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Thank you, B.K.S. Iyengar

A gratitude map:

Thank you, Jane Barrett, for firmly grounding me in detailed alignment and for giving me an early teaching nest.

Thank you, Jan Campbell, for your cheerfulness and eureka! instructions in urdhva hastasana.

Thank you, Rodney Yee, for your mystical exploration of padmasana.

Thank you, Erich Schiffmann, for a groovy partner foot adjustment in ustrasana, for hosting my first adult attempt at a handstand, and for the invitation to cultivate interest with passionate calm.

Thank you, Roger Cole, for cradling and adjusting my neck in utthita trikonasana.

Thank you, Cindy Dollar, for the rolled-up mat behind the knees and under the feet in virasana and for being so welcoming when I randomly drop in to your studio.

Thank you, Julie Gudmestad, for your humor, unhurried instruction and fun tricks with shoulder straps.

Thank you, Bryan Legere, for the Great Yoga Wall and your love of the sutras.

Thank you, Manouso Manos, for your five layers of instructions for lower-back therapeutics in a chair version of ardha chandrasana.

Thank you, Ray Long, for an introduction to the popliteus muscle and for your willingness to explain why it’s worth going deeper.

Thank you, John Schumacher and Unity Woods teachers, for sharing your collective decades of wisdom and reverence for your beloved Guruji.

Thank you, Kim Weeks, for cittavrtti nirodhah on Day One and for holding the spaces for my first 200-hour training.

Thank you, Kristen Krash, for your spunky dedication and for telling us to move our skin.

Thank you, Liana Brooks-Rubin, for your warm kindness and encouragement.

Thank you, Lois Steinberg, for your frequent laughter and engaged and engaging presence.

Thank you, Patricia Walden, for your crisp and joyful guidance in standing poses.

Thank you, Joan White, for having eyes in the back of your head and seeing my wonky hip in upavishta konasana from 50 feet away in a crowded room.

Thank you, Bobby Goldin, for suggesting that I take your teacher training course, for your book about perky groins and jokes about jewels, for Raleigh and Sanibel, for bhramari, for helping me find a non-bug-eyed setup for salamba sarvangasana, and for telling me to just keep doing what I’m doing.

Thank you, Aadil Palkhivala, for sharing your three decades of study with Mr. Iyengar and for developing and transmitting Purna Yoga. Thank you, Catharine Eberhart and Bob Maiers, for growing Purna Yoga in North Carolina.

Thank you, Matthew Sanford, for sharing your huge heart, your embracing wingspan, your self and your stories, and for adapting Mr. Iyengar’s teachings in a transcendent, transformational way. You have seismically changed my life.

♥ ♥ ♥

bksiyengarThese are some of the clearest moments and feelings I cherish from years of studying with people close to the teachings B.K.S. Iyengar, who died August 20, 2014. Yoga can be a lonely and isolating pursuit ~ but of course, it is meant to be shared. Yoga is an endeavor that connects us and shows us that we are already connected. Thank you to all of my teachers for sharing and connecting many dots for me. In doing so, they embody, honor and sustain an indelible lineage.

♥ ♥ ♥

That time I met B.K.S. Iyengar … 

 

 

 

 

 

14 Words for Love

Little morsels I wrote (and am still writing) for a brilliant poetry project created by Jodi Barnes. Plenty of others by lots of sweet folks to peruse and share ~ and write your own! ~ at 14wordsforlove.com. Fun for Valentine’s Day, and the other 364.

Spring shoots us with possibility.
Leaves lick the sky ~
so many flavors of green.

Words reach out
like hands
hugging my heart.
Our shared language
of sustainable losses.

Her cupped hands
cradle hearts
with a butterfly’s grace ~
steward of words with wings.

Later I learned
where you’d gone.
You’d found your passion ~
it just wasn’t me.

I’ve devoured Barcelona
licked Rome
kissed Paris ~
yet I’ll always be hungry
for you.

Not on yellow bricks
but hills slick
with panic ~
many pilgrims, one path:
Home.

Diamonds collecting dust,
Chanel turning acrid ~
Wear them.
You,
each day,
a special occasion.

Asleep,
my bleached bones buried deep,
my dreaming marrow stirs
under your vermilion kiss.

Rose sea ~
red, yellow, orange ~
waves of frangipani, honeysuckle, gardenia ~
you, every sweet petal.

Your smile ~
dawn sun mirrored off the barn’s tin door ~
outshines the shadowed eaves.

Like walking across Spain ~
strictly forward ~
with less ~
when you have all you need.

From farthest arteries you resurface,
tourniquet around my heart.
The bind that unties me.

She collects him from preschool,
face bright as night on the Fourth of July.

Crystal goblet clatters to the floor.
Into how many pieces can the heart shatter?

I digest Lucille Clifton while stirring oatmeal for two.
Attention split, the poems burn.

Scarlet berries bleed against the snow.
The course of passion streams hot and cold.

A true test:
She reaches for the horse’s muzzle.
He nods in velvety assent.

“The Mikado,” 1993.
We met in the wings,
a quiet play outside the play.

Inadequate alphabet:
Twenty-six letters,
yet none can spell
what you are to me.

Saffron beads of pollen coat the tulip bowl.
I nose in, voyeur to life.

This close:
You note yellow flecks
in my blue irises,
seeing what I cannot.

Even when we’re apart
you’re with me,
cashmere
I wear from my insides out.

From snails to stars,
every grain of sand to Mars,
you are my universe.

I wake up
with the answer
to every question
you’ll ever ask me:
Yes.

See the sky in you, she said,
not the clouds: clear, infinite, divine, whole.

Not middle C or a major key ~
the grace notes, the silences in between.

Sunny Saturday, Bob Marley knocks from within.
I open my throat, belt him out.

“Apaga si quieres tu luz.”
My Spanish teacher’s lesson,
Tagore inked on a napkin.

In us, a room of Rothkos.
Endless reds, the feverish work of a lifetime.

Bécquer whispered your gift to me,
una perdida estrella.
I never felt so found.

Still a child herself:
“I’m getting a puppy tomorrow!”
One angel to receive another.

I know you’re a hot stove,
know I’ll get burned.
I lean in anyway.

I chase your image,
stealing light and time.
Failing, I shoot at the sun.

I’ll sit with your suffering,
try not to fix it.
I, broken; you, whole.

Light floods the path I
Often turn away from.
Voracious need
Entwines me still.

Birds peck for leftovers on the snowy deck.
Before eggs, he fills the feeder.

Him: Let’s see the world together.
Me: Fine, because wherever you are is home.

My rock, my cushion:
He’s always there for me,
even when I’m not looking.

I whimper for dessert.
“Crepes?”
With flour, eggs, milk,
he wraps me in sweetness.

Newlywed decisions:
Expanded lives, aquarium store.
“What kind of fish?”
My prince: “Happy fish.”

Sealed, stamped:
Her card, inky swirls of
“dearest,” “friendship,” “gratitude.”
Held close from afar.

Our “I do”:
Sealed not with a band, a spiral:
You twist, I turn.

Neighbor’s garage-door banner:
“You’re The Man
STEVE THE IRONMAN
GREAT JOB.”
Family hero.

With a surgeon’s finesse,
you scale the fish.
Later,
it is I who am deboned.

The six tastes ~
sweet sour salty bitter pungent astringent ~
our geography on my tongue.

In the folds of my ventricles and atria,
You: pulsing in a hidden chamber.

