As I was teaching my yoga class this week, I realized a seeming paradox in two key realms of my life: my Women’s Studies and my yoga worlds. In the latter, I teach about being non-judgementally present with what is. But how does that sit with feminist activist efforts to produce social transformation?
Dukkha, or suffering, yogic philosophy teaches us, comes from not accepting reality as it is. The human tendency is to either try to force things to be as we want them to be (craving or clinging) or to try to avoid things we do not like (aversion). On our mats, we have the opportunity to cultivate a witness to how things are. We can learn to accept reality as it is, without judgement, and notice our patterns.
But as a feminist, I am not accustomed to accepting things as they are. When social inequality exists, my tendency is to want to change it. And yet, even in feminism, an accurate view of the present reality is an important first step. We have to understand how oppression works, and who suffers from it, in order to figure out how to change it. We also have to understand how larger structural patterns operate in order to determine effective strategies for change.
Similarly, yoga does not teach us to mindlessly accept a reality that isn’t good for us. We first have to cut through our delusions to see clearly. Then, we can make more life affirming choices about our actions.
Perhaps they are not so different after all.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
But How Will We Look?!
Our yoga mats can be the place where we reclaim the authenticity of our internal experiences and resist the influence of negative outer perceptions. I think of this idea every time I give my yoga students instructions to feel their way into Downward Dog. “Bend your knees,” I suggest, “and stick your sitz bones way up in the air. Get a really long spinal stretch. Then from the back of your thighs, straighten your legs, keeping that delicious length in your spine.”
Every time I say this, I find myself noticing how odd it is to tell a group of mostly women to stick their buts in the air. It’s a bit counterintuitive to ask women to stick out our sitz bones, when we are taught to be so self-conscious and worried about whether we have the perfect body.
And yet, letting go of self-consciousness on our mats paves the way for doing so off our mats. Once we give ourselves over to our own practice, we can become much more concerned with what we are feeling than what others are thinking. How incredibly freeing.
Every time I say this, I find myself noticing how odd it is to tell a group of mostly women to stick their buts in the air. It’s a bit counterintuitive to ask women to stick out our sitz bones, when we are taught to be so self-conscious and worried about whether we have the perfect body.
And yet, letting go of self-consciousness on our mats paves the way for doing so off our mats. Once we give ourselves over to our own practice, we can become much more concerned with what we are feeling than what others are thinking. How incredibly freeing.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Befriending Our Edge
Our yoga mat is the perfect place to explore the full potential—and the limitations--of our capacity. Our edge is that place that allows us to learn: if we hang out too far in front of our edge, we don’t grow to our full capacity. If we go too far past our edge, however, we risk injuring ourselves and others. Let’s face it, it’s just not sustainable to constantly spread ourselves too thin.
What a delicate dance to find that line, especially when it’s always shifting. Our edge looks different when we are twenty then it does when we are forty, different when we are comfortable in a familiar job than it does when we’ve just started a new one. Our yoga practice, as I’ve noted elsewhere in my blog, is a perfect place to learn our edge.
But the deeper we embrace the dance, the more we discover about our edge. It’s like a good novel, replete with layers of nuance. See, it’s not just knowing our edge in the moment of practice (like when we are in Natarajasana and choose not to extend our leg any further), it’s also seeing the big picture, like whether our muscles will be screaming the next day. For instance, in my own life, I honored my edge very well last semester when I came up with lots of interesting ideas, but I am finding my edge sorely tested this semester as all my great ideas come to fruition and I have to carry them out.
Befriending our edge, then, also involves choosing how we will meet the challenges on our plate. I may not have much choice about whether I will honor my commitments, but I can choose how I will do so. In these tough economic times, people may not be able to choose how many jobs they need to hold to make ends meet (if they are lucky enough to have jobs) or whether to assume the responsibility for caring for an elderly parent. But we can choose how we treat ourselves and others as we navigate those responsibilities.
I am learning that coming back to my foundation—both on my mat and off—is what allows me to engage the dance with grace and beauty. When I practice clear alignment principles, I know that however deep I go in a pose, I can do so in a healthy way. We can cultivate the same solid foundations in our lives off our mats.
What a delicate dance to find that line, especially when it’s always shifting. Our edge looks different when we are twenty then it does when we are forty, different when we are comfortable in a familiar job than it does when we’ve just started a new one. Our yoga practice, as I’ve noted elsewhere in my blog, is a perfect place to learn our edge.
