Cultivating Health and Happiness this Holiday Season

by Chris Warner, Ed.M, E-RYT   santiyoga@yahoo.com

December 12, 2011 (an abbreviated version will appear in The Tri-Town Transcript)

 

It goes without saying:  we, as Americans (and, indeed, as human beings), live in stressful, troubling times.  Many feel betrayed by their government, and by Wall Street; many, despite the preponderance of communication devices, feel more isolated and alienated than ever before; many families are struggling to simply ‘keep up,’ as the unemployment rate hovers at about 9%;  and within our schools, serious issues like bullying, cutting, and substance abuse seem to be trending upward.  And, of course, the holiday season is upon us, a time when we are bombarded with media messages ‘about’ Christmas—images of beribboned new cars, shiny jewelry, sleek electronic devices, and of course, truckloads of brightly wrapped toys under ornamented and twinkling trees that seem to tower impossibly skyward.  Happiness (and generosity) is equated with consumption.  And the message is that without these things, we are somehow lacking.

 

As a yoga teacher, I see students’ faces as they come to class—the pinch of stress between the brows, the tight jaws.  I hear students’ conversations before class—‘how am I going to get it all done?’ ‘everything is so crazy!’ ‘I stood in line for 6 hours last night waiting for a LeapPad’—or for an Elmo doll.  I feel the pain that comes from held-breath, from the need to get more, to ‘fill up’—the pain that comes from a false sense of deficit.

And then, together, we come to the cushion and mat.  We settle in.  We practice.

Funny, by class end, faces are soft, students are smiling.  It’s as if there’s been a collective exhale. 

Thich Nhat Hanh, the beloved Buddhist monk, poet, and peace activist, teaches us that whatever it is we’d like to harvest, these are the seeds we must plant and cultivate.  Gratitude, practiced mindfully, connects us to all of life—to its wonders and its joys, as well as to its mysteries, and uncertainty—and to the realization that there is a larger context within which our personal stories are unfolding.  Gratitude—and not in the sentimental or boring or indebted or obligatory sense, but in the heart-softening sense of spaciousness, of thankfulness—is the place from which true generosity and happiness, as well as liberation from fear and craving, arises.

This season in particular, I offer some suggestions for practicing conscious cultivation of gratitude, thus planting the seeds of happiness and well-being within, and allowing our natural generosity to then flow out.  And we begin with ourselves, and within our own families:

1. Practice a few moments of quiet each morning—maybe even before getting out of bed—and consider 3 things for which you are thankful (this might be your partner, your children, your breath);
2. Share this practice this with your partner and/or your children, or a friend;
3. Consider starting the day media-free (letting go of the morning paper or morning TV news);  if you need information on school closings, sign up for text notifications, or check school websites;
4. Sit down today and make a list of things for which you’re thankful, and then review it at some point each day this season—and maybe even beyond;  notice—did you include having a safe place to sleep?  Clean water?  The earth itself?  Your body, your breath?  The warm touch of a friend’s hand?  The sweetness of the honey you’ve drizzled into your tea?);
5. Invite your partner and/or children and/or a friend to make their own lists;
6. Throughout the day, take note of things for which you are thankful—for example, if you are sitting in traffic, be thankful that you have transportation;  if you’re on line at the grocery store, be thankful there is food to buy, that you are able to buy it, be thankful for the store staff for stocking the shelves, for bagging the groceries;  be thankful for the body and breath that allow you to be at the grocery store at all;
7. Begin a mindfulness of eating practice, and share it with your family or housemate(s), making a personal commitment to engage in this practice at least once a week (e.g., take a moment of quiet reflection once the meal is on the table, look at the food, smell the food, and give thanks for everything that made the meal possible, including the farmers, the sun, the rain, and the soil);
8. Practice mindfulness-based yoga, incorporating postures such as supported Bridge Pose to open the heart, and, if your body can tolerate it, a Sun Salutation practice with mindfulness of breath, to invigorate the heart and the spirit;
9. Explore practicing yoga with your children and/or your partner and/or a friend—you might give the gift of a ‘family yoga practice’ this season, or a ‘friendship practice’—talk to your local teacher about this;
10. Notice—what might be preventing you from feeling thankful?  A sense of entitlement?  A sense of worthlessness?  Or maybe it’s ‘the comparing mind’—that is, ‘oh, she has a nicer car than I do,’ or ‘his child is better at football than mine,’ or ‘if only I had nicer car/house/clothes, then I would be happy.’  Consciously note these habits of thinking, notice they are false beliefs, and review your gratitude list, knowing that with all of our flaws and challenges, we are always able to be present, to love and be loved;
11. Remember to thank those with whom you come into contact each day—offering a smile, and genuine gratitude, practicing kindness in and kindness out;  as the ancient Greek philosopher Philo said, ‘Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle;’
12. Engage in selfless service (and this is not about some one-time seasonal ‘grand gesture,’ but about noticing how you might be of service to those around you in need, which might simply mean reaching out through a phone call or a visit to a neighbor or friend in difficulty, or shoveling snow for someone who can’t do it themselves, or helping an elderly person carry their packages at the grocery store or mall).