A bee will drink from any flower,
too busy to grieve the sweet forever.

Heal my wounds, I said.
No, he said: The light makes your scars shine.

My soul likes to wander.
When I can’t find it, I look for you.

Open secret:
Each of us thinks
the other one
is getting the better deal.

The piece of chocolate cake you brought me,
the one I never asked for.

You,
the middle of my seesaw,
hold me steady while I soar and sink.

As innocent as a sunrise,
my nephew asks:
What did you dream last night?

That time I met B.K.S. Iyengar …

Happy 95th birthday to B.K.S. Iyengar, born Dec. 14, 1918, in Bellur, India.

I met B.K.S. Iyengar in October 2005. “Met” might be a stretch, although I did stand in front of him for a few seconds, and I’m pretty sure he touched my forehead.

B.K.S. Iyengar, the "lion of Pune."

B.K.S. Iyengar, the “lion of Pune.”

My brush with yoga greatness occurred at a Barnes & Noble in downtown Washington, D.C., just a few blocks from the arena where I would see U2 a few hours later. (Sorry, Bono, but B.K.S. was ~ and still is ~ the bigger rock star.) I lived near Raleigh at the time. I was in D.C. not only for the concert but also for final interviews for a copy-editing job with the Washington Post, which I would later be offered and accept. Mr. Iyengar was touring the United States and making an appearance at the store in conjunction with the release of his book “Light on Life,” so I went and stood in line with others of my tribe, some of whom I recognized from other workshops, even my own home state. (For a WaPo article on Mr. Iyengar’s appearance, click here.)

Ground to extend.

The several dozen of us who had gathered well ahead of the appointed hour, in typical D.C.~Type A~Iyengar fashion, quietly and calmly formed a line that went around the block and up a slight hill outside the bookstore. It was a crisp and clear afternoon, and we were on the shady side of the building. We had to get a (free) ticket to stand in line to be able to meet and greet Mr. Iyengar, although he had already signed a bunch of books ahead of time. In typical Iyengar fashion, this made efficient and businesslike sense, although it created a somewhat awkward situation. Since he wouldn’t be signing each book individually, how could we fawn without that built-in ritual? With what would we prostrate ourselves?

As the line began to move, we snaked our way inside the warm store. Mr. Iyengar, then 86, was sitting in a chair off to the left as we came in, near the children’s section. As best I remember, he was wearing a flowing, linen-like ivory outfit. His silver hair draped down to his shoulders, and his bristly salt-and-pepper eyebrows poked out every which way. To his right stood John Schumacher, his local host, longtime student, hugely influential teacher in his own right and owner of the Unity Woods studio where I would take classes and workshops after moving to the area. (To read a Yoga Journal interview that John did with B.K.S., click here.)

Root to rise.

When it was my turn, I walked into the clearing around B.K.S. and John as if to kneel for Communion. I approached Mr. Iyengar and mumbled something incomprehensible that was meant to sound like “Thank you for being such an inspiration.” I think I might have actually chirped. I smiled at him, and he smiled back, very broadly, with his whole face. He rubbed the center of my forehead with his thumb, like a priest marking me on Ash Wednesday, or perhaps as if to give me a Hindu bindi dot. We had a moment, or at least I did. I felt a surge, a warmth, as if I’d received his blessing ~ but for what, I didn’t know. And then it was over. I exited stage right to make way for the next devotee and to buy my signed book. On to U2′s “Vertigo” show, with “Light on Life” in my hands.

That’s how I remember coming face to face with Bellur Krishnamachar Sundararaja Iyengar, the man credited with bringing yoga to the Western world five decades ago.

I’ve never taken a class with B.K.S., but over the years I have studied with many senior Iyengar teachers, several of whom earned their certifications in the early 1970s. Many continue to make pilgrimages to his thriving institute in Pune (which has a waiting list for students) and bring back the latest teachings from the oracle and his family (Mr. Iyengar’s children and grandchildren are also teachers). Such is his global influence that a documentary film about him is in the works, and there is a movement to nominate him for a Nobel Peace Prize.

Becoming Iyengar-certified is anything but trivial: It takes years of study and mastery of a hierarchical assessment process, a system that is both prohibitive and excellent. According to the Iyengar Yoga National Association of the United States, there are just seven Iyengar-certified teachers in North Carolina. SEVEN.

I have no intention of going down that rigorous path, but I implicitly have a baseline of trust in any Iyengar-certified teacher. Mr. Iyengar’s individualized and inherently therapeutic approach to the ancient art of yoga (some of which is not so ancient) is the bedrock of my practice and teachings and always will be. And if you have ever used a block, a strap or even a wall in a yoga class, you have Mr. Iyengar to thank. The attention to detail, to alignment, to paying attention simply to what is happening ~ that is what yoga is all about: yoking, uniting.

Press down to go up.

Iyengar yoga has been hugely influential for me as a student and teacher, although I have taken classes in many other styles. Starting in January 2014, I will be continuing my unofficial doctoral studies in yoga with a 200-hour teacher training at Purna Yoga East, a sweet studio in Clayton, N.C., where I have been fortunate to teach for the past year.

Aadil Palkhivala

Aadil Palkhivala

Purna Yoga is the tradition of Aadil Palkhivala, who began studying with Mr. Iyengar at the age of 7 and continued to do so for three decades. Aadil still clearly honors B.K.S. in his asana instruction, and he credits Mr. Iyengar for his very existence. In his book “Fire of Love,” Aadil writes:

“His powerful and authoritative teaching, balanced by his compassionate caring when I had crippling spinal injuries, taught me that love has many forms. With his teaching, he laid not only the foundation for the physical aspect of Purna Yoga, but also the physical foundation of me! His guidance enabled my parents to conceive after seven years of unsuccessful attempts. … Yoga gave me life, and I am blessed to be able to pass on this gift.”

I am grateful to be able to continue studying the endlessly educational practice that is yoga and to have found a style that incorporates but also expands on the revolutionary approach that Mr. Iyengar developed. The Sanskrit word “purna” means complete or whole, and the method is based on the integral yoga taught by Sri Aurobindo. As Aadil says, by incorporating instruction in asana/anatomy/pranayama, meditation, applied philosophy and nutrition (and poetry!!! yes, poetry!!!), Purna Yoga is designed partly to help students “surrender the intellectual and analytical abilities of their brain to the inner quest that takes place in the heart.”

I’ve studied with Aadil twice and am excited that one of our TT weekends will be a workshop with him at Purna Yoga East. He is magical teacher, a savant in many fields, and genuinely hilarious. On his center’s Web site, this is how he describes his approach:

“Through disciplined exploration of the mind-body connection, heart-centered meditation and a focus on abundant living, Purna Yoga students magnify the power of yoga in their lives and achieve more of the life-changing benefits that they are seeking.”

(Plus, in workshops he quotes Wordsworth and any number of other poets. I mean, how can I NOT study more of this stuff?!)

The lineage ~ so important, so crucial to understand and respect in any classical tradition ~ is essentially this: from Sri T. Krishnamacharya to B.K.S. Iyengar to Aadil Palkhivala to Catharine Eberhart and Bob Maiers and the community at Purna Yoga East. I’m excited to delve more deeply into the parts of yoga that have nothing to do (yet everything to do) with what happens on a mat and to learn how to share them. As Aadil says, “Yoga helps us discover our life purpose and then grow into it. The more comprehensive our approach, the more we can heal and grow.”