But the deeper we embrace the dance, the more we discover about our edge. It’s like a good novel, replete with layers of nuance. See, it’s not just knowing our edge in the moment of practice (like when we are in Natarajasana and choose not to extend our leg any further), it’s also seeing the big picture, like whether our muscles will be screaming the next day. For instance, in my own life, I honored my edge very well last semester when I came up with lots of interesting ideas, but I am finding my edge sorely tested this semester as all my great ideas come to fruition and I have to carry them out.
Befriending our edge, then, also involves choosing how we will meet the challenges on our plate. I may not have much choice about whether I will honor my commitments, but I can choose how I will do so. In these tough economic times, people may not be able to choose how many jobs they need to hold to make ends meet (if they are lucky enough to have jobs) or whether to assume the responsibility for caring for an elderly parent. But we can choose how we treat ourselves and others as we navigate those responsibilities.
I am learning that coming back to my foundation—both on my mat and off—is what allows me to engage the dance with grace and beauty. When I practice clear alignment principles, I know that however deep I go in a pose, I can do so in a healthy way. We can cultivate the same solid foundations in our lives off our mats.
Monday, January 25, 2010
A Case of Cold Feet
OK. So I know this is a silly question, but….Has anyone else gotten really nervous before teaching yoga in their first couple years? You know, the type of nerves that make you queasy and wonder what you were thinking when you decided to become a yoga teacher? Never mind that you completed the necessary certification and have gotten positive feedback. Still, the case of nerves can be unsettling!
As a teacher by trade, I know that such nerves are a natural and inevitable part of the process. The first couple years I spent as a Women’s Studies Professor were full of anxiety, second-guessing myself, and stage fright. Over the years, I have come to see that no matter how prepared one is in one’s field, part of the process of being a novice teacher is learning from the daily experiences in the classroom. There’s a confidence and knowledge that can only come from that hands-on experience. And, of course, a certain degree of nervousness often makes us better at what we do.
But I had an epiphany on my yoga mat the other day, (a place that is increasingly becoming the site of profound realizations). I discovered that when I started to second-guess myself in the academic classroom, I would just overcompensate with more preparation. I relied on my intellect to shore up the armor around my nerves, to give me the illusion of confidence that everything was OK. That was a safe route, since institutions of higher learning reward the overemphasis on the intellect.
But the Buddhist writer Pema Chödrön teaches that underneath most emotions, such as anger, fear, or anxiety, lies a deep tenderness that we often strive to avoid by reacting in habitual ways. Teaching yoga has taught me that it’s the raw softness underneath the nerves that offer the deepest growth possibilities. Intellect as armor only avoids that more fundamental learning. Though I can and will continue to study to prepare for class, the real gift comes from meeting my own self with the same compassion and patience with which I meet the students in my yoga classes. I have found that when I open to the vulnerability underneath the nerves, I can be a much wiser teacher, for myself and others.
As a teacher by trade, I know that such nerves are a natural and inevitable part of the process. The first couple years I spent as a Women’s Studies Professor were full of anxiety, second-guessing myself, and stage fright. Over the years, I have come to see that no matter how prepared one is in one’s field, part of the process of being a novice teacher is learning from the daily experiences in the classroom. There’s a confidence and knowledge that can only come from that hands-on experience. And, of course, a certain degree of nervousness often makes us better at what we do.
But I had an epiphany on my yoga mat the other day, (a place that is increasingly becoming the site of profound realizations). I discovered that when I started to second-guess myself in the academic classroom, I would just overcompensate with more preparation. I relied on my intellect to shore up the armor around my nerves, to give me the illusion of confidence that everything was OK. That was a safe route, since institutions of higher learning reward the overemphasis on the intellect.
But the Buddhist writer Pema Chödrön teaches that underneath most emotions, such as anger, fear, or anxiety, lies a deep tenderness that we often strive to avoid by reacting in habitual ways. Teaching yoga has taught me that it’s the raw softness underneath the nerves that offer the deepest growth possibilities. Intellect as armor only avoids that more fundamental learning. Though I can and will continue to study to prepare for class, the real gift comes from meeting my own self with the same compassion and patience with which I meet the students in my yoga classes. I have found that when I open to the vulnerability underneath the nerves, I can be a much wiser teacher, for myself and others.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Soaring Through Inner Sensitivity
Yoga Moment! I balanced for 7 whole seconds in Sirasana (headstand)! Whoohoo!
It was like flying. For months now I have been doing that dance with many inversions: one foot off the wall, then the other, then quickly falling back to the security of the wall if I started to waver.
Today, though, all my yoga principles seemed to converge in full alignment. I engaged Muscular Energy by pressing into the ground and hugging the midline. I activated skull loop to keep my head safe and give me more balance. I scooped my tailbone and puffed my kidneys to keep from arching my back. And I pressed up through my feet, activating inner spiral.
