Tikkun

“I’m here, and I’m on the mend, my friend.” ~ On the Mend, Foo Fighters

For almost a year, I’d put off getting my elbow checked out. I was afraid that if I did, I’d be told to stop practicing yoga. But what had started out as a dull ache had turned into a sharp pain, and so I set up the appointment.

I was diagnosed with tennis elbow, which for me these days is writer’s elbow. Who knew that writing could hurt? But apparently I had some microscopic tears that only rest could heal.

Why I needed someone to tell me that part of me was hurt and needed rest, I really couldn’t say. But my plan to dismiss the ache hadn’t turned out so great. Of course I was glad for the X-ray and to know that nothing was broken. Still, it wasn’t lost on me that I’d ignored this signal from my body.

Stopping my practice was a very big deal. Yoga gets me out and about, and the schedule shapes my week. Plus, I remembered another injury from before that had been tough to wait out. Back then, I was certain my practice would leave me if I were to leave it first, but in the end it proved loyal. When I got back to the mat it had been there, waiting for me.  

  

Having certainty is no small thing. On the contrary, it’s everything. If I’d been more certain, I probably would have addressed my elbow sooner and not been scheduled for physical therapy. In fact, if I were to look back over the years, I probably would have addressed a lot of things sooner. But certainty is not without its challenges. I can get stuck when I have big doubts, which fills me with anxiety, and that messes with the signals that my body sends to me. 

Last winter, when I was out of town, I attended classes on Kabbalah, the tradition of ancient Jewish mysticism. I learned all sorts of things about the meaning of life and about how when we have doubts, we should seek the light. When I returned home, I continued the classes online, but I’d long since fallen behind. Luckily for me, the topics I’d missed were on certainty, and so a decision to catch up now seemed to be timely.     

“Certainty is the way to fix your Tikkun,” the Kabbalah instructor says. “It’s what you apply in the tough times to correct the darkness.”

Tikkun is the Hebrew word for correction, and the Kabbalists identify it as the purpose of our lives. And they don’t believe that doubt is a bad thing. We’re here, they say, in order to correct things in our souls, and our doubts are simply the signals for what needs fixing. According to Kabbalah, we are supposed to do this through certainty.

That's not to say that we need to be certain of knowing exactly what to do, because sometimes we just don’t know. All that’s called for is the certainty that one day we will.  

If this is true, then it means that it’s okay if we can’t fix a problem right away. We can allow ourselves the time to rest and mend, so that we can be calm enough to let the answers in. And this, I think, makes for a compassionate plan, especially when we find ourselves having to begin again.

And so I did my best to remember all that and to view my break as a finite amount of time. I was certain that it would begin and it would end, and that after that my elbow would mend. This made everything so much easier. I watched movies and caught up on television. I went on walks and out to dinner. And I even got the chance to catch up on my sleep.

In the end I was away from the practice for two months, until one day while traveling I realized that my elbow was better! It was finally time to come back.

I awoke early and walked to a familiar studio just around the corner from where I was staying. The streets were empty and the sun was barely up. It was my favorite time of day. I checked in and put my belongings in a locker. I’ve always gotten a little confused with the locks at this studio, and, as usual, I accidentally scrambled the combination. When I entered the practice room, I knew that I’d need some help at the end if I were to see my things again.  

I rolled out my mat in front of the mirrors in the big empty space. The heat felt good, and so did my mat! I sat for a while and then braided my hair, tying it up in a ponytail. And that’s when I looked around and noticed that I was still the only one there! Someone popped her head inside the door, and I asked where everyone was.

“The class is in the other room,” she said gently.

A rookie mistake on my part, but I told myself that it was okay as I gathered up my mat. I was giving myself a pass on my first day back, figuring I needed to be as gentle on myself as the practice I was hoping to have. I followed her out the door and into the other room, where everyone except for me had already known to be!

I have to admit that, even while studying the topic of certainty, it was hard to keep all of my doubts at bay. But the practice was indeed gentle, and my elbow was feeling okay. And so I made plans with myself to come back again the very next day.

And this time I set my locker combination correctly, and I chose the correct room, too. I settled in among the others and braided my hair, tying it up in a ponytail. And then I laid back on my mat to wait for the class to begin.

