're still enjoying The Mouse and the Motorcycle, and accumulating a stack of good reads to carry us through our upcoming vacation.)

18

2011-06-18T10:04:00.001-04:00

Oh, June, you are so alive and so full of bloom. Every cell in my body wants to jump, to sing, to swirl, to rise up in beauty just like you.

That's why in yoga class this week we focused on grounding. We marched through a parade of strong standing poses. We cultivated stability and stamina in our legs. We grew roots through our feet into the ground. We pulled June's beautiful energy in and down through our legs, and deep into the earth.

It could have been otherwise. We could have followed June's lead and wafted up into the heavens, and that might have felt good, too (although I suspect it may have left us even more manic and airy than June itself). What to do... follow the lead of the energy around us, or counter it with its opposite?

In my own practice I'm always seeking ways to bring my body, my life, the vital energy of the world into balance. And so more likely, I seek ways in my practice to complement the energy around me (and in me). I am forever searching for that elusive middle ground where wholeness rests rather than slipping off into the extremes. It seems counterintuitive, and is perhaps less simple (and it's surely not the only right answer). But it also feels affirming to me. As the poet Louise Gluck wrote, "The extremes are easy. Only the middle is a puzzle."

I followed this lead in my own sun salutes this morning, as my Sun Salute streak continued. Simple, strong, vital and grounded. I incorporated several triangle poses (and reverse triangles) and flank stretch poses (and reverse flanks), and moved the breath and the energy deep into my legs.

And then once I felt grounded, the real fun began. My strong earthiness and the season's light uplift began to intermingle, to play, to dance together. Until we merged, and I was both earth and sky, both down and up, both grounded and uplifted. I found my middle ground, and I smiled in contentment, in happiness.

In the reading department, we continue to plow through The Mouse and the Motorcycle, which leaves me surrounded by two little boys pretending to be "mouses."

17

2011-06-17T20:00:00.001-04:00

The boys declared today "The day of disappointment." We all nearly cried when our beloved babysitter cancelled just two minutes before she was due. My grandmother started chemotherapy. Tennis lessons were too hot and too crowded. And no one was happy about our movie pick for our Friday night "pizza and a movie" fest. Liam said that all day he thought something surprising, something great was going to happen. It never did. Disappointing all around.

Life certainly isn't always reliable. People aren't either. We all need a good friend who's always there without fail, a pet who climbs up into your lap no matter what, flowers that bloom regardless of who said what to whom.

And perhaps we can add yoga to that list of old reliables that soothe us on disappointing days. The same mat. The same familiar poses. Maybe even the same sequence of postures. We climb onto the mat, we sigh in relief, we move, we sit, we breathe, we settle. Until we find that quiet and unchanging space within, that eye of the hurricane at the center of our being. The reliable. The predictable. The faithful friend. The oasis of peace.

That's how I felt as I paraded through my sun salutes today, in the living room, while the kids watched their only (and, tonight, utterly disappointing) movie of the week. "Hello, old friend, thanks for being here as always." We moved, we stretched, we settled. No big fireworks, but no disappointments either.

(The Summer Reading Streak continued tonight, as we finished Little Bo (88 pages) and returned to our mouse friend in "The Mouse and the Motorcycle." Liam declared we would continue our streak until he finished eighth grade. I suggested we not jump too far into the future, and just aim for nightly reading all summer long.)

16

2011-06-16T21:25:00.000-04:00

I declared a bonus "quiet time" this afternoon just so I could practice in peace. I queued up a little music and moved today with rhythm, to a beat. (Generally I'm one of those hold-outs who prefers to practice yoga to the tune of inner rather than outer music, but today Wah!'s chants uplifted my spirits and offered a little inspiration.)

Surya namaskar and I, we're falling into a good groove. I'm beginning to find my own ways to flow in the stickiest spaces of the flow - slipping from uttanasana to downward dog, and then wafting from chatturanga up into upward dog. I feel like I'm both befriending the classic flow and slowly creating my own. Somehow simultaneously wrapping my arms around both the universal and the particular, which perhaps is what yoga is all about.

After I drifted through 10 sun salutes, with lots of standing poses sprinkled along the way, I savored a quick dessert comprised of a few quiet lying-around poses, the kind that remind me of an old Spanish proverb: "How beautiful it is to do nothing, and then to rest afterward."

And then I fell in love with my big blue moon of a yoga ball, after rescuing it from a corner Pip has claimed as his own "quiet corner." I rolled and swayed belly up and then belly down, remembering why I love so much to float in the Caribbean Sea. The easy stretches, the gentle undulations, the little bit of jangle released a few of those internal strains that we sometimes forget we carry until we finally let them go. Liam wandered in and said, "Wow! You do really cool things in yoga."

We read today in mid-afternoon, lying on the floor. Our little cat Bo has found himself on the high seas. We have just a few pages left, and we've already requested the sequel from that fabulous library of ours.

15

2011-06-15T20:35:00.000-04:00

Today I truly did salute the sun. I grabbed a beach blanket, spread it in the backyard, and stood directly facing the sun. The cool air, bright light, green leaves and the blue sky convinced me that it is finally June. I wafted through 10 smooth, easy, soulful rounds, pondering with each breath how this flow, or any yoga (or even anything), can be a prayer, a song, a poem.

I reached up in gratitude and dropped down in surrender. I climbed up again with praise and fell low with humility. Rising and falling, in celebration and then acceptance, all of it one long expression of thanksgiving.

How can a simple series of movements feel like calisthenics one day and a prayer the next? How can one woman's chore be another's blessing? How can one day we sink and the next day we sail? Perhaps it's all in the approach, in the attitude, in the seeing. Maybe the crucial question is not, "What?" but rather, "How?". When we let the "what" fall away, we finally see that the "how" is all that matters.

We continued with Little Bo tonight, and I was both pleased and heartbroken when my kids burst into tears (really!) when we closed the book for the night.

14

2011-06-14T22:06:00.002-04:00

So why exactly have I begun this Sun Streak? I have no simple answer. The idea popped into my head last winter, when I noticed the sparkle in my brother's eyes when he told me he had skied for more than 100 consecutive days, sometimes before dawn, sometimes late at night. I remembered his streak as the month of my 45th birthday approached, which seemed to call out for some secret way to commemorate (and to help propel me onward for 45 more). And I'm always eager for new ways to energize my yoga practice, to keep it fresh and interesting.