The balanced action that resulted was freeing. I could feel myself anchoring down to the stability of the earth even as I activated Organic Energy to extend toward the sky.
It enabled the exquisite poetry of being fully in the present moment. I can’t balance on automatic pilot. I have to turn inward and attune to all the subtle messages of my body. When I started to fall forward, taking my hips back helped me stay up. When I started to waver backward, pressing both downward and upward simultaneously helped center me again.
My yoga teacher said the other day that an intermediate class is not distinguished so much by the physical poses or capability, but by the sensitivity. For me, the soaring sensation of balancing came from the deeper layer of inner attunement that allowed it.
It was like flying. For months now I have been doing that dance with many inversions: one foot off the wall, then the other, then quickly falling back to the security of the wall if I started to waver.
Today, though, all my yoga principles seemed to converge in full alignment. I engaged Muscular Energy by pressing into the ground and hugging the midline. I activated skull loop to keep my head safe and give me more balance. I scooped my tailbone and puffed my kidneys to keep from arching my back. And I pressed up through my feet, activating inner spiral.
The balanced action that resulted was freeing. I could feel myself anchoring down to the stability of the earth even as I activated Organic Energy to extend toward the sky.
It enabled the exquisite poetry of being fully in the present moment. I can’t balance on automatic pilot. I have to turn inward and attune to all the subtle messages of my body. When I started to fall forward, taking my hips back helped me stay up. When I started to waver backward, pressing both downward and upward simultaneously helped center me again.
My yoga teacher said the other day that an intermediate class is not distinguished so much by the physical poses or capability, but by the sensitivity. For me, the soaring sensation of balancing came from the deeper layer of inner attunement that allowed it.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Walking the Talk
As we approach the new year, indeed, the new decade, many people talk of setting new year’s resolutions. Such resolutions are virtual obsessions in the U.S. and often carry built-in failure. Most people resolve to lose weight, to make more money, or to achieve that promotion—all potentially useful goals, but all focused more on the end result than on the journey. If we do slip up or fail to achieve our goal, we often feel worse about ourselves than we did to begin with.
Instead of focusing on achieving that end result, over which we may or may not have control, we might instead commit ourselves to how we want to be in the world. In feminist terms, we would call this “walking the talk,” or putting our beliefs, politics, and values into practice.
Buddhist philosophy reminds us that attachment is one of the key sources of suffering. The writer Rachel Naomi Remen makes a powerful distinction between attachment and commitment, one of which tends to be much more life-affirming than the other. She writes,
“While attachment has its source in the personality, in what the Buddhists refer to as the ‘desire nature,’ commitment comes from the soul. In relationship to life, just as in human relationships, attachment closes down options, commitment opens them up….Attachment leads farther and farther into entrapment. Commitment, though it may sometimes feel constricting, will ultimately lead to greater degrees of freedom. Both involve in the moment an experience of holding, sometimes against the flow of events or against temptation. One can distinguish the two in most situations by noticing over time whether one has moved through this activity closer to freedom or closer to bondage. Attachment is a reflex, an automatic response which often may not reflect our deepest good. Commitment is a conscious choice, to align ourselves with our most genuine values and our sense of purpose.”
Commitment, then, is about grounding ourselves in our deepest values and infusing our actions with that clarity. It is more about how we meet life’s challenges than it is about the end result. Paradoxically, because we are less attached to things being any particularly way, we often achieve our goal anyway, but with less suffering along the way. Regardless, we can view the journey as a path of deep internal joy and growth.
I remember the first time I heard my yoga teacher invite the class to “let go of that which doesn’t serve you.” I felt a wave of relief and even freedom wash over me with the realization that I can choose what I cling to and how I want to move through the world.
As we move into the New Year, I invite all of us to return to the clarity of what’s truly important to us. May our deepest commitments infuse our world with beauty and light.
Instead of focusing on achieving that end result, over which we may or may not have control, we might instead commit ourselves to how we want to be in the world. In feminist terms, we would call this “walking the talk,” or putting our beliefs, politics, and values into practice.
Buddhist philosophy reminds us that attachment is one of the key sources of suffering. The writer Rachel Naomi Remen makes a powerful distinction between attachment and commitment, one of which tends to be much more life-affirming than the other. She writes,
“While attachment has its source in the personality, in what the Buddhists refer to as the ‘desire nature,’ commitment comes from the soul. In relationship to life, just as in human relationships, attachment closes down options, commitment opens them up….Attachment leads farther and farther into entrapment. Commitment, though it may sometimes feel constricting, will ultimately lead to greater degrees of freedom. Both involve in the moment an experience of holding, sometimes against the flow of events or against temptation. One can distinguish the two in most situations by noticing over time whether one has moved through this activity closer to freedom or closer to bondage. Attachment is a reflex, an automatic response which often may not reflect our deepest good. Commitment is a conscious choice, to align ourselves with our most genuine values and our sense of purpose.”