Consider cultivating health and happiness this holiday season as a conscious practice of mindfulness, of softening, opening, and acknowledging that gratitude is not dependent upon external circumstances—that we are all already perfect, just as we are.  That we are able to live, breathe, and taste life, each and every moment.  That we don’t need an additional trek to the big-box discount store for…more.  And, finally, while we know that there is pain, that there is indeed suffering in this life, practicing gratitude (and the deep generosity that then often naturally follows) allows us to also rejoice in the existence of joy.  This breath.  This moment.  The wonder of here and now.  The wonder of each other.  The miracle of simply being. 

There is nothing inherently wrong with giving material things—during the holidays, or any other time; but, as Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us:  the most precious gift we can give to others is our presence.

The List, by Chris Warner

The List

Someone asked me on Sunday how I was doing with Christmas—

with the list,

with the cooking and the shopping and the cleaning and the decorating—

how I was doing with this ‘whole thing.’

And I said I was doing just fine.

Candles in every window, tree up, and lights lit.

December photo with Santa taken, and duly presented to my husband—

his annual chronicle of me—my clothing, my hair, my face.

Plans made, trip back home to visit family and friends, confirmed.

And so yes, I am finished,

Christmas list, complete.

And I thought to myself how wonderful it would be if everyone’s list

could be like mine—

that we could get off the Target train,

off the Kohl’s car,

and step not even one foot near the Wallmart wagon.

How wonderful it would be.

Simply wanting, and choosing, to feel good in our bodies,

Alive and fluid and free,

Wanting and choosing to be present, here and now, for our families,

for our loved ones, for our friends.

Wanting and choosing to wake up to our lives

in this moment, in every moment, and not just under some tree.

How am I doing with Christmas?  With this ‘whole thing’?

I’m doing just fine.

Breathing in, breathing out,

Body flowing, spirit soaring.  Easy and fine and free.

Chris Warner

December 2010

Waking Early (a poem for Thanksgiving 2010) by Chris Warner

Waking Early

Why I wake early—though what has not already been said?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Except that I love to pad, alone, through the dim and hush of the quiet house,                                                                                                                                                                                                              Petting the head of the cat curled up on the couch, still sleeping.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Seeing, often, and usually without remorse, last night’s dishes still in the sink;                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Listening to the sound of the early morning winds, rising and shifting and sighing,                                                                                                                                                                                                  buffeting the strong still walls of this house, as they ever and still remain, solid;                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Smiling softly to myself in this sweet time of hush and dim,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             as my mind has happily not yet begun                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         to tick through its every-ready—seeming ever-growing—list  of longing                                                                                                                                                                                                                                and wishing and second-guessing and regret.  Not yet.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                And, too, the morning making of the coffee—                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         the smelling, scooping, pouring, sipping;                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Hearing, far off, your soft sleep sounds, as you lie, in night’s surrender still.                                                                                                                                                                                                                       And settling into my seat for a sit—quiet, alert, sitting long and tall and soft—                                                                                                                                                                                                                   watching, at last, in worship and wonder, the miracle                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        of my own breath’s rhythm, flowing in and flowing out,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         noticing and knowing that there is nothing, at last, that I need to do,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  giving thanks that this breath knows already what to do and how to do it.                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Grateful, that in this early morning moment, in the lovely hush and dim,                                                                                                                                                                                                                               for just this one breath, at least,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          everything is fine and lovely and perfect,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             just as it always already is.

Chris Warner,  November 25^th, 2010,  5 am

To Be Seen, (a poem for Fall 2010) by Chris Warner

To Be Seen

It’s all right to cry.
It’s fine to weep.
Let your body heave and let your shoulders shake.
Let this autumnal grief tear through you, ripping your leaves from your trees,
having its way with you.

Like all beautiful things, you just want to be seen.

And aren’t we all beautiful things?

That tiny child, smooth-skinned and wide-eyed, boneless limbs akimbo—laughing, whirling, dancing—carefree of time and day and year.
That boy, frown of face, as he glares up at you in adolescent angst from beneath newly bristled brows.
And that woman-of-a-certain age, creased eyes and graying hair, posture oh so erect, her furrowed lips pressed together, waiting.

Aren’t we all beautiful things?

The towering ragged brown stalks—the death—of past-prime summer grasses.
The torn and tattered edges of pale pink fairy roses, gasping out their last late fall bloom.
The low grey clouds, foreshadowing snow and sleet and storm and surge.
The very air itself, the breath that breathes us and weaves us and cleaves us to each other—child, boy, and woman; stalks and roses and storm.