I was finally inspired to commit after reading Alice Ozma's beautiful memoir The Reading Promise, in which the author and her father read together every day for 3,218 days. My sons were impressed with this notion, and begged to start a Summer Reading Streak of our own. Although we already read almost every night before bed, we decided to start our official streak on June 1. And that seemed like a good launch date for my own yoga streak, too.

I've been a yoga practitioner for more than 20 years, with a long, luxurious daily practice for much of that time, and now a much shorter, far less luxurious, not-always-daily practice as a mother of two young boys. Something about committing, about making a promise to myself to practice each day, even if just 10 sun salutes, feels good. I like it, and I'm far more likely to climb into a few friendly poses now than when I just wait around for the perfect window of opportunity. There aren't many of those perfect windows, I've learned.

And so we streak. Today I snuck in my practice as the boys went on a "walkabout" in the garden with their grandmother. Quite certain that I could make it through my 10 without a child's cry for help, I enjoyed a less hurried practice. These last few days have been bumpy and uncertain, so I settled right into soft, smooth, slow and predictable. I let myself be lulled into the simple, classic yoga flow, over and over and over. Nothing to think or plan or arrange. Just breathe and move, breathe and jump, breathe and flow. So simple and so sweet.

Ralph the Mouse has returned to the library and we're moving on to cats. We've just started Little Bo by Julie Andrews Edwards. Seems like we're all ready for a turn at soft and gentle.

Presence

2011-06-14T14:35:00.004-04:00

Don't get caught in the past,
because the past is gone.

Don't worry about the future,
because the future is not yet here.

There is only one moment for you to be

alive, and that is the present moment.

Come back to the present and live
this moment deeply, and you'll be free.

~ Buddha

13

2011-06-13T22:11:00.007-04:00

Once upon a time, I practiced yoga in a dedicated yoga space surrounded by a menagerie of yoga props. Every day. For two hours, sometimes more.

Those days are over. I am reminded this every time I survey my day in search of a few quiet moments, just enough time to practice my daily 10 sun salutes. (While I do feel a little wistful when I remember those long, soulful stretches, and while I'm surely glad I had them, I wouldn't trade them back for the little-boy chaos I now enjoy. Ever.)

And so I'm learning, in this nascent Sun Streak, not to be too picky. A yoga room is a beautiful thing, but it's not necessary. Neither is a cavalcade of props. Or yoga tights. A yoga mat isn't even required. In the past few weeks I've practiced my sun salutes in my bedroom, in my pajamas, in the kitchen waiting for the pizza to bake, in the hallway waiting for the kids to finally fall asleep. And once - just once - in my yoga room.

And all that is okay. And even wonderful. Yoga really can be done anytime, anywhere. It is stretchy, accommodating, forgiving and friendly. It seems to magically greet us with open arms just as soon as we stand tall, place our hands at our hearts, and exhale. All that's needed is to drop the prima donna attitude, to remember how to make do with what we have, and to commit to making the most of however many breaths we have.

I suppose life is like that, too.

My 10 were done quickly today, as I hurried to fit them in before the phone rang summoning me to pick up my 95-year-old grandmother from her first visit to the oncologist. Doctors' visits being what they are, my sun salutes turned out to be preludes to a slightly longer practice. I even found time to luxuriate in a few of those long, cool, quiet forward bends I love so much.

In the reading department, today we finished Runaway Ralph (book three of the Family Reading Streak, 195 pages). The mouse freed himself from the clutches of danger, and made his way back home.

12

2011-06-12T21:49:00.002-04:00

Ten in the bedroom, fleeing the boys. I moved quickly and smoothly today, probably inspired by the morning's welcome chill. The boys resolved their tussle and then dragged two mats by my side, moving through their own homegrown yoga flows just as I finished mine.

I'm still finding my way - not that sun salutes are new, but rallying my practice around them on a daily basis is - and learning what feels right and what doesn't. Finding new ways to work some twists into the flow. Enjoying the opportunity to vary the heat and the coolness. Finding new ways to count to ten. (Or possibly 11. I lost track at seven, and did a bonus round to ensure I truly met my ten.). And I'm finding lots of room to play within the structure of the flow. I especially enjoy stepping back into a lunge and rolling right up into triangle pose. And I'm feeling my way into a more fluid link between chatturanga and upward dog.

This is what I love about yoga: its mutability, its responsiveness, its forgiveness. Its willingness to power up or settle down, depending on the day. Like a good friend, always there for us, ready to offer just exactly what we need.

In the reading streak, we're still chugging along with Beverly Cleary's Ralph, who is now facing his demon, in the form of a bullying cat.

11

2011-06-11T21:09:00.004-04:00

Honestly, the classic sun salutation and I have never been the best of friends. Surya namaskar has never been the center of my yoga practice or teaching. It's always felt a little clunky, perhaps a bit contrived.

That jump back into downward dog rarely feels graceful. The flow from chatturanga into upward dog stymies me every time. And as a teacher I find it difficult with sun salutes to accommodate those with achy wrists, tired backs, and bodies that haven't yet learned to take flight.

But surya namaskar and I, we're becoming friends. I'm enjoying the thrust to make it to my mat each day - even when 10 sun salutes are all I might muster. On days when I am able to move beyond my 10, the flow is starting to feel like a comfortable friend, one who knows how to usher you in the door and introduce you to the strangers in the room. It's a nice scaffolding around which to build a yoga practice.

Today sparkled like a perfect June day should. I spread out a blanket in the backyard and waltzed through my sun salutations while the boys gardened nearby. I savored the verdant trees (especially as I recalled the stark gray of our long winter just past), I smiled at the cottony clouds, I relished the air that felt so clear it slipped inside my bones.

I had moments of unbearable lightness - just enough to remember that it is possible to fly. I had moments of deep rest - just enough to remember that peace lies within. I had moments of remarkable clarity - ones that reminded me that I am already wandering in paradise, that I am home.

And on the reading front, we negotiated our way into a mid-afternoon session with runaway Ralph the mouse. He fled his comfortable life in search of freedom. And only now is he beginning to realize that he may have actually left paradise back home.

10

2011-06-10T21:05:00.001-04:00

For the first time in this 10-day old streak, I enjoyed my 10 sun salutes in our yoga room. Or, to be honest, what used to be my yoga room but is now our yoga/piano/air-hockey/time-out room. Still, it felt sweet to be practicing here, smiling at all the postcards that encircle the room, ones that have shared my yoga journey for so many beautiful years.

