our-yoga

by Ram

The Japanese Bridge by Claude Monet

One of the courses I am teaching this semester at the university is Philosophy of Art (a.k.a. aesthetics). Over the past couple of months of teaching this course, I have been trying to read more novels and listen to more music in order to get myself into a more... artistic state of mind. After all, if you only philosophize about something, but have no intuitive experience of the thing in question upon which to base the philosophizing, then the philosophizing becomes a bit fruitless, doesn't it? (Now, who was it who said that "concepts without intuition are empty, intuitions without concepts are blind"?...)

In the course of listening to a lot of great music, I have had the opportunity to witness (on Youtube) many beautiful performances by many wonderfully talented artists. As I do so, I can't help noticing that in many of these performances, it is not just the music being produced that is beautiful. The performer, being fully immersed in the music with her entire being (I suppose this may be what some people call a "flow state"), takes on a certain beauty in her facial expressions, and in the way she moves as she plays her instrument. To give you an example, have a look at this performance of Tchaikovsky's violin concerto in D by Sayaka Shoji. The whole performance is kind of long (almost 38 minutes), and you might not have the time to sit through the whole thing, but if you just watch the first 10 minutes, you'll know what I'm talking about:

After watching this performance for, like, the twentieth time, I still can't decide what is more beautiful: The expressions on Shoji's face, or the music that she is actually playing. But this much seems to be true: Being in a flow state (and if Shoji wasn't in a flow state when she was performing that piece, I don't know who is) is not just something that is experienced by the person who is in that state, but is also often something that we the observers can observe by looking at the person. And if Shoji's case above is anything to go by, it would seem that being in a flow state is not just a beautiful experience for the person experiencing it, it is also a beautiful and inspiring experience for those of us who get to see the effects of that state on the person's face and body. So... yay! More power to flow states! 

But since this is (still) a yoga blog, I suppose I should try to relate everything I just said to yoga. Well, many of us who have doing this practice for a while will readily attest that yoga practice in general (and Ashtanga practice in particular) is quite conducive for producing this flow state in us during practice. If nothing else, the very flowing structure of the vinyasa count ("Ekam, Dwe, Trini...") encourages less (over)thinking and more movement and flow. And I'm pretty sure many of us have at one time or other experienced this kind of flowing feeling of being at one with the practice in the moment of practice.

And this is a very beautiful thing. But at the same time, there is also this perception that yoga is different from the performing arts because yoga practice is somehow personal in a way that the performing arts are not. Perhaps it is because of this perception that openly performance-oriented displays of asana prowess tend to be frowned upon in the yoga world. As a result, there seems to be this tacit consensus among the politically-correct yoga public that if and when teachers or students do poses in public, it should be primarily for educational purposes, i.e. either to show students how a pose is done or to demonstrate a pose in order to educate the public about the benefits of yoga. Doing poses in public without such an educational aim in mind is seen as "showing off" and merely "feeding the ego" (and we know, of course, how bad feeding the ego is in the eyes of the yoga public).

But what if public performances of yoga, like public performances of music, can also have the effect of inspiring the audience with the beautiful sight of somebody who is in a flow state? Imagine if Ms. Shoji were to one day decide, "Hmm... I don't think I'm ever going to perform in public again, because performing in public is showing off and feeds my ego, which is bad for my spiritual development." If she were to decide this (and follow through with her decision), wouldn't the music-loving public be deprived of a wonderful source of beauty and inspiration? After all, we know that great art does not just consist in taking in the art with one of our senses; as we have seen, a big part of the beauty also comes from watching great performers immerse themselves in their art as they perform. In the same way, might it not be the case that at least part of the beauty of yoga comes from seeing your favorite teachers or practitioners perform the poses that they do? Speaking of favorite teachers, here's a recent video of Kino performing lotus handstand in public:

Actually, I don't know just how "public" Kino's performance is in this case, since there doesn't seem to be too many people watching (unless we include the Youtube audience as being part of the "public" in this case). But anyway, I think you get what I'm trying to say here...

But yes, I am aware that yoga and music are not the same thing. After all, yoga is spiritual in a way that music is not (But wait! Do we really want to say that music is not spiritual?...). So maybe public performances of yoga are "wrong" in the way that public performances of music are not. But still... oh well, what do I know? 