Can’t wait.

John Fogerty and That Guy

During his amazing concert in Durham on Sunday night, John Fogerty told a story about playing at Woodstock. He and his then-new band, Creedence Clearwater Revival, had released their second album, “Bayou Country” ~ the one celebrated during Sunday’s show ~ a few months before being invited to play at the 1969 festival.

Great, he thought. Good exposure for us. Sounds like fun.

He said he arrived at the venue at about 2 in the afternoon, having driven past cars abandoned alongside and even in the middle of the road. Around 5, he ate a light dinner and waited to go onstage at the promised ideal 9:30 p.m. slot. Ready to go. What he was not ready for was following the Grateful Dead.

“Thanks, Jerry!”

The Dead didn’t take the stage until midnight, so things were already obviously a little off-track in that hippie, devil-may-care way. CCR finally took the stage around 2:30 a.m., with as much enthusiasm as they could muster. When he looked down from the stage, Fogerty said, he saw a bunch of naked people. Lying on the ground. Asleep.

“Thanks, Jerry!”

What the heck, he thought, might as well make the most of it. As he and CCR cranked it up for a mostly catatonic crowd, he saw a flame flicker way out in the distance, the spark from a single lighter. He heard a guy yell out, “It’s okay, John! We’re with youuu-ouu-ouu!”

So he played to That Guy, the lone voice that he connected with across that dark field.

That was in 1969. More than four decades later, he’s still playing to That Guy.

Each one, reach one. Or 3,000. Same difference?

Sprawling on a pin

I’m taking a photography course. My third in about 20 years. I continue to be a beginner at a lot of things, partly because of my scattered attention span, which I like to think of as Endless Curiosity and the Enduring Lure of Shiny Objects. I am a chronic dilettante, and my brain functions more like a kaleidoscope than telescope.

Starting in the early 1990s, I took beginning pottery three times. I always felt like a newbie each time I sat down behind the wheel, daunted by the attempt to make art out of mud. Every lump of clay is different; every moment of wedging, of trying to keep the lumps centered and pliable (but not too smooshy) on the wheel, of glazing, firing and waiting ~ is a lesson in patience, concentration and stick-to-it-iveness. It’s like the old joke “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” “Practice, practice, practice.” You get better at something by … doing that thing.

“Do your practice, and all is coming.” ~  Sri K. Pattabhi Jois

Bringing beginner’s mind to tasks that might seem intimidating or overwhelming or otherwise unpalatable is useful, even for an experienced practitioner. It can ward off boredom and burnout, for starters. (Speaking of Zen, one of my pottery teachers encouraged us to kill our uglier babies, to smash our less successful pots against the cement-block wall of the kiln building. This I could not do. My lessons in nonattachment remain ongoing.)

Shape clay into a vessel; it is the space within that gives it value.” ~ Master Po in the TV series “Kung Fu” (paraphrasing the Tao Te Ching, chapter 11)

I try to remember to keep beginner’s mind in yoga, and I try with varying degrees of success to take my yoga off my mat into the realm of All Life Is Yoga. Every day is different, every downward-facing dog is different, even if it’s my thousandth. And my practice and teaching are no good if I’m an asshole to the Kroger checkout lady or my husband. The point is, as I tell my students, to notice what you notice as you practice. You don’t have to necessarily change the situation or even make a decision about it (unless acute pain is involved, of course) or, god forbid, strive for perfection; just neutrally take stock, file the thought or feeling away and move on without getting attached to your: Oh, tight shoulder or: Yay, loose hamstrings or: What’s for dinner?

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” ~ Ferris Bueller

Polaroid from "March 23, 1981." I remember trying to capture the cool clouds. Trying, anyway. At our house in Hominy Valley, N.C.

Polaroid from “March 23, 1981.” I remember trying to capture the cool clouds. Trying, anyway. At our house in Hominy Valley, N.C.

Photography, like yoga, writing and so much else, is also about paying attention, about noticing what you notice. I’ve enjoyed taking pictures since I was a kid, especially with the nearly-instant-gratification Polaroid. I loved the View Master, with its cardboard wheels of images that came fully to life inside the machine. Click. Click. Click. I’ve especially grown to like “macro” photography, trying to capture close-up images ~ mostly of things that don’t move, like flowers, leaves, shells, sand, patterns. The minute details of life ~ Still Life.

Some of my favorite toys as a kid (besides my Johnny West cowboy set ~ yes, that barbed-wire fence in the 1981 Polaroid is for the horses we had) were Magic Windows, those clear-plastic ovals filled with colored crystals, and Lite-Brites and Colorforms. Somewhat passive “toys,” I suppose, but soothing and pretty. I love color ~ I used to just stare at a new box of Crayola 64s, opening the top to draw in the smell of the wax, feeling sad about messing up the pristine points of the crayons (OCD much?). But as our photography class instructor, Ted Salamone, is showing us, our cameras don’t “see” color, so we need to train ourselves to see shadows, gradations of black and white. Color distracts from detail, he says. I find that kind of tragic, but I can see what he means.

“Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” ~ Leonard Cohen

No, I didn't go on eBay a few years ago to try to recapture my childhood. That was someone else.

No, I didn’t go on eBay a few years ago to try to recapture my childhood. That was someone else.

When taking pictures, I often find that while concentrating intently on the metaphorical trees, or one tree in particular, I miss the larger forest. I know it’s there; it’s just not as interesting to me. Everyone knows what a forest looks like, but what about the veins on the underside of leaf? The striations in color, the endless shades of green that are possible for a human eye to behold? But I sometimes feel weird sticking my nose and lens where they have not been invited, even in an otherwise public place. (This is probably one of many reasons I became an editor instead of a reporter, but that’s another story.) Gently trespassing, I figure I can ask for forgiveness later rather than permission first. Do I dare disturb a rose, a cotton field, a neighbor’s yard?

“Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?”

~ From T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Yes, I dare, to try to get the shot I want with my limited technical skills and often over-caffeinated limbs while not leaving too much of a disturbing mark: I want to capture a moment, not to create it or affect it. My feet, my knees might leave impressions in the grass or mud. I might stir something to life under its begrudging awareness of me. At the same time, while hoping that I remain invisible, I try to remain aware of the metaphorical forest around me and possible dangers to me and my camera ~ traffic, runners, slippery slopes, rain, seaspray, spiders, snakes. I try to follow the Hippocratic oath, the ahimsa of first-do-no-harm, while wondering how much my observing affects the observed.

Raleigh Little Theatre rose garden.

Raleigh Little Theatre rose garden.

For last week’s class assignment, I stopped by one of my favorite places to photograph, the rose garden at the Raleigh Little Theatre. I’d been there one rainy day the week before, in between light showers, and got a few auto-mode shots of beads of water on the many vibrant, intoxicatingly sweet blooms still on offer in early October, so I figured some worthy subjects would still be there. Our assignment this week was to play only with the ISO settings for indoor (400) and outdoor (100) shots, changing nothing else. Ted wants us to see how different settings affect exposure, how we can learn to control the computer in the camera to get the shots we want.

Baby steps. Wedge the air out of the clay. Play scales on the black and white keys. Learn to see the world, your subjects in black and white. Snap the shutter. Fall short, fail upward. Repeat. Try to kick up into a handstand. Fall short, fail upward. Repeat. Rest, study and try again. Explore the gray areas, the pauses between expenditures of willful effort. Study the results. Adjust. 

