Thank You Game

Jasper created a new game, and it goes like this:

Jasper says:  Thank you!

I say:  You're welcome!

Jasper falls over laughing.

Repeat for at least 15 minutes.

What makes it really fun for me is to take it completely seriously, to really hear it and respond genuinely.  Have you ever been thanked for your simple existence 30 plus times in row?  It's a rush.  To receive thanks, and acknowledge it as a gift is a beautiful thing.  Perhaps we all should try it, even without a two-year-old to prompt us.

To all my readers:

Thank you.


Thank you.


Thank you.

What We See, What We Get

I was walking through a store recently and passed a women--fairly heavy-set, wearing a lot of jewelry.  Multiple necklaces, earrings, facial piercings.  And a voice said in my head "Are you wearing all that jewelry to make people think you're pretty?"  I stopped short, shocked at myself for even thinking that, but even more shocked because it wasn't my voice--not the choice of words or the tone. Yes, I often think judgmental thoughts about other people's appearances, but this wasn't me.

I sat down and thought awhile, and eventually turned up the memory.  It was sixth grade, and a boy had said that to me one day when I had been wearing layered necklaces in different lengths (in imitation of a friend of mine).  That poisonous thought had been stored somewhere in me for all these years, and likely formed a part of the many times I've dismissed myself or other people as not measuring up, not attractive.

That moment made one of the central tenets of yoga so clear--that although we identify with our thoughts, we are not our thoughts.  Those familiar loops that run through our brains every day may not even be generated by our selves, but may come from things said long ago, pictures noticed in an advertisement, chatter in the air.  We are radio antennae, receptors for signals from the people and culture around us.  When the instruction comes to let go, to release our hold on our thoughts, on our desires, we say that we can't--we can't let go of our selves.  But is this our Selves?  Or do we mistake the waves for the ocean?

City Sounds

Quiet is often considered a pre-requisite for meditation, and quiet is hard to come by in the city.  Below is the view from my meditation spot--our lovely alley and busy street.  Sounds through the open window:

birds beyond counting

neighborhood dogs

backyard gatherings

cars, buses, trucks and the occasional fire or police siren

airplanes overhead 

the innumerable non-functional vehicles our next-door neighbor is compelled to acquire and attempt to fix

So I try to make them part of the meditation.  Breathe the sounds in, breathe the sounds out.  I think of the noise as energy--the energy of the city--and try not to give it a name (bus, bird) or a value (*#@! motorcycle).  I feel the energy of the city on my skin, breathe it in, breathe it out, let myself be another part of it.  Just another bit of energy, another bit of noise.

I will admit that when the motorcycle starts revving I usually just give up and try again later.

Storytelling

Working retail I am blessed with frequent opportunities for observing human nature.  The other day I was paged to help a woman get some bulk eucalyptus leaves.  The first person she had talked to couldn't find them and mentioned that we might be out.  She was very upset because "I called ahead, and was told that you had them.  I've driven from faraway-suburb, etc etc."  We did in fact have them, they had just been over-looked.  But even though I found them for her, she couldn't change the story:  "I would have been so mad if you hadn't had them, since I called ahead and I drove so far etc etc."

At first I was irritated, but I did have to remember similar moments in my own life.  For instance:  standing in line to return something.  By the time I've gotten to the front of the line I've run through every possible reason the return might be refused, and prepared detailed counter-arguements, so that when the clerk simply refunds my money I feel a bit cheated.

These are small but potent examples of what yoga terms asmita, or the story of self, defined as one of the sources of suffering.  Even such a small story becomes part of our greater story of self, and thus becomes hard or impossible to let go of, since that means letting go of ourselves.  But if I keep such a tight grip on the story, I cannot respond to what is actually happening.  I'm still in the world where there is no bulk eucalyptus, and the store employees won't help me.

All this is very small, but if I cannot let go of a small story, how much more do I resist when the story is important?  Think of dialogue (or lack thereof) between political or religious groups.  Even when presented with facts that challenge or refute a story, the members of the group cannot let go or change it.  This is as true of myself as any other.

So what do we do?  Learning to live without the story of self is the work of a lifetime (or several), but we can try to hold the stories with an open hand.

Props are Your Friends

I will confess that the first time I took a yoga class, I sat on my mat--bare of other accessories, and felt a bit of smug pride as I watched other students pick up their blocks, blankets, straps & eye pillows.  I liked the simplicity of just-me-and-my-mat, and I had a deep down conviction that I was better at yoga already because I didn't need anything else.

I think many of us have this attitude towards props--something along the line of Real Yogis Don't Need Props.  And, like many others, I didn't start using them until I was injured.  Sometimes it takes a knock on the head to change my mind (or less metaphorically, a tweak to the psoas).  It came down to a choice of not doing yoga, or doing yoga with block.  And I started to like it, I got really tight with my block.  And since I was already using a block, why not try a strap?  Soon I was setting up with 2 blocks, a strap and a blanket every class--just in case I might want them.