But still I was bothered by a niggling doubt. It’s hard to admit, but before I came back I had started to wonder whether I still belonged on my mat. I sat up and checked my reflection in the mirror. Why was I questioning my loyalty? And what were those puckers on the sides of my top? Uncertain and without answers, I dismissed such questions and made myself lie down again.

And then the instructor walked in and it was time to begin, and right away the practice started to work. The flow was more rigorous than the day before, and I relished every stretch and every fold and each release after every hold. The poses awakened all of my muscle memory, and I moved with what I can only describe as an inner certainty.  

And this is why I always come back, for certainty is a gift, and the practice is precious because of it. When I practice, the movement smooths out all of my puckers of doubt, even those that had appeared with my shirt inside out!

And this gives me the chance to heal my Tikkun, because for the moment my questions are gone. And then at the end I get to lie down again, and I’m certain I’m where I belong. 

Anne is the author of Unfold Your Mat, Unfold Yourself and is published on Huffington Post and Elephant Journal. Connect with Anne on her blog, Facebook and Twitter.

Soul

But where are you now? Where are you now? ~ Where Are You Now, Mumford and Sons

It’s said that our souls are too big for our bodies.

This mystical fact has its roots in many ancient religions and it’s believed by many today.

It’s almost a relief to be one of the believers, because then, on the days when we wonder if we’re too small to matter, we can remember that we’re actually so big that we don’t even fit inside ourselves.

This idea helps in times of grief, and so it’s helping us now because we are grieving. We’re feeling so small because our questions are so big. They hardly fit inside our brains. Whereas before we used to wonder what to wear or where to go, we now ponder questions as big as our souls.

Where did he go? Why did this happen?

When I first started yoga I thought I was asking all the big questions. I thought the big questions had to do with my practice. I wanted answers so that I could exercise and get fit. So the only questions I ever thought to ask were about where to put my elbows or how to position my feet. I even took some private lessons so that I could ask some more.

But the more I learned, the more questions I had. Every time I thought I had enough information, I discovered that there was still more to learn! Every pose could be taken deeper, so there was never really an endpoint.

There was no final answer.

When questions have no answers, we’re left to turn to our faith. But what if we question that, too? What if what happens also makes us question our faith?

Grief requires a lot of faith, but that doesn’t mean we stop asking questions. Even if we believe there is a place where he’s gone and a higher purpose to what’s happened, we still want to know where he is and why he’s there. We still want him back.

I didn’t know the practice of yoga required any sort of faith. In fact, up until the day I first stepped into the yoga studio, I hadn’t really given my faith much thought. I had been away from it for a long time.

But then as I practiced my questions grew larger than just the ones about the poses. I’m not sure why moving on the mat makes me wonder about where I am and why things happen, but that’s what happens. Soon I started listening in on the conversations that take place in the nooks and crannies of the studio, the ones before and after class and sometimes on the sidewalk outside. These conversations were all about energy and our subtle bodies, about our chakras and our spirit.

My instructors tell me it’s all about the energy. They say we are all made up of energy.

“I didn’t even know there was such a thing as energy in me,” I told them.

“Yes you did,” they said. “You just didn’t have the words for it.”

So now I have the words. Now I know that inside all of us is something called prana, or energy. And when we practice, our prana moves through our chakras, or energy centers. The practice helps shift our energy, and when our energy is flowing well, we are okay physically, emotionally and spiritually. This is how the practice becomes about so much more than where we put our elbows or how we position our feet.

But when painful things happen to us, our chakras get blocked and our energy gets stuck. And we have to practice grieving for our energy to flow again.

The loss of a loved one reaches deep into our chakras. It impacts our sense of family (the first chakra, or root chakra); our relationships (the second chakra, or sacral chakra); our sense of self (the third chakra, or solar plexus chakra); our hearts (the fourth chakra, or heart chakra); our levels of communication (the fifth chakra, or throat chakra); our intuition (the sixth chakra, or third eye chakra), and our spirituality (the seventh chakra, or crown chakra).