Surprise!

Surprise!

So, per Ted’s directions, with my husband’s Canon PowerShot G12 on “P” for program and the flash off, I set the ISO on 100 and went for a wander among the rows of towering rose bushes ~ the red, fuschia, pink, violet, lavender, yellow, orange, peach, cream and white flowers luring me in. It was again a cloudy day, about 4:30 in the afternoon. As I began to wrap up my visit, I noticed a tiny spider under a petal in a pale pink rose at the end of a row. I tried to focus the lens on it, which is hard, given my granny eyesight and the limitations of the LCD screen, even on a cloudy day. I looked at the first shot I took and noticed two skinny green triangles poking up on the other side of the petal.

Huh. Look at that. A dumpster-diving grasshopper, its head and most of its body burrowed deeply into the center of the flower. My eyes had zoomed in on one thing; the camera showed me what I’d missed ~ the bigger picture.

“Spirit always stands still long enough for the photographer It has chosen.” ~ Minor White

Rest area.

Don’t mind me.

In my first photography class, back in the pre-digital Dark Ages, the instructor said that our eyes can see far more than any camera. I continue to prove him wrong. I was the only one (person) in the garden the entire time I was there, about a half-hour. As I saw the green legs sticking up, I caught my breath. Excited with my ~ or the camera’s ~ discovery, I tried to sneak up on the insect, raising the lens up and over the flower, since it was as tall as I. After a few shots, the grasshopper rose up out of the rose. I thought, Oh, now I’ve done it, he’ll hop off with whatever “Eff You” a grasshopper can manage, probably in French. But no, he slowly and deliberately ambled down a petal and perched on the edge. I don’t know if he even saw me. If he did, he clearly didn’t care. It was funny to have this relatively little but exquisite bug tower over me.

“And I have known the eyes already, known them all —
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?” ~ “Prufrock

Down under.

Down under.

I took a few more snaps, not really able to tell if any were truly in focus. Eventually the bright-green thing made its way down the flower and burrowed underneath a lower petal. I took a few more snaps and made my way out of the garden, exhilarated by the unexpected gift. The shots are meh (unlike like these here) ~ the color isn’t totally true, and the overall effect is flat. But I felt such a mix of things when I saw the grasshopper ~ surprise and delight, but also the sense that a decision needed to be made: I could passively enjoy the experience as it was unfolding, or actively document it. Plus, it was as if I was twice invading the insect’s privacy ~ by sticking my nose in its face and then the camera’s nose. It was not a difficult call to make.

What’s so alluring and magical to me about photography is the evanescence of it. It’s about the attempt to freeze a moment in time, a singular instant that has never happened before and will never happen again, because Now never happens again. It’s about the perhaps sometimes misguided but nonetheless heartfelt attempt to make the impermanent permanent, to record and preserve something meaningful.

See, look: I stopped time, and this is what I saw. Do you see it too?

Arrogant as it may be, it’s thrilling to try to capture more than my eyes can see, or more than I think they are seeing ~ to try to shape and capture an image, an irretrievable moment that occurs during an irretrievable second of light, preferably one that looks better and truer than what my own rods and cones show me. If I can just learn how to use the tools, to take the time to become still and focused, I may become more skilled at being able to receive and perhaps share moments of pure grace. Even if they come in the form of a grasshopper.

Master Po: “You are the new student. Come closer.”
Boy: “You cannot see.”
“You think I cannot see.”
“Of all things, to live in darkness must be the worst.”

“Fear is the only darkness.”
….
“Never assume that because a man has no eyes he cannot see. Close your eyes. What do you hear?”
“I hear the water. I hear the birds.”
“Do you hear your own heartbeat?”
“No.”
“Do you hear the grasshopper which is at your feet?”
“Old man, how is it that you hear these things?”
“Young man, how is it that you do not?” ~ “Kung Fu

This grasshopper was snapped at a rest area along I-40 in September. With an iPhone, which picked ISO 50, f/2.4 and a shutter speed of 1/1022. Someday my brain will be able to make those decisions that apparently a monkey can make.

This grasshopper was snapped on a sunny day at a rest area along I-40 in September ~ with an iPhone, which picked ISO 50, f/2.4 and a shutter speed of 1/1022. Someday maybe my brain will be able to make the decisions that an Apple monkey can make.

For my mom, on my birthday

Sept. 13, 2013

Dear Mom,

Happy birthday to me, and thank you to you.

Although “thank you” seems so inadequate. I’ve been a lucky girl all my life, and I am a million times more grateful than I am lucky. I am lucky to have been made by you and Dad and to have had you as parents. I hope the labor you endured 46 years ago today lived up to the cliché of being the kind of pain you forget. I’m sure I caused you other kinds of pain over the years, much of which I was probably oblivious to. Like ending a sentence with a preposition.

Mom and me, my baptism day.

Even though I never became a mom, I know how it must feel to send a part of you out into the world and wonder if it will be safe, if it will be loved. As I prepared to go to Costa Rica again last month, I looked back through my scrapbook, the one I assembled after my summer there in 1984. When I tell people that I spent a summer abroad in Central America at the age of 16, they say things like, “Wow, that was really brave.” At the time, as I prepared for the experience, I didn’t think bravery had anything to do with it ~ self-involvement, perhaps, but not bravery. But if doing something in the face of what at the last minute become white-knuckled terror counts as brave, then I win!

Dad (on the … donkey) in Turkey,
courtesy of the Air Force, 1963 or ’64.

It was probably brave of you and Dad to send me, and I wonder if you were as scared as I was ~ but maybe not, since Dad had traveled a good bit in the Air Force, and your family had moved several times as you grew up. I wonder if you were ever afraid when you moved from New York to Florida, or experienced culture shock?

I’ve been very lucky to have visited a lot of amazing places since my first trip out of the United States nearly 30 years ago, and that one was life-changing, so thank you for letting me have it. Thank you, and I’m sorry: For being, as I already told you, kind of an asshole that summer. As I looked through the scrapbook, I pulled out the letters you wrote to me. It’s funny how photos and mementos can jog the memory, which can be a Pandora’s box full of all kinds of crazy madeleines, to badly mix metaphors. I did not remember that I was remiss in writing to you once I’d safely arrived at my home in Puntarenas, and I apparently had also forgotten how to use a phone, in any language. In your first letter to me, dated June 28, you wrote:

My first international letter from Mom!

“Dear Les,
Hope that you have had some good experiences and we can hardly wait to hear from you. At least so far we assume that no news is good news!”

A few weeks later, I received a letter from a family friend, saying:

“I was really pleased to receive your postcard, but not half as much as your parents were to get theirs. Gerry was about to send the Marines out for you when she got word, Leslie is alive!”

Okay, okay! In my defense, as of June 28, I’d only been in Costa Rica for two days. As I told my AFS counselor in a letter I wrote to her on July 12:

“Met our families Tuesday the 26th. Mine is really great & I’m very happy w/them. … The people here are so nice. Very hospitable & patient, very warm & friendly. It’s a muy social pais. … I think I got really lucky w/my familia porque some [AFS] muchachas are really restricted — no leaving house, very little socializing, being bored at home, etc. I’ve gone to the playa, piscine, en pueblo, a picnic, en barco to una playa, & other stuff. … All I have to do as far as chores is wash my own ropas. The sun rises around 5:30 — sets at 6:30. Mom (& sister) do housework all morning — father comes home for lunch — then back to work & school.”