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Ah... I am finally in Pocatello, Idaho. I got here a few hours ago, checked into my new apartment, carried whatever little belongings I have into the apartment; I basically packed only whatever I could fit into my Mitsubishi, which is not very much at all, for this move. What this means is that besides a bunch of clothes, some kitchenware, some toiletries, and my computer and camera (and yoga mat and rugs, of course), I have nothing else to fill my apartment with! Which presents a good opportunity to meditate on the Buddhist concept of emptiness, I suppose. But I think I'll go thrift-store-shopping tomorrow, and see what I can pick up.

I'm happy to say that the trip from Bozeman to here, which took four and a half hours, was relatively smooth and uneventful. Well, I did have to drive through some mountain roads in Yellowstone National Park. And since I have little experience driving through mountains, I was probably driving quite a bit below the speed at which seasoned mountain drivers are used to: A few times, some impatient driver behind me would ride my ass for, like, fifty miles, and then pass me at the earliest opportunity. Oh well... but I did manage to stop at a nice little turn-out and take a couple of pictures of Yellowstone:

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Yesterday, I got together with a few friends for lunch. It was a sort of informal farewell lunch for me, as I am moving to Idaho at the beginning of next month. At some point in the conversation, the topic of yoga came up. One of my friends remarked, "Ah, you are a big yoga enthusiast, right? We should get you to do a yoga demonstration sometime. But I guess it's kind of too late now, as you're leaving us so soon..."

Upon hearing my friend's remarks, it suddenly occurred to me that over the last couple of years, my practice has become very much a private matter, without my intending it to be this way. As you might know if you read this blog regularly, I mostly practice at home, since there is no regular Mysore program where I live. Back when I lived in Milwaukee, you could say that my practice still had a semi-public dimension to it, since I practiced at my teacher's shala, and other people at the shala could see my practice as I was doing it, if they cared to, drishti violations notwithstanding. But ever since moving here to Northwestern Minnesota, aside from the occasional forays into teaching yoga (to see how that went, see this post), the only beings that could possibly see my home practice are (1) my fiancee, and (2) the cockatiels. Most of the time, my fiancee is too occupied with getting ready for work in the morning to give much notice to what I am doing in my practice. As for the cockatiels, they probably have lots to say about my practice, but I don't understand a word of what they're saying ;-)

So without being entirely aware of it, my practice has become this private thing that I do in the morning before I go about the rest of the day. I know this seems like a very mundane way of putting it, but on some level, the practice feels very much like brushing my teeth and taking a shower, except that the latter two activities do not utilize quite as many muscle groups and do not take quite as much time. This could mean either that my practice has become as mundane as teeth-brushing and taking a shower, or that my teeth-brushing and taking a shower have absorbed some of the "present energy" of my practice, and have thereby being elevated to the realm of the spiritual. I'm not sure which way it is. Maybe it's one way on certain more "present" days, and the other way on other less "present" days.

Meanwhile, the rest of my everyday world knows that I "do yoga", whatever that means to them. A few people who know me a little better know that I also write a yoga blog; I suspect that they are probably a little mystified as to why somebody who doesn't teach yoga or do anything yoga-related for a living would want to write a yoga blog. You may not believe this, but there are actually people out there who believe that you have to be some kind of a yoga professional to write a yoga blog. I'm not making this up; I've actually had a couple of conversations which went like this:

Friend: Oh, so you do yoga... do you go to X or Y yoga studio in town?

Nobel: No. I do this thing called Ashtanga yoga, and I do it at home, because I am, ahem, a little bit too advanced for the Intro to Ashtanga class that is offered every Monday evening at Y yoga studio.

Friend: Wow, really?

Note to reader: I suppose if I wanted to, I could have gone into a detailed explanation of what Mysore style practice is all about, and how it is different in nature and approach from the more conventional led-type classes that are found in most yoga studios. And sometimes I do go into such an explanation. But recently, I have found myself suffering from a certain kind of intellectual laziness on this front. So I just say I'm too "advanced"; but I must also admit that I like giving this answer because I enjoy seeing the "wow, you're too advanced for a yoga studio?" look in my friend's eyes... Anyhow, here's how a typical conversation of this sort would continue:

Nobel: And I also write this yoga blog.