I think the first step in facing grief is to simply understand that something major has happened. Loss can be like the size of our souls. It’s often so big that it’s impossible to grasp.

We went to a hot yoga class the other night. In our grief, we were seeking the heat. In this healing room, the instructor opened the class with a few words on energy and pain. She spoke about the Hindu gods and their energies. One of them was Shiva, the god with the energy of destruction. Another one was Brahma, the god with the energy of creation.

The instructor explained why Shiva is considered the first guru.

“Why would a god of destruction be ahead of the god of creation?” she asked.

We were poised to practice, so no one had the answer.

“Because there is more to learn from destruction than from creation,” she said.

I don’t think she knew that she was speaking to the confusion of our grief. It’s confusing to have to learn from pain and suffering. But that’s the thing about grief. It’s never our choice. We would never choose what happened as the price for whatever it is we are supposed to learn.

In our grief, our energy shifts daily. These shifts are incremental, and they are taking place in the places unnoticed, in the nooks and crannies of our bodies and our minds and our spirits. Every day is a practice, and all our questions are the poses.

And it’s these subtle shifts of energy that have to serve as our answers, because, as with the practice, there just are no final answers.

I guess in this way everything really is all about the energy. I am the energy inside of me. I am the part of my soul that fills my body. Our souls fill us all to capacity.

And this brings me to the biggest question yet, one so big that the answer requires every ounce of faith.

The question is: If someone is no longer here, does it really mean that he has left?

To answer this we must speak to a belief that is the only solace in our grief. For we think his energy simply made a monumental shift, one that’s sent him to the place where all his soul can fit.

Anne is the author of Unfold Your Mat, Unfold Yourself and is published on Huffington Post and Elephant Journal. Connect with Anne on her blog, Facebook and Twitter.

Moon

Dancing in the moonlight; everybody feeling warm and right. It's such a fine and natural sight; everybody's dancing in the moonlight
~ King Harvest  

In many cultures, the moon is tied to motherhood.  
 

It is a constant, always there even if it can’t be seen. The pull of the moon is strong, rocking the ocean’s tides in a timeless lullaby. Its light illuminates the darkness, no matter its shape or size.  
 

I’m a mother, and I’ve got the moon in my chart. I’ve had two astrological readings, one by an Aryuvedic astrologer, and one by a Kabbalistic astrologer. And both speak of the strong presence of the moon, residing in some place with some sort of explanation, most of which comes down to the fact that mothering is big for me, and it’s prominently in the house!  

For many years, I’ve joked with my children about what I call the Long Arm of Mommy. It reaches through all the space and time in which they’ve grown, all the way to the independent young man and woman each is. 

It’s the part of me that’s in them.  

It’s how they connect to me without having lived home in almost eight years. They are both several years out of college, living on their own and making their own decisions. Yet, we are all connected, so much so that when one calls, I sometimes answer with the phrase, “Get outta my head!” because we are so often in each others’.  

Is it any wonder I’ve felt the pull of the moon all my life? That texts often fly around the family when the moon is full?   

See the moon? reads many a text from one city to the next. Look up!  

The other night at yoga, the instructor spoke of the moon and tied it to what he calls the Divine Mother. He says it’s the brightness that’s in all of us; that we all carry the light of the moon simply by virtue of being ourselves. It’s automatically inside even though it’s ever-changing.   

Last night the moon was full, he announced. Today, we are one day past and already the moon looks different. There’s a bit of darkness in the corner.  

 

Sometimes, I’ve felt this darkness. There’s a pull toward it when I’m not feeling strong.  

So I go to yoga to build my strength, to keep myself feeling bolstered, doing my best to make some muscles in my arms and my legs and my core and also in my heart and my mind and my spirit.  

And for the first time in a long time, I’ve been dragging. It’s like my strength is waning as if I’m the moon that’s no longer full. Something’s making me tired, and I wonder if it’s the time change or the cold weather or the dark evenings.    

Even so, I’ve been keeping to my schedule, working and practicing, but the bed’s been calling this Divine Mother every chance it gets. Before and after a practice, I’m catching a snooze. I haven’t had much appetite, and I’ve had to be very conscious of getting in the calories. It literally feels like I’m fading.  