Today's surya namaskars were sweet and simple. I really wanted to flow, to feel sleek and watery and smooth, so I stuck close to the classic theme and let the repetitive waves of each round carry me. This felt just fine.

Our family is still reading about Ralph the mouse. We did have to squeeze in the writing just before 10 PM, since a birthday party (mine!) ran well beyond kid-friendly bed time. But we are just as committed to our Family Reading Streak as I am to my Sun Streak, and so we made sure to keep our eyes open until we read our minimum 10 minutes. This felt just fine, too.

9

2011-06-09T18:42:00.001-04:00

Rolling out my mat, I've discovered, is a little like picking up the phone. As soon as I make the move, the boys run to me like a pack of wild puppies. Today I was accompanied by Pip, who first tried to defeat me by rolling up my favorite blue-and-yellow mat, and then decided to join me by climbing on board.

I knew I wouldn't be able to keep track of salutes, so I lined up 10 pens and moved them from one side of the bedroom dresser to the other as I progressed. And rather than resisting Pip's rambunctiousness, I yielded to it. And that meant that I hobbled through eight of my suryas with an extra 35 pounds on my back.

He held on tightly, like a monkey on a mother's back, and I limped through, praying my back and wrists would hold up. Once I surrendered to the moment as it was (loud and bumpy rather than my preferred quiet and silky), I had a little fun with my boy. We jumped, we turned ourselves inside out, we frolicked upside down (uttanasana was a particular challenge), we giggled and howled. And looking on the bright side, I offered thanks that my daily dose of sun salutes came with an extra helping of strength training.

In the family reading department, we slid right into our second Beverly Cleary mouse book, Runaway Ralph. (Apparently we're reading this series backward.) We read through breakfast, read in the afternoon, and read again before bed. The summer of reading this is!

8

2011-06-08T16:47:00.002-04:00

I almost forced (ahem, I mean invited) my morning yoga class to waft through my 10 rounds of sun salutes, but resisted. Instead I invited them to join me by launching a summer streak of their own - of sun salutes or anything else.

Liam joined me later for my 10 suryas in the heat of the afternoon. Pip watched and laughed as we hopped, barked and croaked our way through. Kid friendly version today, which was just fine. Liam, little buddha that his is, said, " Slow down, Mom. Stop counting. Don't rush!"

Our family has breezed through Ralph S. Mouse, finishing it up today. This was our second book, totaling 160 pages. Pip has declared himself a mouse, and only answers to the name of Ralph.

7

2011-06-07T17:51:00.002-04:00

Ten suryas during "quiet time," which really wasn't so quiet. A little of this, a little of that. No fireworks, but still sweet. A little bit like life... not always perfect, but, as Liam often says, "Good enough!"

And we finished the first book of our Family Reading Streak: The Wizard of Oz, all 189 pages. Liam declared it his second favorite book after the Little House series, and he cheered when I told him there were more Oz books still ahead. But for now, we're on to Ralph S. Mouse by Beverly Cleary.

6

2011-06-06T21:31:00.002-04:00

I thought about my newfound Sun Streak (my commitment to practicing at least 10 sun salutations each day) all morning, and then all afternoon. I almost made it to my mat several times, but always found a distraction.

Finally, I climbed on my mat while my kids climbed all over me as if I were their favorite jungle gym. I didn't feel particularly yogic or Zen, but I did show up and gave what I could, which today wasn't my best. Still, a little yoga felt good, and I felt a surge of pride simply to have managed to keep up my fledgling streak.

It occurs to me that my suryas are a metaphor for living a good life. We show up. We make the most of what we are given each day. We do our best to cultivate both discipline and delight. And we commit to creating meaning and beauty from the raw ingredients of each moment.

In the reading department, "Ding, dong, the witch is dead!" (And the great Oz has been de-frocked... he's just a little man from Omaha after all).

5

2011-06-05T19:22:00.002-04:00

Ten suryas in the bedroom on my favorite Prana mat, with Liam laying by my side, chirping and chatting. Simple, sweet, breathable and fun.

Twists called out to me today, so I turned the classic yoga flow inside out. And I sprinkled my new handmade "breathing salutes" in between each round of surya namaskar. I like this daily march through my 10 sun saultations!

In the reading streak department, Dorothy and her companions have just been sent off in search of the Wicked Witch of the West. And Liam made us an Oz bookmark to commemorate our summer streak.

4

2011-06-04T17:24:00.002-04:00

Today I practiced my 10 surya namaskars on a beach towel in the hot and breezy backyard, while the kids alternately played and harassed each other with the garden hose. Haphazard, but happy. My last round was quick, as Liam had fallen in the mud and shrieked that he was sure his world was ending. Mommy salutes, for sure.

We've been to Oz already, all three in the hammock. Squirmy and seasick, with too much kid-wiggling, but delightful nonetheless. In less than 24 hours, we've already managed to shake off all the school dust, and we've fallen happily into summer's embrace.

3

2011-06-03T10:01:00.003-04:00

Day three of my Sun Streak: 10 quick sun salutations in the hallway while waiting for the pizza to come out of the overn. I decided it was best to do my yoga before my Friday night glass of wine.

We were finally blessed with a perfect June morning, so sweet and so clear. We walked out of the school year and into the sun of summer break with a sigh, so very relieved to leave the drama behind.

We managed to read a little of Oz before school (the boys were mad for more Oz) and then a little just before bed.

2

2011-06-02T09:59:00.006-04:00

On day two of my official Sun Streak, I managed 10 sun salutations in the kitchen during an afternoon snack, while Liam illustrated his thank-you poem for his first grade teacher. My shoulders felt a little sore, so I left out most of those pesky chatturanga dandasanas.

And on day two of our official Family Reading Streak, we enjoyed more Wizard of Oz on the last school night before summer (after a prelude of The Scariest Monster in the World).

Living in the Present Moment

2011-06-01T19:11:00.000-04:00

Originally published in Yoga International (June 2001)

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 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 sages 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 how truly paying attention so absorbs us in the colors, the sensations, the breath, the moment, that we come out the other side rinsed clean, with clearer vision and deeper sensitivity. Suddenly we start to feel like we're 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 more slowly.