Friend: Wow, you write a yoga blog (no wonder you're so "advanced")! Do you work for Yoga Journal or something?

The rest of the conversation is then spent explaining to my friend how you don't have to work for Yoga Journal (or any other yoga publication) to write a yoga blog, and about how I use my yoga blog as a space to geek out about Ashtanga yoga, and sometimes also as a space to deliver rambling commentaries on developments in the yoga world at large. I typically end the conversation by inviting said friend to read my blog.

  
In any case, perhaps because of the private nature of my yoga practice, over the last two years, I have probably spent more time writing/thinking/talking about yoga on this blog than in the "real" world. I'm not sure if this is a good or bad thing.

Anyway, to come back to my friend's remarks about doing a yoga demonstration... When she said that, it occurred to me that my practice has become such a private thing to me that the very idea of giving a public demonstration, even if just for a few friends, seems rather dissonant with the general tone of my asana practice as it is. Why would this be? Well, for starters, on a purely practical level, I'm guessing that my friend (we are assuming, of course, that she really does want me to do a demonstration, and wasn't just saying what she said out of politeness) would probably want to see in a demonstration something that would be "wow-inducing", as in "wow, you can stand on your head", "wow, you can put your leg behind your head", etc., etc. I really don't think she would want to see a "demonstration" of my Karandavasana impotence ("Damn, you've been practicing everyday for so many years, and you still can't get it up?!")

Which brings me to my point: While there is probably nothing wrong with humoring one's friends with one's asana prowess, just like there is nothing wrong (I presume) with humoring one's friends with one's supposed knowledge of Chinese philosophy (see this post for more details), there is nevertheless some kind of dissonance between what one is expected to do in an asana demonstration and what one does in the nitty-gritty business of everyday practice on the mat. Of course, I understand that asana demonstrations have a long and illustrious history in Ashtanga, and in the Krishnamacharya lineage in general. Krishnamacharya, as many of you know, traveled across India with his young students at the Mysore palace, giving many many asana demonstrations during the course of these travels. Many illustrious Ashtanga teachers today are also well-known for their amazing asana demonstrations. So there is nothing wrong with giving asana demonstrations. After all, asana prowess is arguably the most visually eye-catching manifestation of yogic achievement, and therefore, also arguably the quickest and most eloquent way of getting the word out about the power of the practice to people who would otherwise not even think about trying the practice. 

But I guess part of what makes the idea of giving an asana demonstration feel rather inauthentic to me is that an asana demonstration, by its very nature, is divorced from the original context in which the asanas are performed. When one is demonstrating, one is not doing the practice. One is just... demonstrating. Which is why almost no Ashtanga demonstrations (except instructional videos) consist of the Ashtangi doing, say, the entire primary series. 

What am I trying to say here? Very simply, it's this: Practice is practice, demonstration is demonstration, and never the twain shall meet. Practice is an inward-directed, deeply private affair in which the Ashtangi gets on the mat, pays attention to the breath and bandhas and drishti, and the body simply does whatever outward expression of the asana it is capable of doing on that particular day. A demonstration, on the other hand, is a public show of asana prowess designed to impress and attract the attention of the audience. Presumably, the Ashtangi who is doing the demonstration would have internalized the tristhana sufficiently so that breath, bandhas, and drishti kick in automatically to protect him or her from possible injury. But this still doesn't change the fact that the goal of a demonstration is very different from the "goal" of practice.

Of course, as I said earlier, there is nothing wrong with doing asana demonstrations. Indeed, as I also said earlier, there are occasions where such demonstrations serve a very useful purpose in the bigger scheme of things. Maybe what this all means is that I am not ready at this point in my practice career to give asana demonstrations. I'm totally cool with that; I don't really have a burning desire to demonstrate my, uh, asana prowess anyway.

But enough about me. This may be a good time for me to invite you to share your views and/or experiences in this area. Have you ever demonstrated asanas for your friends or perfect strangers outside of a yoga class? How do you feel about doing such demonstrations?       