I’d like to think I was more help around the Valverde house than that, but it appears that I was consistent in both countries.

My Tico parents,
Arabela and Claudio.

Anyway, I hope I shared some of those early details with you. In the pre-Google era, AFS did an amazing job placing me with just the right family in just the right place at just the right time. You and Dad had a lot in common with Doña Arabela and Don Claudio. Like you, Arabela had been a schoolteacher. Like Dad, Claudio was a mechanic, a refrigerator technician. But beyond your occupations, you also shared many of the same values about family and life in general. And Western North Carolina and Puntarenas had a lot in common, too ~ natural beauty, small-town friendliness.

One of Dad’s shots from Vietnam, 1965.

In the months before I went to Costa Rica in 1984, AFS prepared me well, but I also remember Dad saying (at least I think it was Dad) that no matter where you go, people are more alike than they are different. I think that’s fundamentally true, even across very real barriers, such as language. As I learned that summer, some experiences transcend words.

I’m sorry I held back my words when I first arrived in Puntarenas and maybe even when I got back. In the early days, I probably assumed that you assumed I was fine, and I was probably nose-deep in a Spanish-English dictionary, trying to understand and be understood. But I know what it is like to worry about a beloved’s safety and well-being, and I know what sacrifice looks like.

In that first letter, you shared colorful details about your trip back home after you’d dropped me off for orientation in Miami ~ visiting Gramma and Granddaddy and David, Gram and Mark, Gap and family ~ and then getting together with friends after you got home:

“Dad and I are going out to Yesterday’s with John and Wanda tonight. It’s been a long time since we went dancing, so I’m sort of excited.”

I hope you did go out, and I hope you had fun.

Eventually I answered this letter, as you acknowledged in another typewritten note to me, this one dated July 27:

“Dear Les,
Thank goodness we finally heard from you. I was about ready to call in the CIA or take other drastic measures! Very cute all your Spanish ~ your Dad and Heather were ticked off at not being able to translate, but good old Mom came through for them.”

Good old Mom always came through, and you still do. Before I left, you’d helped me translate a letter from my Costa Rican mom-to-be, which I also still have. It pays to come from a line of hoarders ~ I mean, collectors ~ and the photos I’m using here also testify to that. We had fun parsing her words. I’m so glad I inherited your love of books and reading and research. I think most mothers are teachers by default, but your help over the years with homework (remember the Florida float?), quizzing me for spelling bees and telling me to “look it up” has served me well. You know I’m just letting you continually kick my ass at Words with Friends, right?

My Costa Rican sister, Arita, in the center,
and her friends Vanessa, right, and I forget
the name of the other one.

In Arabela’s letter, dated June 6, 1984, she introduces her family. She lists the names of their seven children and explains where they were living. At that point, she and Claudio already had a few grandchildren. She says that only their daughter Arita, who was 12, lived at home. She wrote:

“Esta es una de las razones que nos ha hecho sentir felices de tu pronto estadia aqui, pues tal vez asi se vuelve a sentir alegria en esta casa. … Ya ves, somos una gran familia y contigo pronto sera mas grande.”

Our crude but fairly accurate translation:

“One reason we’re happy you’ll be here soon is because perhaps feeling joy in this house. … It’s a big family, but you will make it bigger.”

I have no idea what sort of mark I left on the Valverdes, but I do know that I felt the special kind of unconditional love and acceptance that only comes from parents. They had hosted several exchange students before, so they were more prepared for me than I was for them. “Some students are afraid and worry about AFS and withdraw, but I will say no reason to be afraid,” Arabela said.

Arita took good care of me as well, enfolding me into her hilarious and gregarious circle of friends. I wonder if she and Heather would’ve gotten along ~ they were about the same age. Two of the envelopes in my scrapbook with your handwriting on them contain letters from Heather, and they’re hysterical. The first one begins:

Heather, hungry like the wolf? 1984 or ’85.

“Duran2 News Bulletin
You’ll never believe this. Well maybe you will. Well anyway, THE REFLEX IS NO. 1!!! Aren’t you happy. I’m so thrilled for them. Oh my god, I’m happy. You will truly die when you hear this. I’m not sure if I should tell you. I know you could just die. Nick is getting married to that girl (I can’t remember her name, but we’ll call her Slut) on Aug. 1.”

She goes on for a bit more about Duran Duran, our shared obsession at the time, and then says,

“Dad said he was going to teach me to drive, so don’t expect us to still have the Toyota.”

I’m not sure why she was thinking of driving at 13, but we each ended up wrecking the Toyota, didn’t we? At least you got your money’s worth. (That’s a whole nuther apology. Oops. Along with the phone bill I ran up the summer I lived in D.C. But I digress.) I remember being absolutely terrified when she did learn to drive ~ she was a fine driver, but I was so scared for her.

In her other letter, Heather tells me more about Duran Duran, Prince’s “Purple Rain” movie and “Meatballs II,” and she gives me long synopses of “Days of Our Lives” and “General Hospital.” She ends with:

“Well, I guess that’s all the gossip for now. Write back if you feel like it. Do it anyway. And puh-leese explain your letter and try to write a little neater. Amor, Heather.”

It was fun to hear from my sweet and sassy sis and to be kept current on pop culture while I was away. The local Tico kids were big fans of Top 40 music and often asked me to sing Lionel Richie songs. Their poor ears.

Matthew, Christmas 2004. Clearly,
he knew what he was in for. (And
he has let me go back to Costa Rica! Twice!)

As for unconditional love, I was lucky enough to find another version of it several years later in Matthew, but the root is the same: It’s the kind of love that feels like home, one that offers security and comfort but that is also a springboard to the world at large. I am so lucky to have had two sets of parents (and other parental figures along the way) who took better care of me than I probably appreciated at the time.

I know that I’ve forgotten more than I’ll ever remember about that summer, but I’m grateful that there is still time to say now what the 16-year-old me should have said 29 years ago.

I am fine. I’ve made it, wherever “it” is. (Well, truth be told, I’m not so sure about that last part, but don’t worry.) I want for nothing. By the people who matter most to me, I am accepted for exactly who I am, even if at times I have no idea who that is. As I’ve been the recipient of so much unconditional love, I hope you and Dad know how much I hold for you in return. Since many of the people mentioned here ~ your parents, my Costa Rican mom and Gram ~ are no longer with us, I can’t tell them how much they meant to me. But I hope that I can live up to what I am trying to say here.

Mom and Dad,
Florida vacation, 1992.

In your letter of July 27, you write again with sparkling detail and humor about how summer was going back home. You went to the lake one weekend with Roy and Deb. Heather had a visit from Amy, who’d recently been to London. You were going to take Heather to the mall that day. You ask me to call you collect, if necessary, to give you the details on my return flight near the end of August. You ask if there are any cute “muchachos” to tell you about, and you say you can hardly wait to hear about my adventures.

You also wrote this:

“We had nice birthdays, especially me. Wednesday the 18th the Harrises invited us over, and surprised me with a birthday cake. Thursday, Heather’s b’day, Dad took us to Steak and Ale to celebrate and we embarrassed Heather with a little cake and serenade. Friday John & Wanda came over with a bottle of Champagne, Saturday nite we went to Bill & Barbara’s and celebrated one more time with Pina Coladas, Pizza from Domino’s and surprise birthday cupcakes. Sunday was quiet but Jeff and Charlotte called to wish us a happy one and ask after you. Monday was quiet, also Tuesday, except I finally got my birthday wish ~ your letter.”