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 bright shining sun.

~~~

1

2011-06-01T09:57:00.009-04:00

Our summer streaks began today. I committed to fitting in to each day at least 10 simple sun salutations, for reasons too crazy to detail. I launched into my Sun Streak with a deep breath, a smile, and 10 rounds of this classic yoga flow in mid-afternoon. No muss, no fuss, just a little bit of huff.

Our family also officially began our Family Reading Streak, inspired by Alice Ozma's delightful book The Reading Promise. At the end of the day, all clean and showered, we cozied up in bed and shared the first few chapters of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Both boys begged for more, and that left me smiling.

Stretch

2011-05-14T14:41:00.000-04:00

a simple stretch
a long exhale

a welcome sense of peace

bend

stretch

release

feel

soft again, and present

awake in my body

back home

~ C. C.

Baby's Breath

2011-05-01T14:38:00.000-04:00

originally published in Yoga International (Dec 2001)

I’ve spent a lot of time with babies lately -- a newborn nephew who fits in the crook of an elbow so sweetly, and a few older ones still free enough to run around buck naked in their summer garden. I’ve been watching these little creatures move and wiggle and explore as only babies can. And you know what? They’ve taught me more about how to breathe than any yoga teacher ever has.

It’s their freedom that captivates me most. Their little bodies respond like wildfire to every impulse that passes through them. And their breath plays right along, changing with every mood. When they inhale, they bloom. When they exhale, they surrender. They’ve learned nothing yet about the restriction and constriction life wedges under our skin and into our breath as we grow up. What a relief!

A sigh of relief, actually. That’s what I feel when I nestle down into the grass with them -- I can breathe again, almost as naturally and freely as they can. Something begins to unravel inside. My skin softens. The armor that keeps the outer world from touching my inner world begins to fall away. I feel like a living, breathing creature again -- shifting, yielding and surrendering to the weather of life that passes through me.

And so after several years of yogic training, I’ve thrown away my ujjayis, vilomas, bhastrikas and the rest. I’ve adopted a new approach, a sort of breathing mantra. I just keep reminding myself to breathe like a baby.

I like its simplicity. I like the image. No one needs to tell me what muscles to move, or where the breath should land, or how long to pause between breaths. The image carries all the instruction I need. It speaks directly to my body, bypassing my eager, analytical brain. I know intimately how it feels to breathe as naturally as a little girl.

Now I begin every yoga practice this way, lying on my back, inviting the breath to flow like water into the deepest reaches of my body and then watching my body respond. After a few minutes of baby breathing my body and mind soften so much that I can feel the deep but subtle movements inside that follow the rhythm of the breath. And if I stay as breathable as a baby when those inner rhythms begin carrying me into asanas, the poses grow just as fluid. No force, no restriction, no constriction -- I might as well be floating in the Caribbean Sea. It’s these times that the movement feels most authentic, creative and expressive.

I also try to remember to breathe like a baby in my daily life -- when the yellow light turns to red, when the doorbell rings, when I’m feeling anxious or frustrated or angry. You know what I’ve learned? It’s hard to be mean when you’re breathing like a baby. It’s hard to be forceful or hard-hearted or armored. Baby-breathing inspires an openness to the world, a friendliness both inside and out. The whole world grows just a little more breathable.

I’ve also learned that breathing this way is a struggle when we hold ourselves in, or when the world comes at us like a ten-ton truck. I can breathe like a baby only when I feel at ease, anchored in some faithful center deep inside. Paradoxically, my baby’s breath helps me find my way back to this quiet, breathable home again and again.

Of course babies aren’t the only pranayama teachers. I have lots of yoga friends who learn from their puppies and their cats. One friend’s rather creative but amazingly effective pranayama consists of lying on the floor in between her two greyhounds, resting a hand on each dog’s belly and then breathing in tandem with them. Try finding that one in Light on Yoga!

All this is baby stuff, I know. But I have a feeling that all other breathing techniques evolve out of this totally unbounded and organic approach. Maybe I’ll grow into more advanced pranayama later. For now, though, I’m happy to settle back into the summer grass and let this baby breathe.

The Gift of Yoga

2011-04-01T09:58:00.000-04:00

originally published in Yoga Journal (February 2000)

I still remember sitting in Starbucks that afternoon in downtown Washington, DC, a skeptical friend sipping her latte and grinning bemusedly at me. On and on I rambled about that blissed-out, washed-clean feeling I’d stumbled upon during my first yoga class, where I'd contorted myself into pretzel shapes with crazy Sanskrit names. "Why?" she kept asking me. All I could muster up in response seemed simplistic and underwhelming. "I don’t really get it at all," I said, "but somehow yoga helps me feel alive again."

And now here I am, thousands of dog poses and hundreds of headstands later, still at a loss when I try to explain the mysterious gift of yoga. I’ve poured over ancient texts, memorized yamas and niyamas, climbed into asanas, settled into pranayama, struggled with sutras and bandhas and mudras. I’ve read Patanjali and Eliade and Iyengar and Feuerstein, and have studied with many of the world's greatest teachers from a range of yoga traditions. After all this deliberate study, "It helps me feel alive" is still the truest answer I can come up with.

Yoga means union. It aims to show us that we are all one, that the boundaries we create within and around ourselves are only illusions, that this little self of the body is just a vessel for the divine and drenching Self of the whole wide world. I don’t want to know this in my brain, I want to feel it in every cell of my body. Somehow climbing onto my mat each morning and playing around with the energy I find helps me settle into that expansive big-sky goodness that reminds me we’re all in this together and we might as well help each other out along the way.

I practice yoga because life’s difficulties sometimes conspire to shut me down and I want to stay open and shiny instead. Fears, tears, yearnings and worries – these stresses have a tendency to freeze us up, pull us in, spin us out. When life comes along and whacks me in the gut until I feel all my rivers damning up inside, I twist and bend and roll and stretch my way back into my own skin. Yoga is my balm, my way of remembering how to bloom again.

I’ve heard Buddhists talk about monkey-mind, and I have more than just monkeys in my brain. I have a whole jungle full of wild and whirling beasts that rarely stop screeching and screaming and swirling inside. The ancient sage Patanjali defined yoga as the intentional stilling of the mind-stuff, and those three indecipherable Sanskrit words that explain this -- "Yogah Cittavrtti Nirodhah" -- give me great hope. Perhaps there is a way to calm those beasts inside my brain, to climb back into the calm and stillness I know is my birthright. I’m faithful that if I keep digging deeper and unraveling farther, I’ll peel away enough of the busy-ness that I can find my way back to the total and unshakeable ease of someone who knows they are at home inside, where ever they may be.