Aren’t we all beautiful things—the weather turning, the time passing, the seasons changing—
lovely in our lament and desolation, in our yearning, our straining,
just waiting and wanting to be seen?

Aren’t we all, when it comes right down to it,
still just longing to be touched?
Pining for that velvety soft wonder of skin-on-skin,
that breathless wonder of warmth and promise and connection?

And aren’t we all, once again and still, just longing to be kissed—
Oh so softly,
Oh so tenderly—
As a lover’s first kiss? As a mother kisses her first child?
As a flaming red leaf slips from its branch, floating down, at last, to kiss the earth?

When it comes right down to it, even as the days grow shorter,
even as the clocks tick madly away in their stage-managed time,
aren’t we all, with our gaping and wounded hearts,
still and again just thirsting to be kissed, to be touched, to be seen
as the beauty that we always already are?

And so, yes, it’s all right to cry; it’s even finer to weep—
aching bodies heaving, burdened shoulders shaking, wounded hearts smashed wide open.
You, like me, like each and every one of us, just want to be seen.

You, me, each and every one of us—
all weeping and aching and wounded and always already beautiful.

Chris Warner
October, 2010

Bend Your Knees and Smile by Jennifer Loher

On a recent Sunday, I was out paddlesurfing with my husband at a nearby lake.  The opportunity to be outside, under the blue sky and warm sun, presented so many reasons to be thankful for the present moment.  There were countless sights and sounds- incredibly inspiring and beautiful to observe and take in.  Thinking back, I can imagine my gratitude for being exactly where I was, moving my body and exhilarated for the challenge and relaxation ahead.

Unfortunately, that was not my initial reaction to the day.  I went out on the water, in my head, with a bad ‘tude.  I had decided I did not want to be there, and to no surprise, everything presented itself as a burden or challenge.  Instead of excited about the wind and waves, I grunted quietly to myself how I did not want to be there.  The thoughts and muttering continued…

A short time later, my husband gazed back at me, and simply said “bend your knees and smile.” Oh, to be given a taste of your own medicine…to be told something your know in your heart is the truth…a few moments passed.  I slowly gave way, softened my clenched jaw, softened my focus on being in a bad mood…softened my knees…eventually trying on that idea of smiling.

I melted my exterior a bit-with an intention to do so.  Within minutes, my heart softened and I became a lot better company for myself and my husband.  I will now remember my husband’s words as something to help me while I am in a hardened place.

Dana Paramita, or, Cultivating Happiness through Generosity

Śānti Yoga BLOG, 5/18/2010, from Chris Warner 

“You find, of course, that you end up getting a lot more if you start with the attitude of giving.”  Thanissaro Bikkhu (Geoffrey DeGraff)

In the publication, Meditations, Thanissaro Bikkhu discusses, in the selection ‘Generosity First,’ how meditation (and, I might add, Yoga) is taught backwards in the West.  That is, students in the West come to learn mechanics in classes, on retreats, at talks, at yoga studios or dharma centers without any understanding of or grounding in the foundational precepts of practice, as classically taught in the East.  In Buddhist meditation traditions (which include, among others, Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction [MBSR] and Insight Meditation), as in Yoga (most styles, that is), practice develops from the moral and ethical ground of non-harming, non-stealing, non-lying, moderation, and non-covetousness.  Practice progresses, and happiness is cultivated, through the six perfections:  giving, moral discipline, patience, effort, mental stabilization, and wisdom. 

Undertaken either formally, as vows, or informally, as wise guidelines for living a life that is healthy, happy and free from suffering, the moral agreements and, following closely, practice of the six perfections, provide students with something to fall back on during those times when practice itself is challenging or painful or all-too-easy to put off.  Without an understanding of why we practice, the multitude of challenges that we encounter when actually on the cushion or the mat often prove too much, and thus, we do not practice.  We shrug, and say, ‘I don’t like this, it’s not for me,’ or ‘I’m just no good at this,’ or, ‘well, I’ve tried this once or twice and it just doesn’t work for me,’ or, ‘maybe tomorrow.’  Tomorrow comes, and still, we find a reason not to come to the mat or to the cushion.

