Thought

Well it ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe ~ Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright, Bob Dylan

I started practicing yoga for my body, but I think it’s also been helping my brain.

I wish I had the kind of brain that didn’t think so much, but that’s a thought that’s hard to fathom. I’m jealous of the people who don’t know how to dwell.

At yoga there is no time to dwell, and that’s a good thing. On the mat there just is no room in my head for anything other than what the instructor has said. We are always moving, even when we are still, and if I'm not paying close attention, then I’ll find myself moving in the wrong direction.

At the beginning of the practice we’re told to set an intention. And for all the thinking I usually do, it’s often hard for me to think of one. I think the reason for this is that once I've stepped to the top of the mat I’ve already handed over the keys to the car.  

“Let’s come to Samasthiti,” the instructor says as she opens the class. “Stand tall and set an intention.”

I step to the top of my mat and stand in Samasthiti, or Mountain pose. It’s a stance of stillness where we collect our thoughts before turning on the ignition.

“Surya Namaskar A!” the instructor calls. “Reach up. Press palms. Look up!”

And so begins the 75-minute ride. The music starts, and I lift my arms to the sky and look to my palms pressed over my head.

“Uttanasana. Ardha Uttanasana. Chaturanga Dandasana!”

I fold on an exhale and lift on an inhale. With another long exhale, I press my palms to the mat and jump back to a low push-up.

The music keeps playing and the instructions keep coming.

“Urdva Mukha!” I move into Upward Facing Dog. “Adho Mukha!” I roll over my toes and press back into Downward Facing Dog.

We hold here for five breaths, and by this time whatever my day has been is gone. I’m here on my mat and moving along, and my mind is clearing with each passing song.  

It’s said that a person has between 50,000 and 70,000 thoughts per day. That’s almost 40 thoughts per minute! That’s a lot of thinking! Maybe that explains the buzz in the air after the holidays when the studios get so crowded. With all the yogis coming and going, the number of thoughts in the space is multiplied, and the surrounding energy gets amplified.

We move into the Surya Namaskar B’s, which take a lot more energy than the A’s. And in between each we’re instructed to work on our Fire Jumps.

I tend to land these mostly by accident. I press into my hands and crouch back, trying not to think. Springing forward, I tuck my body into a ball. Without too much thought, I float up on my hands, stacking my hips over my shoulders and extending my legs up high.

I try this several times. It might make sense that each attempt would be easier, but for me it’s actually the opposite. It doesn’t take long before my thoughts get in the way, and I stop trying after a few floats. I think that my arms won’t hold me. I think that I’ll go overboard with too much momentum. By the time we’re called again to Downward Facing Dog, I am already there, suffering my fears!

There is a Buddhist theory on suffering, and it has to do with our thoughts. It defines suffering as the mental attachments we create regarding the pain we’ve experienced. If we’re hurt, mentally or physically, less pain is experienced if we don’t mind so much, and more pain is experienced if we do.

This theory is actually supported by modern science. Today the experience of pain is measured by several regions in the brain, as opposed to what had previously been thought of as one particular pain center. There’s the part of the brain that lets us know that we are hurt, another that lets us know where we’re hurt, and a complex region that determines how we’ll actually react to that hurt.

Surprisingly, there’s also a part of the brain that makes up our minds as to whether or not we will suffer over our hurts. It’s the conscious part. When we experience emotional or physical trauma, the conscious part of our brain gets to think about it, and we actually get to decide whether or not we will suffer!

The instructor takes us through the rest of our Sun B’s, with another chance at the Fire Jumps in between. And each time I set up to jump, I say to myself, “Don’t think! Don’t think! Don’t think!”

We flow from one pose and into the next, moving on from the Fire Jumps to Warrior IIs, Reverse Warriors, Half Moons and more. And when we land in our forward folds, there’s still no time to think. There’s always more to do and always more to listen to. The instructions keep coming.

“Press your big toe mounds into the floor and fold yourself over. Grab opposite elbows and lift your toes to your nose. Lean forward and pull in your belly.”

When I started writing this, my intention was to write about pain. I wanted to do what Ernest Hemingway once said: “Write hard and clear about what hurts.”

But writing for me is like practicing. I set an intention when I can, and then I gather my thoughts, and I listen. Next I wait for my mind to clear, so that I can hear whatever it is inside that brings forth the words. And the words might not always be what I thought, but at the end when I read them I get to see what I've learned.

And here in my effort to write about pain, I’ve wound up with an essay on the brain! And what I’ve learned is that there is an intricate link between what hurts and how we think, and between the power of thought and whether we suffer for naught. 

The practice ends and we are asked to come to a seat with our eyes closed and our hands in prayer. I am in the middle row, in the middle of the room, and I sit with my hands at my heart.

It’s quiet and I sneak a peek around the room. The lights are low, and I can see the silhouettes of all the yogis in front of me framed against the room’s front windows. And I know that if I turned around and looked behind me, I'd see many more of the same. 

I am surrounded by dozens of quiet minds, safely tucked in the center of silence.  

“Bring your thumb knuckles to your Third Eye center,” the instructor says, “and honor the intention that you set at the beginning of your practice.”

I raise my prayer palms to my forehead and realize that I never set an intention! But my body feels strong and my mind is clear and I'm so grateful that I’m here. And so with a heart as full as the room, I close my eyes and bow my head and bask in the absence of thought instead.

Anne is the author of Unfold Your Mat, Unfold Yourself. Connect with her on her blog, Facebook and Twitter.

Embrace

 

It's impossible to be alone at yoga, even if you walk in feeling that way.

It was a weekend morning, and I was getting myself together for yoga. 

On Saturdays and Sundays, I actually shower, wash my hair and put on a little make up before going to yoga. Sounds strange to do so before working out, but this morning routine is what wakes me up.  