I practice yoga because when I was five years old my best friend taught me how to do a cartwheel. That cartwheel became a handspring and then the splits and then a back flip. Some of my happiest childhood memories are spinning around in the green summer grass, flipping and flopping alone and with friends, exploring the limits and possibilities of our bodies, daring ourselves not to flip again. Cartwheels were my childhood magic, and sometimes I feel yoga is just a grown up excuse to spin in the grass like a child. It’s magic still.

I practice yoga because I spent too many adolescent years waging war against my body. For too long my body was only an enemy to be battled into a form the world called ideal. It wasn’t until I started practicing yoga that I realized I am my body just as much as I am my brain and my spirit, and that battling one’s own body is just another form of violence against one’s self. Yoga helps me feel strong and supple and fluid and agile. And that helps me feel full and content and grateful for a body that feels healthy, shiny and alive.

Yoga isn’t about how things look from the outside, and I love that. I’m thankful that in yoga there are no mirrors, that our sense of beauty and movement and liveliness is gained not from how we look on the outside but how we feel within. It’s the inner experience, the inner attention and energy that makes yoga what it is, whether you’re lying flat on the floor or bending unfathomably backward. No one else really knows, because the honesty comes from inside. The rewards, too.

I love the fact that yoga is so versatile, like a stretch suit that can be worn inside out or right side in or backwards or even upside down. Some days I live in a more physical world and my yoga reflects that – focusing on an aching shoulder or mastering a new and demanding pose. Some days I’m more emotionally focused, and my practice becomes about learning how to make friends with all those stirred up feelings inside, as I lie quietly and let my emotional weather roll through. Some days I’m nothing more than energy unbound, and I find myself spiraling through movements no yogi has ever named.

And some days I just breathe. I let the breath’s oceanic pulse carry me through my morning practice. I love that I can approach yoga from all these different angles and still feel welcome here. Because of yoga’s immensity and versatility, the scientist and artist and mystic and pragmatist inside me all feel welcome and nurtured. I have faith that yoga is big enough for each of us to find our own way, while still walking down those cosmic happy trails together.

I practice yoga because on too many days the din of outside noise drowns out the song of life inside. Life is so loud, so fast, so crowded that without at least a few moments on my own – alone, quiet and internally focused – I never quite feel on my mark. My morning yoga ritual helps keep my attention and intention and expression focused on what I know on the inside to be important and real.

I don’t want to march through life. I’m not content to skim along the surface or let life’s aches and fears freeze my inner rivers of curiosity and delight. I want to fly and sing and make a joyful noise instead. And although sometimes I’m not sure what I think about all the esoteric visions of chakras whirling and kundalini rising and apana falling, as well as some of the other exotica of yoga, I do know there is a deeper form of life that pulses through each of us. Call it God or prana or universal spirit or just plain old love. It’s there, I feel it.

And I know I was made to sparkle with it, as we all are. I know that each of us was born to be a vessel for that pulsing, shooting star of life. The name of the spiritual game is to find our way back to that childlike flowering that comes when we dissolve our self-imposed and self-imprisoning boundaries. And when this happens, life happily pours in and through and out beyond us back into the world again, carrying with it all the shiny resonances of those who’ve ever lived.

Yoga brings me back to this open and unbounded feeling of vitality - breath after breath, day after day, and year after year. And so I settle onto my mat each day with a smile, knowing that yoga will surely work its magic again, plugging me back into the heart of the world, bringing me right back home.

***

Seven!

2011-03-20T09:43:00.000-04:00

When you reach SEVEN, you're old enough to decorate your own birthday cake.

Spring!

2011-03-18T09:41:00.000-04:00

It's official... Spring has sprung!

Mud

2011-03-16T09:39:00.001-04:00

My kids have been completely obsessed with this hole in the ground for a week - I can't tell you how many hours they have spent with it. It reminds me of how little we really need to be happy, when are eyes are wide open with wonder. These boys inspire me!

Poses: Standing Waterfall

2011-03-14T14:41:00.001-04:00

(Uttanasana, or Intense Stretch)

Stand up straight and tall. Grow long in your torso, from the base of the belly up through the heart. Rest your hands gently on your lower back. Breathe. Relax. Smile.

Inhale and lengthen the spine. Exhale and tilt your tail upward toward the sky behind you, inviting the upper body to spill forward. Stay full in your heart as you swan dive into the clear space before you.

Dive forward just as far as is comfortable, still letting your hands rest on the sacrum behind. Each time you inhale, let the heart perk up, perhaps rising just an inch or two back toward standing. Each time you exhale, let the tail at the base of your spine reach upward, as if it were climbing the wall behind you.

If you're a typical American with tight hamstrings and a weak back, your muscles will urge you to stop before your spine even settles parallel to the ground. In this case, find your edge and stay there, with your hands still resting on your sacrum. (And remember, this forward bending action is born from the pelvis rotating over the thighbones, rather than just collapsing forward at the waist.)

If you're the noodly type, allow your heart and head to spill toward the ground while encouraging the front spine to remain long and spacious. If your head ends up closer to the ground than your hips, then release the arms earhward. Place one hand in the crook of the opposite elbow, or just let the arms hang like vines graciously toward the earth.

Wherever you end up, breathe and enjoy the wavelike action that longs to echo through your spine with each inhale and exhale. Allow the body to move and shift and respond to the oceanic waves of the breath. As you inhale the spine lengthens and rises, as you exhale, the spine spills ever more deeply toward the ground.

Keep your legs long and strong. Out of the stability of these strong roots the waterfall is born. Trace a line along the spine from the tail bone all the way through the crown of the head. Let your energy flow along this line, cascading earthward like a beautiful waterfall - sweet, powerful, sensuous, unending.

Strong legs, surrendering spine. Debris spills away like a handbag turned upside-down. Old thoughts, resentments, fears, grudges and fantasies spill out and away, littering the ground at your feet.

Feel free to spiral and slope and move, as all good waterfalls do. Shake your head, shimmy your shoulders, let your arms sway like an elephant trunk from side to side. Let go of everything unnecessary and inessential.