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Over the last couple of weeks, as I added the leg-behind-head postures to my practice, I have also almost simultaneously discovered that Kapotasana seems to have gotten more difficult for me. It just seems to take a more lot effort to get my hands to my heels in the pose; I'm not sure if this is due to tighter shoulders, not enough engagement in the thighs and front body, or something else altogether that I am as yet unaware of. In any case, I have heard quite a few stories of Ashtangis getting less deep in Kapo because of the shoulder-strengthening/tightening effect that doing the second half of second series (the LBH postures and the arm balances such as Karandavasana) tends to have on the body. According to these same Ashtangis, the effect is supposed to be temporary, and one should, ideally, get back the depth of one's backbend in time. Of course, in yoga terms, "temporary" could be Dirgha Kala--long, long time. Oh well...

Of course, if you are familiar with the concept of Vairagyabhyam (non-attachment), you will know that getting or not getting one's heels in Kapo (or getting anything physically, really) is not the goal of the practice; the goal, if there is one, is to try one's best, smile (or shrug), and then move on to the next posture in the sequence in accordance with the vinyasa count. And try again tomorrow, and see what happens. And then rinse, repeat, and try yet again the day after tomorrow.

However, it is one thing to lecture other people (or even lecture myself) about vairagyabhyam; actually putting it into practice during practice is quite another. Despite my most rational efforts to remind myself of the virtue of vairagyabhyam, I still find myself trying very hard to get my deepest Kapotasana every single time I get to that pose. I know, I know, I totally suffer from Kapo-attachment/obsession, even though I try not to let on on this blog that I do. Well, now you know...

Anyway, earlier today, I had to break my no-watching-Kapo-videos rule. I guess I should tell you something about this bizarre rule: I impose this rule on myself, because I have this idea that if I watch Kapo videos, I will tend to form an image in my mind of the person in the video doing Kapo when it comes time for me to actually do Kapo during my own practice. It's hard enough to do this formidable posture in my own body. Why make it harder by also picturing somebody else doing the same posture at the same damned time that I am doing it?

Especially if that somebody else goes by the name of Kino MacGregor. Anyway, as I was saying, earlier today, I finally had to break my no-watching-Kapo-videos rule, because I really needed to get some ideas as to why my Kapo is getting harder to do, and see if there is any way to make it, well, less hard. So I went Youtubing, and the first video that came up on my list was Kino's recent video. Damn! Now I know I probably won't be able to make any Kapo videos for Dirgha Kala (not that I would want to...): In the video below, Kino goes into Kapo, grabs her heels, and talks you through it the whole time like she is taking a stroll through the park. I would be huffing and puffing like a (sacred?) cow. But as always, Kino does have some very useful advice for the posture. Two points are particularly pertinent:

(1) Firm the thighs, and ground the knees firmly into the ground to set up a firm foundation for the posture. This also takes pressure away from the lumbar spine.

(2) Allow the belly/abdominal muscles to release, and draw them up and away from the pelvis.

Now, why do I have this bad feeling that I am not going to be able to get this image of Kino going leisurely into Kapo out of my mind when it comes time to do Kapo during tomorrow's practice? Well, we'll see what happens then... Oh, and by the way, here's the video. Enjoy.

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Claudia has recently posted the latest conference notes with Sharath from Mysore, as complied by Megan Riley. They are very compelling to read, providing a wealth of invaluable insights for a home practitioner like me. In what follows, I will reproduce his words (as transcripted by Megan) in bold, followed by some neither-here-nor-there comments from me.

As always, Sharath covers a range of topics. In particular, he talks about the bandhas at some length during this conference, starting with an overview of the bandhas and their significance:

Why are bandhas important?  Sharath explained that many manuscripts refer to the bandhas and he himself refers to what Shankaracharya has written based upon experience and what he learned from his guru.  They are important techniques to keep longevity of life.  Sharath said, though there is not documentation linking bandhas to the phenomena of saints and yogis living much longer than we do today, he would figure that their ability to live for well over 100 years (1,000 years!) was due to their use of these techniques.  Though there are many bandhas, we use three regularly.  Jalandhara Bandha (demonstrated by dropping his chin) is used mostly for Pranayama.  In Mula Bandha we contract the anus and lift up.  Uddiyana Bandha is activated below the navel in the lower abdomen.