Many years ago, when I began to ‘do yoga’ and to ‘meditate,’ it was only because my husband, the athlete, the marathon-runner, the club-champion-golfer, was frantic to find a way to get me to ‘exercise’ with him.  I, being a life-long ‘bookworm’ with a strong aversion to sweat and absolutely no desire to meditate, did everything in my power to gently discourage him.  However, he soon found a yoga teacher to come to our home for private instruction, and with the exception of a few early times ‘hiding-in-my-office-or-bedroom-playing-sick’ to get out of practice, thus began my yogic journey and spiritual path.  For many years, I saw my teacher weekly, often 2 or 3 times each week;  I went on retreats;  I attended special ‘yoga events;’ I bought more than a few ‘yoga outfits.’  And though this continued for some time, and I noticed some deep changes in my body, in my thinking, and in my life as a whole, I did not really commit, I did not think much about the moral foundations or precepts, nor did I develop a daily personal practice of my own.  When left to my own devices, I might set up my mat and fluff up my meditation cushion, but was easily distracted—often gratefully!—by the ringing of the telephone, or some other terribly important and pressing matter.  Therefore, my ‘personal practice’ often consisted of little more than 10 or 20 minutes, sometimes every moment of it spent daydreaming, or lolling about, ‘hugging knees to chest.’

And then in 2006, everything changed.  I’ve shared this story many times, so will only say here that, for me, it took a dramatic personal trauma and my husband’s life-threatening illness to wake me up.  As I nursed my husband back to health through Mindfulness Meditation and Yin Yoga, I was granted the grace of, as Thich Nhat Hanh calls it, the ‘miracle of mindfulness’—the miracle being the dawning realization that happiness and peace are available in this moment, in each and every moment—not in some mythical future time, when all conditions are ‘perfect.’  Not when we have everything we think we need to make us happy—not when we are healthier, or get that new Lexus, or that grand new home with a swimming pool.  Not when we’re thinner or stronger or less anxious or less stressed or less depressed or more flexible or calmer or have more money or more time.  Now.  In this moment—the only moment that truly is. 

As I taught my husband meditation and yoga during his time of recovery, and bore witness to his return to health and to happiness, and his commitment to regain strength so as to continue to be of service to those in need, my own commitment deepened, my willingness grew, diligence took hold, and my practice flourished.  As my husband’s health—physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual health—grew stronger, thus developed my intention to serve, to offer the gifts of practice to all who desired them, in whatever way I was able, in gratitude for all that I’d been given.  And what I found was how much I received.  No more ‘poor me,’ no more ‘life is so unfair,’ no more blaming or bitterness or fear.  Simply gratitude.  Grateful each morning, to awaken, to notice the breath in and the breath out, to hear the birdsong at dawn, to feel the warmth of the sun on my face or the velvet touch on my skin of air dampened by morning rain, to feel the steady heartbeat of my husband, alive, next to me, his soft sleepsounds like an orchestral symphony, playing only for me.  And then all of the teachings that I’d been hearing in so many classes and on so many retreats for so many years began to make sense.  I began to actually listen to what I heard when taught, and to open to what might be possible, rather than holding fast to my own ways of doing things and to my own habitual ways of thinking.  I opened.  I practiced. I began to give more consciously, more often, and more freely.  And, of course, I began to receive.

“A lot of things in life are uncertain, but a couple of things are certain.  Aging comes.  Illness comes.  Death is going to come, for sure.   So when you know something is going to come for sure, you have to prepare for it.   And when you realize that this is the most important issue in life, you have to look at the way you live your life.  Meditation—the practice of the Buddha’s teachings—is not a question of sitting with your eyes closed every now and then. It’s about how your order your priorities.”  Thanissaro Bikkhu (Geoffrey DeGraff)

May we begin our practice of yoga and meditation anew, today, each day, grounded in what is most important, in ‘setting our priorities straight’—that is, with both the intellectual understanding as well as the daily commitment  through our speech and our deeds to the foundations of practice:  non-harming, truthfulness, non-stealing, moderation, and non-covetousness.  May we continue to practice, cultivating happiness for ourselves and for those around us, on our mats and off, through giving, moral discipline, patience, effort, and wisdom.  May we allow our practice to heal us, and thus heal our world.

Although it may sound trite, too simple, or too good to be true, it is through giving, through generosity, through service to others, that we heal our own wounds.  Through giving, we unite instead of isolate;  we let go instead of grasping and clinging;  we provide an antidote to our own miserliness, to our own personal and cultural tendencies to ‘hoard,’ to take, to get, so that we might have ‘enough’ or ‘more’ for ourselves.  Through generosity, we connect instead of comparing and contrasting—practicing generosity allows us to viscerally experience our own abundance, that we already have all that we need to be happy, and allows our hard shells of suffering to soften, allows our anxiety to dissipate, alleviates our depression, relieves our stress.  Through service, without thought of personal reward or benefit, we are reminded that all of the conditions that we need to be happy are already here, always available, in this moment, and that by sharing them, our lives become richer, our families happier, our communities and our world better, happier, more peaceful places in which to live.  All this we know, all this we experience for ourselves, all this we are freely given—if only we stop for a moment, pause, create a gap in our own dramatic storylines long enough to notice, and then, to actually do something.  As Jack Kornfield so aptly puts it:  In the end these things matter most: How well did you love? How fully did you live? How deeply did you learn to let go?