When the sweet sighs of relief leave you feeling clean and clear, when your brain is silent and spacious, root your feet firmly into the ground (bend your knees slightly if you like) and let the heart bloom forward and upward, bringing you back up to standing.

Have you grown taller? Fuller? More breathable? Yes, yes, and hopefully yes. Savor the moment and enjoy the long, clear and spacious feeling the waterfall has offered as you move forward through your day.

Our One Life

2011-03-14T14:33:00.002-04:00

Our hermitage is the act of living with attention in the midst of things: amid the rhythms of work and love, the bath with the child, the endlessly growing paperwork, the ever-present likelihood of war, the necessity for taking action to help the world. For us, a good spiritual life is permeable and robust. It faces things squarely, knowing the smallest moments are all we have, and that even the smallest moment is full of happiness…

What we need, and what we love, what consoles us and what redeems us, is here each moment, already within us. It waits for us to recognize its presence. We have only to give ourselves up to it, and our one life, and all life, welcomes us into its arms.

~ John Tarrant

Because...

2011-03-06T09:36:00.000-05:00

Because it's just that kind of day.

Learning to Love a Triangle

2011-03-01T18:58:00.000-05:00

originally published in Yoga Journal (April 1999)

I’d had about enough of triangle pose. I rarely practiced it at home. And when I mustered up the discipline to teach it, I had trouble climbing out of my half-hearted box: Turn out your leg 90 degrees, watch your kneecaps, reach your arm.... blah, blah, blah. No doubt about it: from any angle, triangle was just plain boring.

One morning, in a fit of desperation I opted for direct confrontation. I unrolled my yoga mat, lit a candle and vowed to stare my nemesis in the face for an hour. We’re going to sit here together, I thought, until we can find something to love about each other.

In hopeless situations, my mother once suggested we play a little game: Ask yourself if you can learn at least one interesting morsel about the world. I took her advice and found my way into triangle. “Aha,” I thought, “I’m gonna do every triangle variation in the book, every one I’ve ever learned.” Out came blocks, straps, walls, ledges, the whole parade. Arms out, arms up, arms over, arms revolved.

I tried it the Vanda Scaravelli way, legs close together. I tried it a la Iyengar, jumping my feet three-and-a-half-to-four-feet apart. I heard Manouso Manos shout, "Wider, wider, your legs are so long!" and came full circle back to Larry Schultz: "What are you trying to do, the splits?" That’s when it finally dawned on me that maybe there’s no right way to do triangle pose after all. Maybe every day "right" feels a little different. Maybe it just depends on what we’re looking for.

The rules began to crack. A little angularity melted from my pose.

As I began to play with all these subtle shifts inside, I noticed the obvious: Each variation did feel different, changing the sensations in my hips, my spine, my belly. No one was there to tell me how or why or what to do next, so I was forced to pay attention. What is this pose doing for me? Why would anyone want to do utthita trikonasana with one leg on a block against the wall? I had to climb inside to figure it out myself.

I exhausted all my known triangle variations and then, without even noticing slipped into a new world where my triangles took their own form. “Where am I stuck?” I asked. “How effortless, how full, how vibrant can I grow?” As I climbed out of the formal, well-baked asana, my playfulness bloomed. The pose began to breathe and shift and move. Triangle and I smiled at each other.

I began to understand where all these crazy ways of playing in poses came from. Ancient yogis weren’t born with wooden blocks at their sides, or with straps or balls or bolsters. They weren’t handed a list of 108 triangle variations, or maybe even poses at all. They climbed inside their skin, played around in forms we now call asanas, and watched what happened.

These yogis took life as their playground and used their own ingenuity while trying to reconnect with the “big soul” of the world. All the variations we learn in classes come from somewhere, either from our teachers’ creativity or from their teachers’. There’s no reason we can’t find our own way, when we grow sensitive and true enough to follow our inner teacher.

Isn’t this what yoga is all about after all: exploring the energy inside so we can live more vibrantly and truly? It’s not just marching through a checklist of postures, but rather climbing into them and exploring, playing, observing within. It’s about watching how our inner life shifts with the movement, the body, the breath. Sometimes other people’s rules just get in the way.

With this realization, a funny thing happened. Triangle pose disappeared. I disappeared. Everything fell away - the rules, the form, the effort. All that was left was movement, energy spiraling in and through and around the playground of my body. No grand design, no fireworks or epiphanies, just lots of space and freedom. Play. Energy rolling and rippling and laughing through me. I felt just like a kid in a playground, jumping and swinging and dangling and exploring.

This discovery brought to life a Sanskrit word I've heard from time to time: lila, or divine play. Some philosophers say that’s really all there is: an endlessly shifting, shimmering play of energy. It expresses itself in the world through colors, shapes, people, nature. The forms we take as so solid - our homes, careers, families - may be just the shifting stage for this lila, the canvas across which its colors are strewn. I like that image a lot. Maybe life is just a verb and not a noun after all.

Perhaps yoga at its heart is meant to be lila, too. The poses are our playgrounds -- slides, merry-go-rounds, jungle-gyms -- that help us give form to the free flow of life. They help us open all the spaces inside so the illuminating, generous, revitalizing life can make its way into all our nooks and crannies. So that when we run home from the playground our cheeks are rosy, our hair is tousled, our belly is tingling and we shine everywhere.

***

Only in St. John..

2011-02-20T09:34:00.000-05:00

There Are Days...

2011-02-16T09:32:00.001-05:00

There are days when I feel this way, too.

Found at the Beach

2011-02-14T09:32:00.000-05:00

Happy Valentine's Day!

First Tooth

2011-02-05T09:26:00.000-05:00

First tooth? Gone!

Why I'm Not Coming Back

2011-02-01T12:51:00.000-05:00

originally published in Harvard Magazine (Summer 1998)

Thanks, but I won't be coming back to Harvard for our tenth reunion. I'd like to tell you it's because none of my closest friends are coming, and the cost seems excessive for a couple of cocktail parties and a Brazilian barbecue. A slightly more honest answer would be that I dread running into my first love (the one I was going to marry and move with to Vermont), who is coming, along with his sweet, lawyerly wife. But really I'm not coming because I'm not sure I'm living an Ivy-colored life anymore. Despite the fact that I'm far happier than I ever was at Harvard, I secretly feel I haven't lived up to my crimson-coated potential.

I wonder what the world would think if I offered my honest submission to the alumni magazine: Claudia Cummins recently left Washington, D.C., where she worked in the White House and then served as a journalist, to return to her family in Mansfield, Ohio. She works part-time at her family's hinge factory, teaches yoga in area banquet halls, and babysits her brother's children on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She'd love to hear from anyone passing through north-central Ohio--contact her at her parents' home, where she still lives.