I arrived at yoga the other morning bright and early. Practicing mostly at night, the early morning practice seemed doubly early.  
 

There, I pulled back my hair and looked up at the mirror. All I could see were my face and my shoulders, but who I saw looking back seemed suddenly so small. I was never big, but with my hair away from my face, I seemed to me so frail; my muscles in my shoulders seemed to have disappeared in a moment’s time.  

I stepped away from the mirror and onto the mat, feeling frantically far from whatever mothering light was supposed to be shining inside.   

It was very hot yoga, and I realized I had barely eaten the night before and had found it too early to eat that morning. I was on my mat, all too aware of my low reserves, depleted before I had even started.  

That morning, it was me who was in need of the long arm of a mother!  

I finished the practice, doing two stints in Child’s Pose, unusual for me, and one errand to the front desk for a sugar shot of flavored coconut water, also unusual for me.  

I got myself home, showered, dressed and started down the steps to leave for my day. Halfway down the staircase, my tired bones told me to U-turn, and I listened.  

Hair and makeup done, I never made it out of the house, intending on a 20 minute nap but instead waking up with my face in the pillow two and a half hours later.   

The next day, I was back out and about, practicing again and trying to eat everything I could. I was trying my best to fortify what I had seen as that frail reflection.  

And it was the day after that when I landed in the class with the teacher talking about the moon, about the internal mother that’s inside each of us.  

We never stopped moving for an hour and 15 minutes, with instructions to lift this and that, to reach here and there, first in one direction and then in the other. We were asked to add a little something of our own to each movement and then, surprisingly, told to toss aside our mats.  
 

I think he wanted us to flow freely with no boundaries in order to tap into the “mother” inside, that strong and ever-present brightness that’s there regardless of how tired we are or how we look in the mirror with our bangs pinned back.  

When we finished, we came down to the floor, many seated moons of all shapes and sizes, illuminating the room with hands to forehead center.  

Remember, the instructor said, the light that is the Mother.   

She is you!  

With his words still echoing, I got myself home and looked to the mirror again. Miraculously, my shoulder muscles had seemingly reappeared in a moment’s time. And that night, I slept better than I had in forever, having finally been tucked in by the long arm that was my very own. 

Space and Time

Does anybody really know what time it is ... If so, I can't imagine why ... - Robert Lamm, Chicago

There’s a song about a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born, a time to die, a time to plant and a time to reap.

Turn, turn, turn, is the refrain of this song that gets its words from the bible.

But does time really turn over? Or is that just how we experience it?

My yoga practice is pretty athletic. It does not involve any deep thought about time or space, but afterwards it seems to put my mind in exactly that place.

For me, the practice makes a space where I can access some kind of spark that I think has been inside since the day I was born and that’s perhaps been in all of us since the beginning of time.

This might sound oh-so-philosophical, but it’s something I experience at a very base level.

I get home from yoga, have something to eat, put my clothes in the wash and draw a bath.

I climb in and sit there and all I feel is gratitude. The water is warm and so is my heart.

I have even said some blessings aloud in the tub, and in this space and time, they include those with whom I've shared love and with whom I've shared hurt. In these expansive moments that follow my practice, I can see all the lessons that have come my way.

It might sound strange, but I think we all carry this inner spark. And if we expand enough to access it, our stories can start to make sense.

It's almost as if this expansion illuminates the big picture that is our lives.

Some people think of this spark as the Divine, as the Light, as the energy source that is God. Whatever it is, I think I’ve discovered that I can access it through yoga.

I find the ignition of this spark to be bright and brief. So, to find it again, I have to keep going back to the mat.

My yoga practice has led to a lot of reading about Kabbalah, the study of Jewish mysticism. Kabbalah explains that this lifetime is one of many that our souls experience, and it teaches that before we are born, we reside with the Spark itself, in a place where there is no space and time. And it’s there where we can see the picture that is our lives, like a jigsaw puzzle with all the pieces fitting neatly together in a story that makes sense.

Kabbalah teaches that it’s the choice of our souls to journey back to earth, and that it's here where new chapters are written as we put together our pieces by correcting things within ourselves.

Such are our soul corrections and such is the purpose of our lives.