Commitment, then, is about grounding ourselves in our deepest values and infusing our actions with that clarity. It is more about how we meet life’s challenges than it is about the end result. Paradoxically, because we are less attached to things being any particularly way, we often achieve our goal anyway, but with less suffering along the way. Regardless, we can view the journey as a path of deep internal joy and growth.
I remember the first time I heard my yoga teacher invite the class to “let go of that which doesn’t serve you.” I felt a wave of relief and even freedom wash over me with the realization that I can choose what I cling to and how I want to move through the world.
As we move into the New Year, I invite all of us to return to the clarity of what’s truly important to us. May our deepest commitments infuse our world with beauty and light.
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Gift of Vulnerability
A former student of mine recently wrote to me about an abusive relationship she found herself in after graduation. She described the familiar cycle of isolation, emotional manipulation, and physical abuse that resulted in a loss of self. I remember this student as sassy, intelligent, outgoing, and funny. So it broke my heart to hear of the pain she endured.
It is a familiarly painful story that I hear from many women. The loss of self she describes echoes my own story of addiction, which served as a self-destructive “coping mechanism” for a period of my past. In my case, it was a way to silence the self-denigrating voice of judgment that had grown too powerful. In her case, the abusive partner’s version of reality distorted her own.
Though our experiences were different, this former student and I had some commonalities. We were both passionate about feminism, social justice, and women’s empowerment. We both had a solid network of friends. We both had voices of wisdom deep inside us warning us the situations we were in were dangerous for our well-being. And yet, the destructive situations snuck up on us and took their toll nevertheless.
However, those deeper seeds of wisdom and self-honoring eventually prevailed, helping us pull out of the situations and getting us back on our feet (with the help of loved ones, of course). She tells me that it was her feminism and what she learned in her Women’s Studies courses that gave her the strength to leave and rebuild her sense of self. For me, it was this same grounding combined with the self-honoring lessons of yoga.
In yoga, we recognize that those experiences that are the most painful for us are also often the ones that provide the deepest and most profound life lessons. As we are pulled into the darkest depths of the painful situations, we discover our inner strength, capacity, and insight. These experiences are not our “flaws” or “failures,” but rather the textures that allow for the deepest growth. When we emerge on the other side of it, we can reclaim our lives with a joy and peace that we could not have imagined. The legacy of our own pain can help us become more compassionate for ourselves and others.
For me, the combination of yoga and feminism provided the tools to foster a self-honoring voice of wisdom. My former student is still finding her own path and discovering the tools that will work for her. But for both of us, we discovered that life will, at times, take us under. When that happens, rather than sinking, we have the opportunity to delve into the rich vulnerabilities of our own hearts. The gifts we find may surprise us.
It is a familiarly painful story that I hear from many women. The loss of self she describes echoes my own story of addiction, which served as a self-destructive “coping mechanism” for a period of my past. In my case, it was a way to silence the self-denigrating voice of judgment that had grown too powerful. In her case, the abusive partner’s version of reality distorted her own.
Though our experiences were different, this former student and I had some commonalities. We were both passionate about feminism, social justice, and women’s empowerment. We both had a solid network of friends. We both had voices of wisdom deep inside us warning us the situations we were in were dangerous for our well-being. And yet, the destructive situations snuck up on us and took their toll nevertheless.
However, those deeper seeds of wisdom and self-honoring eventually prevailed, helping us pull out of the situations and getting us back on our feet (with the help of loved ones, of course). She tells me that it was her feminism and what she learned in her Women’s Studies courses that gave her the strength to leave and rebuild her sense of self. For me, it was this same grounding combined with the self-honoring lessons of yoga.
In yoga, we recognize that those experiences that are the most painful for us are also often the ones that provide the deepest and most profound life lessons. As we are pulled into the darkest depths of the painful situations, we discover our inner strength, capacity, and insight. These experiences are not our “flaws” or “failures,” but rather the textures that allow for the deepest growth. When we emerge on the other side of it, we can reclaim our lives with a joy and peace that we could not have imagined. The legacy of our own pain can help us become more compassionate for ourselves and others.
For me, the combination of yoga and feminism provided the tools to foster a self-honoring voice of wisdom. My former student is still finding her own path and discovering the tools that will work for her. But for both of us, we discovered that life will, at times, take us under. When that happens, rather than sinking, we have the opportunity to delve into the rich vulnerabilities of our own hearts. The gifts we find may surprise us.
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