The truth is, I wake up most mornings with a happy heart. I've crafted a life full of the people and places and creative explorations that I love. I write endlessly, and practice my happy yoga, and many mornings walk through the sky-filled meadows behind our house. My part-time job, in an office I share with my two brothers at our (utterly unglamorous) business, offers me ample time for around-the-world travels. My siblings, my parents, my cousins are also my best friends. I've found in them that safety net of unconditional love and laughter so desperately missed in my years away from home. And I'm beginning to feel I'm an important strand in this web of helping hands as well. I have a growing circle of yoga students who say I help them live fuller, happier, wiser lives. All this means more to me than any of my Harvard honors.

Why, then, am I still not coming? A Harvard diploma is a heavy load, I'm learning. It's quite a responsibility, being told endlessly that you are among the best and the brightest - and being offered medals and honors and diplomas as proof. From those to whom much is given, much is expected.

I spent my twenties striving to live up to that promise, filling the shoes I'd been trained for. The White House sounds good, never mind that you could have, at best, called me a "low-level aide." Still, I have enough pictures of me standing next to the president to know that working there is really No Big Deal in the grand scheme of things. It may end up sounding like my career highlight - "Executive Assistant to the Deputy Assistant to the President for Policy Planning" - but honestly, my being there didn't change the world a whit.

I spent a year earning my master's in journalism and returned to Washington as a business reporter, first at a banking newspaper and then at Bloomberg News, an up-and-coming media empire run by an ambitious Harvard Business School grad. I had my share of scoops, several little stories in the New York Times, an article on the front page of the Boston Globe. Once I was named one of the top young business journalists in the country.

But, you know, I wasn't really happy. I knew I was climbing the career ladder I'd been primed for - and still an ache grew somewhere deep inside. Perhaps I'd been faithful to my training, my ambition, my pedigree, but somewhere along the way I'd lost my self. When I'm 80, I said, I'm not going to regret not writing another telecommunications story, but I am going to regret not climbing a mountain. I made a New Year's resolution.

And then I left. I moved back home to Ohio, where my roots are deep, but where I once swore I'd said my last good-bye. Now here I am, feeling full and free, well-traveled and inspired. I've spent a summer on a Greek isle in the Aegean and helicoptered over lava-spuming volcanoes in Hawaii. I've run a marathon, with friends cheering me through Washington's endless, monument-lined streets. I've lived a month under a thin blue tarp while climbing mountains in Colorado, and I've swum with dolphins in the turquoise Caribbean.

And still I'm afraid to come back. Maybe I'm courageous enough to chart my own course, but not yet liberated enough to give up caring what you think of me. Somewhere along the way, I got stuck on this idea that success Harvard-style means following the well-worn yellow-brick road to Wall Street or Random House or Carnegie Hall.

What I really want to believe, though, is that the true value of a Harvard education is that it liberates us to take that risky leap into more dangerous, uncharted paths that we can call our own. Into lives lived truly, directly and wholeheartedly, where small acts of service and care matter far more than society's accolades. As a comfort, I repeat my favorite quotation from Mother Teresa: "We do, not great things - we do only small things with great love." That's the kind of potential I would like to live up to.

And so here I am, living either a really small life in a little town in Ohio, or, as I would like to believe, living a far bigger life than I could have ever fathomed. As I recently wrote another Ivy Leaguer, I am in paradise as long as I don't think about the future. Maybe by the time our fifteenth reunion - or twenty-fifth - comes around, I'll feel okay enough about all this to come back. Perhaps by then I'll be old enough not to care so much about how my life reads on paper. Maybe I'll be wise enough to remember that words and titles and addresses can never capture a life well lived. And that this world is so much more vast and varied, bigger and more brilliant, than any Ivy-covered promise could ever foretell.

***

Life as a First Grader

2011-01-28T16:07:00.002-05:00

"It was a good day. Well, it wasn't that anything good happened. It's just that nothing really bad happened."

Are Red Socks Lucky?

2011-01-24T19:16:00.001-05:00

The Love Experiment

2011-01-20T14:38:00.000-05:00

Inspired by Buddhist master Thich Nhat Hanh, author Catherine Newman recently decided to see what she could learn by asking those around her a simple question: "How can I love you better?"

The results were profound and inspiring. As she concluded, "It's a leap of faith, a leap toward love -- and it's our very life's work. Turn the clenched fist of your heart into an open hand, go ahead, and offer it."

Curious to learn more about what she discovered? Read about it in her beautiful essay, The Love Experiment: One Question That Changes Everything.

Tired of Climbing? Slide Into Asana

2011-01-01T17:27:00.000-05:00

originally published in Yoga International (June 1998)

Do you remember the game Chutes and Ladders? The one with the gargantuan ladders that carry you up toward the finish line and the dreaded, snaky chutes that drop you back down to the beginning? I loved that game when I was a kid, but I think I must have played too much.

I've spent most of my life climbing ladders. Looking up and forward, desperate for the roll of the dice that sends me happily to the promised land of perfect job, perfect mate, perfect body. Even yoga started out for me as just another ladder, one more chance to crane my neck up to the sun. A magic carpet toward the Mecca of transcendence, if only I could master all the poses and memorize someone else's rule book.

Then I met Angela Farmer and Victor Van Kooten, a European yoga duo who teach all over the world. Their spirited, unconventional and totally life-affirming approach taught me there's another way to play this game. They've helped me see that the chutes may not be so bad after all. In fact, they've shown me that it's the inward journey not the upward climb that ultimately plugs us back into life.

Victor and Angela say they teach a more feminine approach to yoga, one that counters our overwhelmingly willful, action-oriented, ladder-climbing culture. They're more interested in undoing than doing, in surrendering than forcing, in feeling than thinking. They offer a taste of yin to counter our culture's overactive yang, a bit of moonlight to balance the glaring sun. In this spirit, the game becomes less about transcendence and more about embodiment, about sliding into bliss in this single living dog pose right here on earth.