Namaste, Chris

Asleep or Awake? from Chris Warner

Sunday, May 02, 2010

Joy and woe are woven fine,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              A clothing for the soul divine.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Under every grief and pine                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Runs a joy with silken twine.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     William Blake

This morning, my ‘1^st Sunday of the month day off’ from teaching, I had the opportunity to visit two spaces of worship, to hear words of wisdom and inspiration from two spiritual leaders, and to take time for reflection and contemplation.

In the first space of worship, the sermon began with a question:  ‘Haven’t we all had ‘wake-up calls’?  Hearing this led me, very viscerally, to recall that time, in 2006, when my husband suffered a series of strokes and then underwent brain surgery.  ‘Haven’t we all had wake-up calls’? took me back to that time of fear and anxiety and contraction, the long hours of awaiting news from the surgeon;  those hours of being barely able to breathe.  When I was led to my husband’s  recovery room, he was not only awake, but was chatting and laughing with the nurse and watching the Red Sox on television.  And although in the months to come we suffered many other personal blows, Michael was alive, and, perhaps awakening for the first time, we realized all that was truly important in our lives, namely:  that this moment is the only moment that truly is,  so how do we choose to live it knowing that;  and, equally, how might we be of service to others who might too be suffering. 

In the second space of worship, the sermon focused on vision, and how we live out our visions and live up to up to our visions, through our words and through our deeds.  Listening, I felt a wave of renewal wash over me, a feeling of coolness and spaciousness and clarity.  My vision is that of waking up, not only for myself, but so that I might then be of benefit to my loved ones, to my community, to my world.  And this vision is what brings me, each day, to my mat and to my meditation cushion.  It is through the intentions that we set on our yoga mats and on our cushions, each and every day, whether or not we feel like it, whether or not the sun shines or the rain pours, whether or not all conditions have aligned perfectly, that we then receive the benefits of practice, and that those benefits then spill over, flowing into all of the lives that we touch.  When we come to our mats and to our cushions each day, grounding, opening, and receiving, we are then able to bring our intentions off the mats and cushions and into our lives—choosing to be awake in each and every moment—able to live out our vision for ourselves and for our lives through what we say and through what we do.  And as I listened to the sermon, I felt a deep, warm glow of gratitude inside, to my husband and to all of my teachers, for showing me the path of practice, that I might come to teach and thus be able to offer others, in some small way, the signposts along this path, allowing them to access for themselves the benefits of practice.

What was your wake-up call?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         How have you chosen to respond, to re-vision your life?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    And have you continued to align your life with your vision, or has your attention wandered since the wake-up call passed…

This week, try coming to your mat and your cushion each day—if only for 5 minutes or 15 minutes or 30 minutes.  Take a moment of stillness to set an intention for your practice, knowing that all of our wishes for ourselves, anything that brings us to the mat and cushion, is valid.  And then, practice in line with that intention.  I often suggest, when teaching, that students try to distill their intention to one word, and then to use that word, that intention, that wish, as a mantra for their practice that day.  Strength.  Peace.  Calm.  On the in-breath, and on the out-breath.   And to know, too, that we are all connected by this breath that we breathe, and thus, whatever we wish for ourselves, so too do we wish for all beings.  This knowledge and this practice extends our wishes beyond our sometimes self-centered, self-absorbed worlds, and allows us to open to love and connection and compassion.

Happiness, on the in-breath.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

Happiness, on the out-breath.

Breathing in, breathing out.  Bringing the attention back to the breath, to the here and now.  Choosing to be awake, in this moment—this present and precious moment—the only moment that truly is.  Living out and up to your vision, answering your own wake-up call.

Namaste, Chris

Beginning Again on the Mat: The Yogic Practice of Resurrection, from Chris Warner

 

from Chris Warner, Easter Sunday, April 4^th, 2010

 Resurrect:  (a back-formation from resurrection) to raise a person from the dead or from the grave;  to restore to life or to view again  (Oxford English Dictionary)

On the yoga mat, the most obvious way in which we practice resurrection is during the final asana in any class:  Shavasana (or ‘śavasana’).  Literally translated as ‘corpse’ pose, when we lie down on the mat at the end of physical practice, we practice death:  stilling the limbs, slowing the breath, quieting the mind.   B.K.S. Iyengar, in Light on Yoga, notes that ‘by remaining motionless for some time and keeping the mind still while you are fully conscious, you learn to relax.  This conscious relaxation invigorates and refreshes both body and mind.  But it is much harder to keep the mind than the body still.  Therefore this apparently easy posture is one of the most difficult to master” (p., 422).  Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, founder of Ashtanga Yoga, also noted “Most difficult for students.  Not waking, not sleeping.”  As a meaningful way in which to end our practice time, shavasana, on an energetic and psychological level, indicates our receptivity to integration—allowing a time of stillness for the lessons learned during our practice to sink in, to permeate and percolate through our being;  it indicates our willingness to let go of what we no longer need or what may no longer be of use to us, to shed old skin, old thinking, old habits;  and then, at the sound of the bell, shavasana signifies our opportunity to rise again—to re-emerge afresh, anew, from the ‘death’ of corpse pose. 