Supposedly, we have to live many lifetimes to do this work. The ancient teachings of many religions speak to this, the reincarnation of past lives and the journeys of our souls.

All of this has made me reconsider the concept of time. Perhaps it’s not as linear as I once thought. Perhaps it’s not that every season turns; rather, it’s we who return to every season.

I once took a yoga class that was choreographed in the round. We set up our mats in a circle, and we ourselves moved in circles. No one faced front, and we never left our mats but instead journeyed ‘round and ‘round, returning again and again to where we started.

It was disconcerting to practice this way, but I was surprised that by the end of class, I felt somehow restored. Something about it put matters right, as if I had gotten some kind of chance to return and correct, even if not consciously so.

So maybe our lives are like that practice, and we’ve been ‘round on this journey before, putting matters right while even traveling alongside some of the people we now know.

This idea of time and space is captured in a touching performance of A Song For You by three famous friends, Leon Russell, Willie Nelson and Ray Charles (view here). Willie is crying as he knows Ray is dying, moved by the lyrics, I’ve loved you in a place where there’s no space and time.

 

We are lucky if we have felt such love in this lifetime. If we have, then we’ve gotten a glimpse of that lit-up gift that is the spark inside, and we’ve experienced something seemingly eternal even if it’s not lasting.

This place where there’s no space and time seems to also be where I find myself when I paint and when I write. It’s where the colors flow and the words appear. When I look at the final product, I think, How did that get there? Where did the time go? How did I do that?

And right away I know I could never recreate what’s on the paper because I am back in real time.

Real time is where we learn our lessons. It’s where we have to be in order to get back to that place where there is no space and time. And if we are aware, we can recognize when we are graced with snippets of this timeless space, the place where our blessings reside.

Somehow, the practice of yoga takes me there. The hour plus class goes by in no time at all, and I am always grateful for whatever glimpse I get.

Neil Young

Neil Young spoke to me the other day.

Not directly and not exactly, but I did hear him!

It was an unusual day which allowed for midday yoga, a rarity and a treat.

Earlier that day, I caught an interview on television with singer/songwriter Neil Young.

I had forgotten all about him and how much I love his voice!

I made a mental note to download some of his songs.

The interviewer asked Neil Young about his life. Were his songs autobiographical?

The singer hemmed and hawed, explaining that the songs came from inside, so inherent in each was indeed some truth. And, he admitted, not all his songs were so rosy.

The interviewer pressed further but received a cryptic answer.

It’s not all great, but I’m sure glad to be here while it’s happening.

I made a written note of this concisely stated truth and went to yoga.

Over these past few months, there have been some losses. People I thought would still be here are no longer.

Losses like these make one think about the grand scheme of things and also about one’s own health.

The thought of both had made me recommit to my yoga practice.

I walked into midday yoga and set up my mat. The background music caught me by surprise. I had not heard the studio play this artist in all the time I had been practicing.

We have a little Neil Young playing, the instructor said as he walked over to switch up the songs and start the practice.

Turns out, Neil had a lot to say that day. Coincidence? The Kabbalah, the study of Jewish mysticism, would say there is no such thing.

I have my own philosophy about synchronicity. I take it as a sign that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing at the time I am supposed to be doing it.

So, I figured I was supposed to be standing there in that studio on my mat, caring for my body and for my spirit.  Because, in the vein of that grand scheme of things, what is the good in having strong muscles without a strong spirit?

As most know, any loss can create questions that seem too big for answers.

The other day, out of nowhere, someone actually asked me why I thought I was here. More specifically, the person wanted to know what I thought was my intended soul correction, another concept of Kabbalah.

Really, I had no answer. And, I think it can take at least a lifetime to try to figure that one out.

The best I can do is just pay attention, be grateful and not take anything for granted.

I wanted to explain to my fellow yogis about Neil Young, but how would I even begin to do that?

Instead, I completed my practice, finished my day and, that night, I downloaded the singer’s Harvest Moon and After the Gold Rush.

Later that week, I was not surprised to find that Neil Young had moved from background music to a spot on that day’s yoga practice playlist.

I just looked up from my mat and said, Neil Young!