So now, on my birthday, I send this to you. My only wish is for you to know how great a mother you are, how grateful I am to you and how much I love you.

Encountering the Other (When the Other is You)

“We never touch people so lightly that we do not leave a trace.”
~ Peggy Tabor Millin, “Mary’s Way”

On Shackleford Banks, looking across the sound toward the Beaufort waterfront.

On Sunday, I knocked another item off my bucket list: Seeing the wild ponies on Shackleford Banks. On my first trip to the island 25 years ago, I felt as if I was going to kick the bucket. It was a steamy September weekend in 1988, and I was on a field trip as part of the oceanography course I was taking at Duke — mercifully, the last of the three hard-science credits I needed to graduate. 

A somewhat easier hike, 25 years later. But still hot. And beautiful. That’s the ocean ahead of us.

Beach trip! Yay! How hard can that be? My fellow undergrads and I were led on the excursion by one of the professors who co-taught the course, Orrin Pilkey, an esteemed coastal geologist. He bopped over the dunes, animatedly pointing out the maritime forest and explaining the ecology of the barrier island while we whippersnappers slogged behind (or maybe it was just me). We camped out overnight on the sand, serenaded by someone’s boom box blasting Guns N Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle.” Ah, paradise. We saw a few horses, but they weren’t the point of our visit. Hence, my second trip.

A foal takes a drink. (This shot is a bit zoomed and cropped, FYI — I wasn’t that close.)

The Wild Horse and Shelling Safari with the Port City Tour Co. didn’t disappoint. Our guide, Jeannie Kraus, a retired curator with the N.C. Maritime Museum in Beaufort, was fabulous. After our 12-member group crossed the sound from Beaufort via a water taxi “ferry,” she led us along the sound side to one of the horses’ favorite feeding areas. We found a harem of about eight horses, including a mare and her foal and a watchful stallion, munching on the coarse grass growing out of the sand.

No fences. Not toys. Eating is serious business. Oh, and their rump brands are “freeze-dried,” allegedly painlessly. Wild animals, somewhat controlled.

Humans are to stay at least 50 feet away from the animals at all times — they are totally wild, after all. After we had lingered for about 15 minutes to take photos, a few of them started to herd our group, stepping closer to us and nudging us with their body language to back up and move on. (This is OUR grass!) Jeannie reminded us that, although they may seem cute and docile, horses — domesticated or otherwise — can charge, kick and bite and will not hesitate to do so if they feel threatened. I can attest to that from personal experience. 

The stallion, the black beauty on the right, marks his territory. He had been on the far left and slowly made his way right, herding the horses and alerting them to our presence. Which they were well aware of.

Although I was thrilled to see the feral ponies up close-ish, I felt a bit weird and guilty: Observing a thing changes the thing observed. The horses’ behavior clearly changed with our presence, even though they must be somewhat used to shutter-clicking tourists, daytripping beachgoers and researchers who check in on them and even name them. The stallion in the harem got all stalliony, and he and the mare both peed vigorously in the same spot (she went first) while staring at us — as Jeannie said, to mark their territory. (If I understood science, I could say something about how I think this is like the Heisenberg uncertainty principle or Schrodinger’s cat, but I don’t, so I won’t. I get all my midlife science education from “The Big Bang Theory.”)

Evening primrose, retired for the day.

I remain deeply conflicted about how to interact — if that’s even the appropriate word — with animals, never mind humans. This is one reason I was never thick-skinned enough to be a reporter. I can take (and give) “no” for an answer. I don’t think I necessarily have the right to probe into someone else’s life or that I deserve their attention and answers to my questions. Yet I’m generally curious and I do often want to poke my nose where it might not belong (shiny objects!) — but not out of any wish to harm or even change the subject or the situation. I’m extremely ambivalent about zoos: educational for humans, but cruel to animals? How else would we or should we learn about non-human species? Why study the Other at all?

Our totally awesome guide, Jeannie Kraus.

Anthropologists and other scientists struggle with this as well, how to study the Other for the benefit of some greater good (whose?) without harming the Other: First do no harm. In yoga, the Golden Rule and Hippocratic oath are reflected in the idea of ahimsa, nonviolence — the seat of compassion. And we all have our own baggage of experiences and biases that we bring to such study. But through our actions and interactions with our environment — which includes all living things — we can’t help but have an effect on what we encounter. Sometimes the effects are immediate and obvious, whether positive or negative; sometimes the effects accumulate over time, like innocuous ripples that become a not-so-innocuous tidal wave. (Hello, global warming.)

Oysters in the wild, surrounded by fiddler crab sand balls. Neuse River basin + runoff = as if I need more reasons not to eat them.

The point, perhaps, is to be mindful and respectful of another creature’s space, time and attention, especially when we have invited ourselves into it without asking permission (Hey, horsies! Over here! Here we are!), and not to objectify the Other to the point that it becomes a perverse distortion of what we expect or want. To co-exist.

Indian blanket

After the ponies had their fill of us, ever-widening their invisible fence to push us farther and farther away, we took our time to cross the middle of the island, which is about nine miles long and half a mile wide. We ambled along the ocean side back to our ferry pick-up spot, as Jeannie, a biologist and botanist, pointed out plants and flowers along the way and noted erosion from recent storms. It was fun to hear her pick up where Dr. Pilkey had left off. I was glad to be able to see the island and the horses again with different eyes.

Didn’t get this purple guy’s name. “Take only photographs; leave only footprints.” Just watch where you step.

For further reading …

Here’s an interesting recent article on the Shackleford ponies that details some of their centuries-old history and their behavior: “Wild Horses of Shackleford.”

From the National Park Service, FAQs and visitor etiquette. 

And the Foundation for Shackleford Horses.

And a book from 2007, “Wild Horses of Shackleford Banks.”

The stunning Isabel, named (I think) for the hurricane that helped bring her into the world in 2003. (Zoomed and cropped.)

Yoga and poetry: A not-so-abridged (haha) version

Random, yoga-high and Mucinex-fueled thoughts and questions after another inspirational teacher training weekend with Matthew Sanford, which was set in snowy Minnesota against the backdrop of a great time spent with friends old and new.

April is national poetry month. I found a new favorite poem in a most unlikely yet perfect place.

Place: Minneapolis.

Atha yoganusasanam. Now begins the exposition of yoga. (Sutra I.1)

If yoga meets you where you are, where are you? More to the point, who are you, and who is with you? Do you know when to fill a space and when to leave it alone? Can you appreciate the gifts of the world’s many places, and the people in it? Know that a moment in time, brief acquaintances ~ especially those that leave a lasting mark, even in an instant ~ can have a ripple effect for the rest of time. Can we try to be good stewards of such gifts and return them?

Motion: On and under the Irene Hixon Whitney Bridge.

Yogas citta vrtti …

What are bridges for? Where are you trying to go? What’s ahead, what are you leaving behind, what’s in the middle? What is this particular bridge made of, and why? What is in the space between the steel and pavement? What is in between the steel girders? What is your place on the bridge? What is the bridge between asana and real yoga?

nirodhah.

Stillness: Yoga is the cessation of the fluctuations of the mind. (Sutra I.2)

Get grounded. Stop. Look. Listen. To yourself, then others. To paraphrase Matthew: Can you sit in the presence of suffering without trying to fix it? Can you listen someone into speech? Can you discern when to move and when to just observe from the inside? Can you come home, to yourself, your body, your spirit, so that you can help others do the same? As a teacher, do you know that how you show up is part of what you are teaching?