However, we really begin again, practicing resurrection, each and every time that we come to our mats, each and every time that we bring our hands together at heart center to begin our practice by setting an intention—our small prayers for ourselves—each and every time that we notice the in-breath, and notice the out-breath, and each and every time that we allow breath and movement of the body to become one.  Our daily yoga practice itself is synonymous with resurrection:  each time our feet contact the mat represents a new opportunity for opening, each posture a new possibility;  each time we catch ourselves caught up in comparing and contrasting represents a new chance to come back to the breath, to settle into the life that is the present moment, to let go of old habits and old thinking and to  ‘view again.’

Practicing resurrection on our mats, for some of us, might mean that we face and then release our tendencies towards perfection, our continual striving and straining for some ideal pose or some ideal body;  for some of us, it might mean that we acknowledge and release our habitual patterns of avoidance, of denial, of giving up.  For some of us, it might mean that we begin to open ourselves to all of the possibilities that yoga offers, not only the physical ‘work-out.’  And for some of us, it might mean recognizing that while yoga offers us the opportunity to cultivate happiness and peace, we also need to address our physical well-being through asana practice, in order that our human bodies might support us in health and with strength as we progress on the spiritual path.  Our practice offers us all of these things—the possibility of being restored to a life that is happy, healthy, and free.  Rising again, rising anew, to a life of freedom from suffering.

Suggestions for practicing resurrection on the mat:

1. Given that all things are always changing, and that our suffering in life is generally a result of our resistance to change, choose to create deliberate change in your practice.  For example:
   1. If you always sit in sukhasana (cross-legged, or ‘easy’ pose) with the right leg on top, the next time you come to the mat, sit with the left leg on top, etc.  Take note of  and be with whatever arises from whatever small change you choose to make—resist adjusting or fixing or reverting back to the former habit (at least for one class).
   2. If you tend to automatically take the most advanced or most effort-ful option offered by a teacher, try taking the beginner version—explore there.  Notice the thinking—note, with one word, ‘comparing,’ ‘contrasting,’ ‘judging,’ ‘disdain,’ etc.  DO NOT go to the next level—that of spinning a storyline around the thinking.  Just note what kind of thinking, and come back to the breath.
   3. If you tend to give up after just one breath in a posture—maybe Revolved Prayer, or Warrior 1—explore taking just one more breath than normal, or maybe two more…  And see what it is like to do so with ease—checking in with the face, with the jaw, with the breath, releasing tension, releasing strain.
2. Sometimes, we become impatient in practice—either at the outset, if the teacher doesn’t ‘get to the point’ (a.k.a., move into Sun Salutations, etc.) as quickly as we’d like, or during a longer-held pose with which we might be struggling (‘Warrior 3,’ for example, in Power Yoga, or during ‘Saddle’ pose in our Yin Yoga practice).  When you notice you are caught up in thinking, try this—a short gatha modeled on those used by Thich Nhat Hanh:
   1. As you breathe in, note ‘Begin’
   2. As you breathe out, note ‘Again’
   3. On the in-breath, ‘Here’
   4. On the out-breath, ‘Now’
   5. On the in-breath, ‘I am happy’
   6. On the out-breath, ‘I am free’
   7. All together:  ‘Begin again;  here and now;  I am happy;  I am free.’
3. Try something new.  If you avoid meditation, take a meditation class, or join a group for a sit.  If you avoid practicing anything active, take a more vigorous class—a moderate Hatha or Flow class, or even Power Yoga or Ashtanga.  If you are a ‘power junkie,’ take a Yin Yoga or Restorative Yoga class, or even just a more moderate Flow class.  Whatever you choose, take note of what arises.  See how you might allow yourself to open to a new experience—cultivating ‘the beginner’s mind.’  You might even note what happens in a yoga or meditation journal—even if your note is just ‘I hated this class, will never do this again!’  And then, maybe a day or so later, go back, read over what you wrote, and perhaps explore what gave rise to the reaction you noted.
4. If you avoid Shavasana pose—leaving class before final relaxation—commit to staying for at least 2 weeks.  Shavasana is equally as important as every other posture in our physical practice;  it allows the body time to integrate all of the movement and energy;  it allows our breathing to find its own natural rhythm.  It allows the body, mind, and spirit time to rest.  More importantly, if we tend to leave a class before Shavasana, or if we fidget through it, we might also ask:  What is that we are avoiding?  What is it that we are denying ourselves?
5. If you avoid arriving to class on time, thus missing the centering and the setting of intention for the practice, personally commit to timely arrival for at least 2 weeks.  Allow yourself the experience of joining your community, your yoga Sangha, in arriving for practice, settling into the breath, to the body, to the time and space set aside for practice, and then, begin with your deepest wish for yourself.  Arriving and centering to begin your practice not only brings vibrancy and meaning to your practice, and allows the practice to extend beyond the rectangle of your mat, but also allows you, in that time, to cultivate stillness—essential for the arising of insight and wisdom.  If we’re always racing, always busy, always arriving late and leaving early, there is little opportunity to look inside, to get to know ourselves, and then to begin the process of letting go of what may not be helpful, and to cultivate new ways of seeing, new ways of thinking that may truly be of benefit.