Props became another way to discover new depths to certain poses, or greater relaxation.  We're friends these days.  Of course, I have Jasper's example as well--props are for playing!

In Pursuit of Samadhi (via dark chocolate)

I love chocolate.  I particularly love dark chocolate--which has the advantage of most serotonin kick per calorie.  Sirius Icelandic chocolate, 70% cacao, is my current addiction.  I find I only need to eat one row, or four squares, or roughly eight bites, to reach a state of bliss.

I had a teacher once illustrate the concept of samadhi (sometimes translated as bliss, or a state of oneness with the universe) with the moment of biting into really amazing chocolate--that intense absorption of all the senses in chocolateness.  I think it's a valid comparison.

But then there's those times when I've been looking forward to eating some chocolate, say it's been a difficult day, or I've been saving it as a reward for dealing with something unpleasant.  And I finally get there--I'm sitting down, I've unwrapped the chocolate, broken off my allotted squares, I take the first bite (really savoring it), and then it occurs to me to check my email, or listen to a voicemail, or any of a thousand other things.  All of a sudden the chocolate is gone, and I never noticed eating it.  It's so disappointing, and all I really want to do is eat more chocolate, even though I know I don't need it.

Does this ever happen to you?  Something anticipated, some personal treat, that fails to satisfy?  It's easy to take yoga or meditation in a very ascetic direction, but I think we can apply the principles of focus and attention on the present moment to our pleasures as well.  After all, samadhi seems so much more enjoyable when it involves chocolate.

Slowly Emerging

This is not a time of year noted for beauty--especially in Minnesota, and especially in the city.  The sun and sound of running water in the storm drains hold the promise of spring, but the ice is slow to recede and often what it reveals isn't pretty.

But still, it is receding.  And layers are being shed by earth and human alike--we are all emerging from winter.   It seems like a good time to reverse the winter trend of curling in, hunching forward and conserving heat.  To stretch open and back, slowly at first, cracking the ice and opening the heart.  Anchor the pelvis and lengthen the spine, raising the crown of the head high and expanding the ribs.  Let the sure and certain knowledge that spring is coming and the sap is rising take you up and back, heart to the sky.

(and even in the muck and ice there is beauty to be found)

Yoga in the Audience

Last weekend I attended a product of The Balcony put on by Nimbus Theatre.  As I watched I remembered an idea that I have had before:  that sitting in the audience is a perfect time to practice yoga.  Not in the sense of asana, which may create complaints from fellow audience members, but in attuning to the present moment.

Live performance unfolds before us, and we can choose to be there with the performers or to separate ourselves--wander off in our minds to what we'll be doing after the show, compare this performance to others, pronounce judgement as to the quality of the work.

One of the central tenants of yoga is that suffering is created through avidya--ignorance, or not seeing things as they are.  What prevents us from seeing things as they are?  Our ideas about ourselves, our stories that lead us to classify things as good or bad--I like this, I want more or I don't like this, I will avoid it.  In watching a show I can try to see what is there, or I can decide that the show isn't interesting, or poorly done, or doesn't speak to me.  It may be true that the show is poorly done, or it may be that the show is so different from my expectations that I am not seeing what is really there.

A theatre is made to focus our attention--the construction of the space, use of lights and direction of the show are all designed to bring the audience into the moment with the performers.  But as audience members we must choose to drop our preconceptions and see the show.

Stuck in a Rut -- YogiSpouse Guest Post

In midwinter in Minneapolis, driving is a challenge.  By January we are all reduced to carefully following in the tire-tracks of the SUVs that went before us, creeping along the snowy roads in channels carved out of ice.

We are all, quite literally, stuck in a rut.

And the more we stick to the path-most-followed, the worse the ruts become.  At this rate, they'll hang around till April.  But although my little car won't be doing any off-roading this winter, won't be the brave vehicle to venture off the beaten path to carve new tracks in the snow, I like to think my spirit is stronger than my Geo.

How can I, in 2011, look beyond conventional approaches to employment, housing, child-rearing, and so on, in order to live the most vibrant life possible?  When is copying the good decisions of others a bad decision for me, my life, my family?  It's time to get unstuck, and think outside the rut.

Mind over Matter?

A while back in yoga class I was having one of those moments--where everything is flowing, completely in the present moment, one-pointed focus.  And then my mind piped up:  "wow, I'm really having a moment, I'm doing such a great job, I'm really developing as a yogi."  And I had to laugh at myself, because the mind will take any opportunity to distract.  But then I was thinking:  what if the mind just doesn't want to be left out?

It's so easy to think that if the mind would just shut up I could have such a great practice, to see the mind as an obstacle.  But trying to transcend something that is always there is really just an exercise in frustration.  Perhaps the mind is just like some toddlers I know, who sees a good thing and wants to be right in the middle of it.

So maybe I'll try inviting the mind to take part, to put its considerable energy towards my yoga practice, and see what happens.