Like yoga, poetry can live anywhere. It’s like the new-car phenomenon, if your antennae are up. While in Minneapolis last week, I found a poem on the inner overhead beams of a footbridge across a major highway. I’d probably read about it in my guidebook, but I didn’t make a point to find it. I’d budgeted a free tourist day before settling in for what I knew would be a weekend of intense teacher training in adaptive yoga with Matthew and the staff and students of Mind Body Solutions. I was staying with a friend I’d met in Costa Rica when I was a 16-year-old exchange student. I’d not seen him in 29 years, nor had I met his lovely wife. Their open-ended hospitality was truly the cherry on the cake of my weekend. They showed me around the “water city” and beyond, giving me glimpses of the ice-covered Chain of Lakes and stately surrounding neighborhoods, the old mills downtown and many of the bridges that cross the Mississippi, and St. Paul and their old neighborhood. This was my first trip to Minnesota, but I hope it’s not my last.

I’d decided to check out the Walker Art Center. On a snowy Thursday morning, I made my way across Loring Park. I asked the only other person I encountered if he could point out the gallery in the gray mist. He told me to take the bridge. I took my time walking along the slippery wood and taking in the view. As I got about halfway across, I noticed words up inside the high beams, the carved all-caps letters a dull gold. I realized I was catching the middle of something, so I walked to the end of the span to find the beginning. (The poem also runs down the other side of the bridge, in the other direction.) There was no title. Simply the first line:

“And now I cannot remember” …

I followed these words of John Ashbery ~ which were commissioned for the bridge project in 1988 ~ and photographed them. Honestly, finding this poem was worth my whole trek out that day. It was more stimulating and satisfying than anything I saw at the Walker (sorry, no offense to those artists). The poem set the stage for the yoga workshop, and for any journey. After crossing the bridge (over and back), spending a second weekend with Matthew and bridging a link to my teenage years, I am still trying to make some sense of it all. But it’s okay to just let it all be, for now, as well.

“… how I would have had it.”

Does it matter? You can make a plan, outline a vacation, build a class sequence, but in the end, you have to show up for Now, for whoever else shows up and whatever occurs. But in yoga, at least, the practice is the preparation. Embodying the poses and all the other stuff leads to responsive improvisation. I hope. And in Iyengar yoga, through props and adjustments, we learn and teach how to create and use correct memory: how to feel the energy of a pose ~ not necessarily the shape ~ and re-create it for ourselves and others. As Matthew so poetically illustrates, we create and explore boundaries and containment not to restrict per se, but to ground, extend and expand more fully into who we already are. Not to become anyone else. In his words: We give adjustments to reveal, not to fix.

“It is not a conduit (confluence?)
but a place.”

A conduit is a channel throw which something flows ~ water, motion, knowledge. And the space we try to reveal and explore in yoga “is the conduit of the inner body,” Matthew said. A confluence is a junction, where two things come together. Yoga. Yoke. Union. The body is the ultimate channel through which to practice achieving a confluence with the mind, and teachers are also conduits. Yet, as Matthew said, knowledge is not the answer for everything. Don’t just throw your knowledge around, he said ~ that’s just information; “meet me spine to spine,” with confidence, not overcompensation. Have you ever sat with someone, spine to spine? Try it in sukhasana or dandasana. Or just sit back to back; you don’t have to call it a yoga pose. Know that you can have someone else’s back, and that that person can have yours. We can be conduits for confluence.

The Irene Hixon Whitney Bridge (any bridge) is neither just a conduit nor a confluence; it’s both, and as those two aspects come together, it becomes something else entirely, transformed. Conduit + Confluence = Passage.

Irene Hixon Whitney Bridge
(image “borrowed” from the Walker Web site)

Funny how the bridge looks like a spine doing cat-cow, incorporating the energies of flexion and extension. One half, the suspension part, is bowed like cow pose, or the backbend of dhanurasana. The other half, the arch, is rounded like cat or balasana, child’s pose (and both look like bridge pose, depending on your point of view). The suspension part is painted yellow ~ sunny. The arch is a pale sky blue ~ more sedate. The two halves are yoked and supported underneath by a trestle and beams. A little Googling shows that the designer of the bridge, Iranian-born Siah Armajani, intends through his pieces to “reflect the ideals of a democratic society and to foster discourse and learning in the communities they inhabit.” The footbridge connects Loring Park to the Walker’s sculpture garden (home of the famous cherry and spoon sculpture by Claes Oldenburg, in which the spoon serves as a bridge across a pond).

The Walker bio of Armajani says that he has explored bridges as a metaphor for passage in much of his work. It’s interesting that he’s an immigrant: I wonder if he feels or has felt any of the sense of dislocation common to people who are or just feel out of place, who have voluntarily or not willingly left their home, their bodies, who have sustained trauma of any kind? How do we heal? Where do immigrants find a home? Where do those of us with chronic wanderlust in our DNA find home? There is this from a 2010 Star Tribune article: “Asked if [Armajani] felt himself to be in exile, even after half a century in an adopted country he deeply loves, he said, simply: ‘Right.’ ”

On the first afternoon of the teacher training workshop, as we settled into a passive chest opener after introducing ourselves, Matthew asked us to consider: Who or what ~ or even a period in our life ~ are we trying to heal? After we came out of this restorative pose, we got into groups of two and shared our answers. Have you ever told a deep, painful truth to a total stranger? It’s amazing what people may share when they feel safe.

“The place of movement and an order.
The place of old order.
But the tail end of the movement
is new.”

 “Allow for a new truth,” Matthew said during the Raleigh workshop I attended in October. “Go into the silence.” In his memoir “Waking,” (What’s that? You haven’t read it? Do it now!!!) he talks about healing stories ~ those that harm and conceal truth, and those that help or heal. Through his traumatic injury (he was paralyzed in a car accident at 13 in which his father and sister were killed) and intensely painful recovery, he figured out a way to make his life stories new, and he encourages others to do the same. Trauma, whether physical or psychic, causes a profound mind-body disconnection; to try to heal, we search for the bridges back to wholeness. Adaptive yoga (and all yoga) aims to meet people where they are, in the bodies they have. Matthew said that he once had a transformative moment while studying with senior Iyengar teacher Manouso Manos. Matthew asked Manouso how he’d known what to tell him to do in a certain pose. Matthew said Manouso’s answer was: I don’t know. Just let it be different. You don’t always know why an adjustment works. At the close of the workshop last weekend, Matthew made that point again, knowing that for a lot of us, he is turning yoga inside out and spinning it on its head (no pun intended). “Be strong enough to let it be different.” It = everything. Your experience of yoga as a student or teacher. Life. Let go of stories that aren’t working. Find new ones.

“Driving us to say what we are thinking.”

Words are nice, but communication takes many forms. A touch, a look, attentive listening. (Was Ashbery punning on “driving”? I wondered as cars rushed below me while I read his words.) And thoughts are just thoughts. They can be changed. The brain loves itself, Matthew said in October, and is parasitic to the spine. One of my new year’s resolutions was to try more to live in the pause, in the space between thinking and doing. That is a practice, too.

“It is so much like a beach after all, where you stand
and think of going no further.
And it is good when you get to no further.
It is like a reason that picks you up and
places you where you always wanted to be.”