“The architecture of savasana requires us to continually let the ground we are lying down on, literally the ground of our thoughts and our bodies, to fall away, until the constructs that frame our experience pass on.  This is an act of both dying and being born.  Our imagination makes us very busy exploring the world of choices.  In the end, there will be no choice, just death.  So in the center of your bumbling human life, where you are always looking around for something better, notice how the present moment is just a small death away.”  Michael Stone

Wishing everyone the energy of beginning again,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 of rising anew, of freedom from suffering;                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Wishing everyone the receptivity of the beginner’s mind, the possibility of resurrection.                                                                                                                                                                                         Wishing everyone the happiness and peace available in this breath, in this present and precious moment                                                                                                                                                                —the only moment that truly is.

Happy Easter to all,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Namaste, Chris

I Am Busy Today

I was running to answer the phone with a laundry basket at my hip.  A familiar and friendly “hello, how are you?” greeted me.  My response was “I am busy today.”  We spent five minutes complaining of this week’s busyness and how overwhelmed these experiences made us feel.  I’ve noticed lately my days have an undercurrent of worry flowing through them.  Is it these collection of experiences that keep me just ahead of the chaos?  Since when did busyness define me?  It was that phone call which brought me back in touch with an old friend…Mindfulness.  It was a reminder of our interconnectedness in Not-Knowing.  In that each one of us,  “not fully understanding” is an essential part of the human condition.

At its most basic the Tao is about existing fully in the present moment.  We all struggle to find this freedom. We either live in the good or bad memories of the past.  We reach away from our current situations in hopes that change would bring us happiness…when in fact we may still be unhappy even if we get the change we are searching for.  We often believe that rushing from task-to-task is the most efficient way to get things done.  Some drive themselves so fast they fail to see their way of living is an illusion.

Mindfulness is an invitation to happiness because happiness resides but only in this very moment. It calls me to look into the nature of experience itself.  So can I just start today? After all, it is a practice.  When I lose touch with this very moment I have the gift of starting over.  When I choose trust over worry my tasks become clearer and easier to execute.  I try to approach each task slow and deliberate.  The most important change I’ve made is doing less.  I’m practicing my ability to say no.  It’s a matter of figuring out what’s important, and letting go of what’s not. My heart can open to the inherent meaning in this moment.  My 7 month old son, Devin, is sitting quietly in my lap. What a lovely moment.   In fact, I’m going to take some time off right now just to be with him.   Peace, Tara

Every Teacher has Something to Offer, Every ‘Needle,’ an Opportunity for Growth, from Chris Warner

“I only like you—why doesn’t this new schedule say who is teaching which classes?” Student question to teacher, Santi Yoga studio, February 2010

Many years ago when I began to practice one-on-one with my first teacher, my lead-up conversation to taking my mat—each time we met—went something like this:  ‘Can you turn the heat down? It’s too hot.’ ‘Can you turn the heat up—it’s too cold.’  ‘I’m tired today—can we just take it easy?’  ‘I don’t like this Yin Yoga—can’t we just work on Sun Salutations?’ ‘What happened to the music today?’ ‘Can you turn the music down today?’  ‘I’m too tired today.’ ‘I’m too depressed today.’  ‘It’s too nice today—can’t we just walk on the beach?’

On my first yoga retreat, about 6 months into practicing, I arrived at the retreat center late Friday afternoon, and, upon viewing the weekend program schedule, my first comment was:  ‘I can’t get up at 4:30 in the morning’ (and, inside, I fumed, ‘I will not get up at 4:30’).  My second comment, attempting a humorous tone—despite clenched jaw and crossed arms—was:  ‘And I won’t be doing the morning or the evening meditations—I’m here for yoga, I don’t like meditation, and it does say ‘optional!’’

I also recall:  if my teacher was going to be away on vacation, I did not practice.  If for some reason, scheduling did not permit us to meet for a few days, I did not practice.  I refused to go to any other teacher’s classes—I didn’t ‘like’ any of them.  And once, when I did get to a class, and a different teacher was substituting, I spent the entire 75 minutes on my mat inwardly grumbling, complaining, comparing and contrasting, angry and displeased.