Very interesting. I think what Sharath says here speaks to my own experience of the practice thus far. When I first started doing primary series a few years ago, I would feel rather tired after practice, and my energy level tended to be low for the rest of the day. But now, I feel that practice actually helps me to maintain a constant level of energy throughout the day, so that I experience spikes and dips in energy levels less frequently, and when they do occur, they also tend not to be so pronounced. 

I have no way of proving this, but I have a feeling that the relationship between the practice and my energy level started to change when I ceased to see doing the practice as merely physical exercise, and more as a breathing/energetic practice. My personal theory is that when I became more aware of the practice as an exercise in breathing and moving energy through the system, I also began to engage the bandhas more without being fully conscious of it. And bandhas, as we know, are locks which serve to "lock" in our energy, preventing energy leakage. Hence the improvement in my energy levels. And if Sharath is right, I might just live to be a hundred (maybe even a thousand? Hahaha...) if I keep on with my practice. At any rate, I can hope ;-) Damn! Can you imagine people reading Yoga in the Dragon's Den a thousand years from now? Mind-blowing.... 

Anyway, Sharath has more to say about the breath and the bandhas: 

Who is the source for this breath?  God is the source.  Therefore, the supreme energy is the source of our bandhas.  Mula Bandha should be done sitting, walking, all of the time.  Sharath paused to add that it is done all of the time except a few times.  He said “I don’t have to explain this” and laughed.  Bandhas take time—there is no quick one month certificate for Mula Bandha.  Bandhas will help the asanas to develop energy inside us and bring stability to the body and mind.  Some asanas are also good for developing the bandhas.  Navasana, Utpluthih, and lifting up in our jumpbacks help us to strengthen the bandhas.  This is why he makes us do them longer in led practices.  Also, he added, it is fun for him.  He goes on to demonstrate other places where we can work the bandhas properly.  He demoed the jumpback from Utkatasana (not a half handstand but more of a lift of the lower body) and from Virabhadrasana I (same but with one leg behind).  These were not high lifts but very controlled.  Sharath attempted an advanced posture but said he should wait because he had breakfast already.  Finally, he got into Padmasana and showed us how to draw in the lower belly.  He said he sees many students allowing the lower belly to move quite a bit while breathing.  The breath should be free, without struggle, breathing only with the lungs.

Very interesting. I think what he says here about the bandhas helping the asanas to develop energy inside us confirms my personal theory above about the relationship between seeing the practice as a breathing/energetic practice and engaging the bandhas. If you treat asana practice as a purely physical set of exercises, then its benefits for you will be limited to the level of the physical. In order to draw upon the energetic benefits of the practice, one has to shift the way one approaches the practice, because what happens on the level of our minds affects what happens (or does not happen) on the energetic level. At any rate, this is my theory. 

I like what he says about Navasana and Utplutih helping to strengthen the bandhas. I've noticed over the years that quite a few senior teachers like to make people hold these postures for longer in led practices. Well, now I know they are not doing this just because they like to see the suffering expressions on our faces :-) 

And one more thing: All this talk of bandhas is making me curious about what Sharath would have to say about using the image of breathing through the anus as a way of engaging the bandhas. Somebody in Mysore right now should seriously ask him this question... but maybe this is asking too much of folks in Mysore. After all, I don't know if I would be able to muster the courage to ask this question without coming across as being mischievous or even downright disrespectful, if I were in Mysore myself. Well, I guess there's only one way to find out, right?... But anyway, if any of you people who are in Mysore right now are reading this, maybe you can see if you can find a way to ask this question in a respectful way during the next conference? I'm really curious as to what he would say about this...