Walk into their class and you'll hear them say there's no paradise at the top that isn't already inside you every step along the way, that a picture-perfect pose won't necessarily set off intergalactic fireworks. You'll be encouraged to relinquish will and struggle, to actually feel what its like to move and breathe, to bloom from inside out. And best of all, you'll be encouraged to play -- to move, explore and invent. Your tired old form-fitted dog will finally breathe and stretch and wag its tail!

Victor and Angela know plenty about drive and ambition, the pursuit of perfection wondering whether you'll ever arrive. Separately for many years they studied under B.K.S. Iyengar, father of one of the most popular yoga system in the West. Their diligence and ability helped them climb the yoga ranks to become two of Iyengar's most coveted students, masters of even the most demanding asanas.

From what I can tell, each of them found the view from the top ultimately unfulfilling. If yoga is a path to wholeness, how can top-of-the-heap teachers still carry some deep, unacknowledged ache inside? That question seems to have led them to a totally refreshing, unconventional, internal approach to yoga. It also led them to each other, and ultimately to a break with Iyengar.

A workshop with this pair is unlike any other. You’ll rarely see straight lines of students moving neatly in a single yoga pose. More likely, you'll find a few people dangling by ropes from the ceiling, some rolling languidly over huge balls, others in pairs exploring a deep twist over a ledge. Victor may be working with a single student, ironing out some kink in a lost hip, while Angela explains an inner-body exploration to a cluster of students. Chances are good, too, that you'll find at least one student nestled under a fortress of blankets, resting quietly back into her inner world.

Angela and Victor teach from the belly, from the deep internal flow of energy they call the "inner body," rather than from muscles. They urge students to root down into the ground, surrendering to gravity in a way that returns lightness and stability to the whole body. And they forever remind us to nestle into the home of our back bodies, a haven in a world so eager to see us jump outside ourselves.In their classes asanas lose their sacred standing.

These two aren't interested in using poses to build well-aligned bodies. To them asanas are "maps" or tools to help explore how energy moves inside. And that means progress isn't judged by the stretch of your hamstrings or depth of your backbends, but by how fully your inner energy radiates through you into the surrounding space. Where isn't life moving inside, they ask. And how can you open your whole being to this vibrant life that is your birthright?

In this light, yoga poses become verbs instead of nouns. They feel less like marble statues and more like living, breathing creatures. You don't do them as much as become them, explore them, feel them. You're asked to move around in them, to go all the way back to their source.

Why would anyone want to do a backbend anyway? Where does it come from, this urge? What emotion could it express? Through these explorations asanas begin to unfold from inside in organic, creative, expressive ways. Yoga becomes beautiful not because you've learned how to put on poses like make-up but because your inner light illuminates every cell of your body.

Victor and Angela are yoga gypsies of a sort. He's Dutch and she's British, and they don't stay anywhere for long. They teach in Mexico in Winter, Europe in Spring and make a grand tour of the U.S. and Canada each Fall. Their ultimate workshop, though, is a three-week course on the Greek island of Lesvos -- yoga in the morning, the Aegean Sea in the afternoon, yoga again before sunset and then dinner in the village under the silkiest moon anywhere.

Wherever they’re teaching, yoga feels more like an art than a science. Angela and Victor are both artists, and their classes bloom with poetic bits of wisdom and colorful images. Your spine grows from your pelvis like a snake climbing from a snake charmer's basket. Your feet sprout roots that spread deep into the earth. Kidneys grow wings, bellies undulate like sea anemones and backs become soft blankets you nestle back into.

Once these metaphors seep in, your own poetry may emerge. You may be a Greek god or goddess after all. You may be bird or a bear or a snake -- maybe all of them. You may walk out of class with all the world's rivers and mountains and oceans pouring through you and with stars twinkling in your chest.

This more creative to yoga approach certainly has its critics. Some prefer more established yoga forms. Others want a more rigorous approach. Some don't like turning yoga into an emotional exploration, and many just aren't comfortable with the incredible freedom that's offered. A few even say this playful and sometimes free-form approach isn't really yoga at all.

And while it is true that you won't find many of their explorations in a yoga book, their message seems to me closer to the heart of yoga than more traditional systems. If yoga if about plugging in to life, about reconnecting with the deep divine spark that flows through all of us, then Angela and Victor seem to me right on target.

In many ways this approach feels far greater than yoga, at least the yoga with a little "y" so prevalent in our culture. These two offer the possibility of each of us learning to be our own teacher, of moving through life without losing touch with our inner vision. They ask us to let everything we do become a radiant, creative, authentic expression of the unending life that flows through us. Angela once suggested that we "be like a yogi and sweeten everything we touch." That sounds like profound counsel to me, not just for those of us who stand on our hands.

Victor and Angela aren't the least bit interested in disciples, in followers who gobble their approach whole hog and spit it back to others. A class should be like a bazaar, they say. You can sample everything, but please only buy what makes your heart sing. Otherwise, they warn, you'll never be able to carry it all home.

Ultimately, I think these two see themselves less as teachers and more as midwives, helping us give birth to our own authentic yoga. And that's probably their most powerful message: Everything you need to know, all the wisdom and yoga and poetry of the world already lies within you. You just need to stop looking out there to others for the answer and instead take a closer look inside. Patiently explore your inner landscape, encourage your inner voice to strengthen, make space for your truest, deepest self to unfold with boldness and without fear.

Yogis seem to fall into Angela and Victor just when they are ready -- when they're tired of climbing ladders, when they're ready to break free of someone else's rules, when they crave a belly full of life again. Maybe you are one of these people, ready to dive into a long, snakelike chute that slides back down to the place where life begins. You may come home with a totally different sense of who you are. The whole world is inside you, after all, just waiting to unfold.

~~~

From Gray to Great

2010-12-01T21:04:00.004-05:00

Me: Oh, Pip, it's another gray day...

Pip: And a GREAT day, too.

I'm so glad he reminded me!

Dinner... Sorta

2010-11-06T21:18:00.004-04:00

Big brother asked if he could fix dinner tonight. "I'll just whip up something simple," he said.

Good thing we had made chocolate chip cookies for dessert!

Peace Maker

2010-10-31T21:24:00.001-04:00

Vacuuming Cats

2010-09-28T21:28:00.000-04:00

Pip's a cat today. A vacuuming cat. A vacuuming cat who at this moment is cleaning out a teepee. Gonna miss these days when they're gone...

An Inside-Out Campout

2010-09-26T21:32:00.000-04:00