One day, having been practicing fairly consistently for about 5 years, I noticed something:  My aversion to heat was gone.   I also noticed that the internal chatter—‘I hate this’  ‘I can’t do this,’ ‘is she ever going to say, ‘take 2 more breaths?’’  ‘is she ever going to stop talking?’ ‘is it time yet for Shivasana?’ ‘this is too easy,’ ‘this is too hard,’ ‘it’s too cold in here,’ ‘it’s too hot in here,’ had stopped.  Stopped.  The sound of silence inside was like a shock of clear cold water.  I could feel the breath flowing through my body.  I could feel the lines of energy flowing.  I could sense my spine lengthening, the energy in my fingertips.  I could feel the connection between my body and the mat, and I could feel the crown of my head rising as I stood firm and grounded in Tadasana.  The sound of that silence allowed me to let go, to let be, to be in my body, at home in the rhythm of the breath.  The sound of silence, the cease of chatter, allowed me to find my own practice, to be present, for the very first time, in my body, on my mat.

While I still, sometimes, hear the sound of my first teacher’s voice in my head, particularly within certain poses, and am happy for the comforting sound of her voice, I am no longer attached to that voice—craving only that voice, only that cadence, only those word choices, and thus, of course, disliking everything else.

Today, I am very grateful for my first teacher, Janine Grillo-Mara, who introduced me to and guided me along this path, and who, sometimes gently, sometimes sternly, sometimes sharply—like a needle—reminded me time and again, to come to the mat, to come to the cushion, and who never failed to point out to me my ‘chatter,’ forcing me to take a look, forcing me to pierce through the noise.

Today, I recognize that my early aversion—to all things!  Heat, cool, stillness, activity, any teacher other than my own, etc., etc., etc.—was simply a manifestation of my own fears, my own sloth, my own restlessness, my own inflexibility.  An inflexibility that, although unconscious, was constricting not only my practice, but also my life.  An inflexibility that, along with that of my physical body, continues to open, to stretch, and to soften, allowing me to continue to cultivate the beginner’s mind.  Allowing me to open to the wisdom that my current experience has to offer, if only I will let it;  allowing me to come to every class, to every teacher, with the wide-eyed curiosity of a child, for whom all things are new, for whom all things are wondrous.  And I have come to realize that my preferences—what I ‘like’ and what I ‘don’t like’—are not necessarily positively correlated with what is of benefit to me.  Today, I practice Hot Power Yoga and Ashtanga, I practice Yin Yoga, I practice Basic Hatha, and I practice everything all around and in between.  I also sit daily, in meditation, even when I don’t ‘feel like it.’

As a young teacher, I’ve felt the sting of student comments; I’ve felt at times the lack of interest; I’ve contended with judgment and comparison.  And despite my own practice, at times I’ve lost my center—getting lost in concern with having students ‘like me,’ ‘like’ my classes.  Concerned with creating the perfect class, the perfect sequence.  However, through the wisdom of another teacher, an amazing Yogini, and a beloved friend, Connie Glore, I’ve come to learn and to understand that, as teachers, it is not our job to provide students with a ‘Disneyland’ experience—that Yoga is not about arriving at a lavish park in your best outfit, paying your money, taking your ticket, and getting on the ride.  That our job as teachers is to be fully present, to provide safety and to offer guidance, but, most of all, to provide a space in which students can find their own practice.  As students, we may want to just ‘get on the ride;’ and we may like to only get on certain rides.  But through my own mindfulness practice, I’ve realized that just getting on the ride that we like relieves us of any opportunity to open and to grow.  Always getting on the ride that we know and like has very little to do with our own intentionality or effort or wisdom—in other words, very little to do with getting to know our innermost selves—and, instead, has everything to do with the external entertainment and safe familiarity provided by the ride.

A heroin addict may ‘like’ her needle.  But using that needle, getting on that familiar ride, is probably not skillful and probably not of benefit.  And heedlessly using that needle, reinforcing habit and conditioning time and again, most definitely will not lead that addict to freedom from suffering.

This does not mean that we should not have a primary teacher, a teacher to whom we are drawn, with whom we can practice and study and learn and grow.  Rather, it simply means that we might take a look at what might be yet another area of rigidity, another area of  ‘attachment’ in our lives, and examine whether or not this attachment is skillful or useful, whether it serves to help us to open, or whether it serves to bolster our suffering, keeping us closed off from each other and closed off from experience.

Today, on your mat or cushion, and off, ask yourself:

In what activities or mind-states do I mindlessly engage?  What is my ‘needle’?

And then explore:  Is this of benefit?  To me?  To my family?  To my world?

Ask:  Where am I ‘shut down’?

And explore:  How might I take that first step to open to wonder and possibility?

Wishing you contentment and ease, and that your practice be of benefit to all.

Namaste,  Chris