On that bridge, in the moment of reading these words, it felt as if I was where I’d always wanted to be. The moment found me, not vice versa. And how interesting to think of “no further” ~ the middle of the bridge ~ itself as a place, a destination, although the Walker was my ultimate destination. And, oh, beaches. The home deep inside me is a beach. This is possibly partly a result of early childhood experiences in Florida, but being around water always makes me happy, or at least calm. In my geographic ignorance, I was surprised by how much water is around Minneapolis, not just the Mississippi but the lakes, so many lakes. In this most recent workshop, one of the MBS teachers described a restorative pose using water as a metaphor. Before the 35 or so of us trainees did the pose, we watched how the adaptive students ~ paralyzed or otherwise living with limited mobility ~ were being set up in a variation of viparita karani, with calves on a chair instead of up the wall. Props abounded ~ a belt around the chair seat and calves, a sandbag on the shins, a low block under the sacrum ~ such that the body was set up like a cascading waterfall from feet to head.

“This far, it is fair to be crossing, to have crossed.
Then there is no promise in the other.”

Fair. What an interesting choice of words. What’s fair? Does the poet mean that it is just, an earned thing, to be crossing, or that conditions are fair for crossing? What’s on the other side of the crossing? Are you even allowed to expect anything? Who knows. Yourself? That’s pretty much all you can count on, although sometimes, even that seems doubtful. Before going to Costa Rica as an exchange student with the American Field Service in 1984, I went through a pretty thorough interview and orientation process. I remember being told in so many words not to forget that, as the cliché goes, wherever you go, there you are. The point was that we were being warned not to take the experience of leaving the country as a way to escape any problems we might be having at home, because they would just come with us. This was far from my personal situation, but I did know of at least one person for whom this turned out to be true, and he went home early. All these years later, I know it’s true: You have to work out your own stuff first to be clear about what you are trying to share with others and certainly to try to avoid inflicting the worst of it on anyone else.

There is no promise on the other side. But if you don’t cross, you’ll never know. As Matthew said as we began on Friday: “Trust what you feel in your body. Don’t be afraid of your heart.” Through the practice of yoga ~ and it is a practice, not a destination ~ we work, as Matthew said in October, to get our bodies “congruent with the corridor.”

“Here it is. Steel and air, a mottled presence,
small panacea and lucky for us.”

Steel and air, heavy and light. Ground to expand. Make more space for the breath. A mottled presence, full of dualities. A suspension and an arch, grounded by a base of beams. Yet: Small panacea ~ can a cure-all really be small? Don’t be fooled into thinking there is even a cure-all for anything, although yoga offers plenty of questions and answers. And lucky for us, because otherwise: What’s the point? We are lucky to be offered crossings. Do we dare take them?

While I was in the corridor contained by the ribs and fascia of the bridge, I felt safe and exposed at the same time. Raw and warm. Comforted by the stirring words and a sense of adventure, yet a little woozy from being held over fast-moving traffic. Stilled yet moving in place, vibrating and feeling a certain hum. Two days later, I felt a blessed hum and a joyous release during a partner-assisted Warrior II. We worked in pairs, using our hands to gently support the undersides of our partner’s extended upper arms. Zing. As I felt the work dissipating in my triceps, my shoulders softened, my legs kicked in and relaxed at the same time. I felt more supported throughout my whole body, tingly pins and needles spreading up through my spine and out through my fingertips and the crown of my head. Such a simple pose with a profound adjustment. When I gave the adjustment, I could feel my partner’s shoulders relax. I don’t know if she felt the rest of what I felt. But imagine trying to feel a hum ~ or anything ~ if you are paralyzed and can’t “feel” your legs.

“Hum” was the word that Tiffiny Carlson, one of the MBS adaptive students (who has a fabulous blog at beautyability.com), used to describe what she feels when she grounds her feet ~ on her wheelchair footrest, or the floor or blocks. She is paralyzed from the upper chest down and can’t “feel” her legs.

“And then it got very cool.”

Such a funny way to end this poem, almost as abruptly as it began. As if the poet is saying, I’m done now. I’ve led you over the bridge; it’s time for you to get off. And cool? It was freezing ~ literally about 32 degrees, April 11, 2013. When I had finished with the poem, fingers nearly numb from gloveless photo-taking, I went down the steps and into the Walker garden, taking some snaps of the cherry sculpture before heading into the gallery and quiet warmth. Speaking of dualities, I love how the blood-red cherry suggests a luscious and sweet, juicy kind of warmth, quite out of reach; the steel spoon, a cold and impersonal utilitarianism. (All sorts of puns and cliches came to mind as I walked around the sculpture. I’m sure you’ll be glad I’ve kept them to myself.)

“Spoonbridge and Cherry” by Claes Oldenburg
(Walker sculpture garden, Minneapolis)

Matthew encourages us to teach the inner experience of a pose, to translate its energy for people who can’t move in traditional ways. (This method of course applies to able-bodied folks, but there are very real and important distinctions and differences between the two populations.)

Poetry also aims to translate what exists beyond words. And, perhaps like poetry and all art, yoga, as Matthew said, is not taught so much as it is shared. He said he suspected that Patanjali, the sage of the sutras, felt the wordless truth first and then found a way to try to convey it. In that sense, poetry and yoga both live close to the bone, our marrow.

For a few years, maybe forever, I have, in Rilke’s words, been trying to live with questions for which there may never be answers. In October and again last weekend, Matthew quoted from Galway Kinnell’s fantastic poem “Wait”:

 Trust the hours. Haven’t they carried you everywhere, up to now?”

I thank Matthew, the MBS staff and students, my fellow teachers and my Minneapolis hosts, Olman and Faith, for a spectacular and humbling experience. Words cannot pay what I owe, so I will borrow these from Rumi:

“Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’ doesn’t make any sense.”

I made a collage of my photos of the Ashbery poem. And you can listen to the poet read it here: http://www.walkerart.org/real/audio/armajani3.ra.mp3.

 

Big stone

Playa Guiones

Funny how after writing (or trying to write) small stones every day in January my big stone of an article is published. At least it feels like a big stone, getting back into mining and shaping my own words into something reasonably coherent. I had such a fabulous time in Costa Rica in December ~ my third trip to the country ~ that I wanted to write about it. Publicly. Gulp. I pitched the idea to the Washington Post’s Travel editor, and she went for it.

I wrote twice as much to begin with, of course, and the first drafts were more about yoga than travel. “Love it. Rewrite it.” After working as an editor for eons, I found it interesting, stimulating, challenging, thrilling and terrifying to be wearing the other shoe. Or hat. I had to cut a lot of quotes, so some folks who kindly took the time to thoughtfully answer my questions do not appear. They might appear in the yoga version of the story. But, for now, here is this one: http://wapo.st/12kMfP4

~~~~~~

And a follow-up: A woman who lives in France who is in an online writing course that I’m taking (at WritingOurWayHome.com) alerted me to this ~ the article was picked up by a newspaper in Lisbon. Hee hee.

 

Small stone #30

She shows me her rectangular, black belly speckled with ivory dots, still behind the giant net glistening in the sun. Her spindly legs, painted with red streaks, hold fast to her embroidery. Suddenly her mouth comes to life, and she drops from top to bottom, rappelling on a single silvery thread. She attaches it to the bottom, scampers back to the top.

I’m not her prey, but I’m trapped. It’s the webs you see first.