I was like this in college, too, even when just studying. I would wake up, shower, dress and sit among my friends who would all be in their sweats. 

My son calls me the Cal Ripken of getting ready for the day. 

I arrive at the studio and wait for the class to start. I lay out my mat in my favorite spot, and slowly the others start to trickle in. 

I love seeing everyone, and a few people come over to chat and catch up. Some are young adults, the ages of my children, some are closer to my age and many are in between. Yoga has introduced me to so many new people. I did not know that practicing would make me part of any kind of community. 

I have never considered myself a joiner. I’ve always had lots of people around me, but I never was a committee type person, nor did I belong to one particular group over another. Growing up, I had friends in and among all sorts of groups.  

That being said, I would not call myself a loner either, but I do admit to a certain aversion to being pigeon holed in any way. 

Our class begins, and the flow slowly builds as does the energy. The instructor allows for progressions of each pose, and this gives us a chance to do our own things. And that works for me because even as part of a group, there remains a part of me that can be more comfortable on my own. 

Before yoga, I had found myself laying low. My trust levels had pretty much shrunk the size of my community, and I was content in this manner for a long time.  

After my children went to college, I ventured out and got a job. Working made me suddenly part of a very large and global community, and I’ve come to know so many of my colleagues well. It’s been a surprise to find that being connected with so many others is what I like most about my job.  

Then, I found yoga and became part of yet another community. 

Some days, I can feel myself falling back into my old ways, raising the guard gates and hunkering down a bit. And those are the days when I make sure to keep my office door open, and when I make sure to get myself to yoga. 

And so it is that I find myself practicing among others, individuals on our mats, doing our own things but doing them all together. We follow the same instructions but progress differently. We move in the same motions but do so in different styles and with different degrees of grace. 

Still, we are all one unit, and the appeal of the group’s energy sweeps me along with the others. 

I get into my own zone as I move through the poses, but lately, near the end, I’ve been looking around. On this day, we are given a few moments of self practice. I do a few handstands followed by a few seated, forward folds and, in between each, I look around. 

It’s strange, but at this point, I identify with each and every person there, those I know and those I don’t.  It’s just impossible to be on guard when moving like this, and it’s as if the efforts to balance and twist and rise and fold have exposed us all to each other. I recognize everyone, and I feel suddenly tied to these kindred spirits. And although I know we all stepped in for different reasons, it’s as if those reasons are now all the same as we are to each other. 

I wonder if the people in this room know that the motion of their movements provide me with an embrace of energy that feels as safe and sound as someone’s arms around me. 

At the end of the practice, we lay down, and I settle into the protective power of this group’s silence. 

Several moments later, the instructor has us roll to the right and rise to a tall, seated position with our hands draped over our knees. We are told to be grateful for our bodies, for the clarity of our minds and for being able to practice. 

Eyes closed, I inhale deeply with the others. 

The class exhales on the same beat, sharing its breath in one hushed but audible whisper.  

In one quick whoosh, it's as if I am part of some big secret shared by everyone in the room. And I am suddenly and surprisingly so very moved. 

The guard gates have lowered, and I am flooded with immense gratitude for everyone around me. For their very presence has helped me find something I had not even known I was missing.

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.

Gratitude

I was trying to make a late evening yoga class, and it was a bit bumpy getting there.

I am a suburbanite but have found some classes downtown and, in the evening when there is no traffic, I can zip down there fairly quickly.

The studio is hot, the people are warm, and the energy is high. I love stepping in.

But, the other night, the road was literally blocked, and I had to take a detour.

Why am I doing this?  I asked myself.

Instead of coming up with an answer, a calmness settled in, and I turned on the radio and took the alternate route.

I arrived at the cash-only parking lot with 15 minutes to spare before realizing I had left my cash at home.

Why am I doing this? I asked myself again.

But the attendant was kind, saw my yoga mat on my back and told me about the nearby ATM, first asking if getting cash would make me late for class.

Again, a calmness settled in, and I said, No worries, I have time.

I do not know from where the evening’s calmness came, but I had apparently left the house with it. Ordinarily, I would have been frustrated by the small hiccups encountered thus far.

I finally stepped into the studio, put up my hair and laid out my mat in the front of the room. I am sort of claustrophobic, and it helps not to have the crowd in front of me.

Shortly before the class starts, I turn around. The room is packed, mostly with college students from the nearby university.

Why am I doing this? I asked myself again.

I said to the man next to me, This room is so young! A few minutes passed before he leaned over and whispered back, You are still not as old as me!

And with those encouraging words, the practice began.

The instructor was generous and engaging and motivating, and the practice was vigorous. At the end, that same calmness washed over me.

And now I think I finally understand about the practice creating space.

For me, and on that night in particular, the physical workout of yoga seems to create an opening inside, and I am left in Savasana, or final resting pose, with a feeling like I have been smoothed out, almost like a chalkboard with the scribbles now erased.

The instructor gave a reading while we lay there at the end, and I cannot for the life of me remember the details. I only remember that I liked hearing the words, and that they were words of kindness and support.

I just laid there at the end on my mat with an immense and unexpected gratitude. And that is what filled the space created by the practice.

Afterward, the man next to me leaned over again and said, See? You are younger now!

I am thinking he must have felt it, too!

It occurred to me that gratitude might well be like feeling younger, like opening to a time when optimism and hopefulness ruled the day.

The studio was just about empty, and so I moved my mat to the wall to practice a handstand before leaving.

I pressed my hands to the mat and lifted one leg and then the other into the strongest handstand I have had in some time. I locked in my core and stretched my body upwards towards the ceiling.

And there, upside down, a calmness settled in, and I experienced that same immense and unexpected gratitude.

Shortly after, I packed it up and took that gratitude home for safekeeping.