Earlier today, I watched the above video of a speech that Guruji gave in Lille, France in October 1991. Many thanks to Grimmly for posting it on his blog. Having never met Guruji myself, this is actually the longest speech by him that I have heard. I tend to have little patience for watching lengthly videos of people talking on Youtube; which is why I never saw any previous videos of his speeches that are out there in cyberspace. I know, very unbecoming behavior for an Ashtanga Fundamentalist, right? :-) 

Guruji has a certain compelling presence. He is not fiery or verbally eloquent in the way in which Mr. Iyengar is, but he does have a way of getting your attention, even though his English is rather halting. He talks at great length in this video about yoga practice as a method of curing diseases of the mind and body. In particular, somewhere between the fourteenth and nineteenth minutes of the video, he goes into great length about how the practice is beneficial for people with diabetes. I'm not sure I got everything (I'll probably watch this again soon), but I understand him to be saying that particular postures in primary series such as the Janu Sirsasanas (A, B, and C) and the Marichyasanas, as well as Baddha Konasana, are good for treating diabetes, especially if one does the practice daily for at least six months. At least, that's what I understood him to be saying. But maybe if you have some time, you can watch this video too, and tell me if I am understanding him correctly. Thanks in advance!      

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I just read the conference notes from the last two conferences with Sharath (September 9th and September 2nd) in Mysore that Megan has very judiciously taken, and which Claudia has very generously shared in a recent post.

Sharath says a lot about a whole bunch of topics, including asana, pranayama, kriya techniques and japa. Since my personal practice is wholly an asana practice, I found myself focusing more on what he has to say about asana. I guess I'm one of those people in the blogosphere who are still in the asana-obsession stage... Well, whatever. I fully embrace my obsession :-).  I did read the rest, and found them interesting, but since I don't practice these other things, they are, at this point, merely of academic interest to me. So, in order to be in good faith, I'll just share what Sharath says about asana in bold below, along with some of my own thoughts and commentary. If you want to read the rest of the conference notes, read Claudia's post.

"There are millions of asanas and only God knows them all.  They are named for many living beings.  We know only a few but think we are masters. The asanas in our practice are divided into three different levels—primary series, intermediate series, and advanced series.  Sharath explained that a new student can’t just begin with advanced series.  Preliminary asanas are there first to gain good health and flexibility.  Changes come to prepare us for the next asana, the next series.  We should be patient.  Sometimes we seek out teachers who give many asanas quickly and think they will be very good teachers but it’s all just marketing."

"Sharath referred to Abhyasa, a daily and consistent practice, as a reason we can develop stability in the body and mind. Some students come in flexible as noodles but have no strength.  Others need flexibility.  Guruji said if we did an asana 1,000 times we can perfect that asana.  Backbending drop backs are important first because they require much strength in the back and the legs.  This prepares us to do intermediate backbending like Kapotasana.  We should not rush these openings.  We should give it time because rushing will always cause injuries.  Sharath relayed that he was in one asana for two years.  Guruji would sit on a stool and do his prayers near Sharath while he practiced.  For two years he ended at the same posture.  One day Guruji looked up and said he should do the next one.  Being patient gives us time to get balanced. If we begin doing handstands too soon, it makes the shoulders too tight for Kapotasana, for example."

I think I can relate to at least some of what Sharath is saying here. Due to certain circumstances, I have been practicing the same postures (full primary plus second up to Ardha Matsyendrasana) for almost a year now. From a purely external point of view, there may not seem to be much progress. But over the last year or so, I have come to feel that doing a daily asana practice is very much like cooking something in a slow cooker (ha! another food analogy. I seem to be using food analogies a lot lately ;-)): The longer you "cook" your body in a particular sequence of asanas, the more the juices and spices and all that good stuff gets absorbed by the body, and your body (and mind) will attain a particular "fragrance" and "good taste." Moreover, doing the same sequence of postures for an extended period of time also allows your body to understand the postures on a very visceral level; in this way, one gradually develops the intelligence of the body.

Here's another way to think about this. There will be times in one's practice journey when one is given a whole bunch of postures by one's teacher in a short time. But after a certain period of time, one will naturally reach a "saturation point" where one cannot receive any more new postures safely without first "digesting" and incorporating the postures one already has, by practicing these postures repeatedly for a period of time. From my experience, it is not always easy to discern when exactly one has reached such a point. Ideally, if one is practicing with great self-awareness under the guidance of a capable teacher, one will be able to see this point coming before one even gets there, and know when to stop trying to master new postures that are beyond one's grasp. But things don't always work out so nicely: Very often, either the student or the teacher (or both) are overzealous, and try to squeeze too many postures into the student's practice before the student is ready for them. When this happens, the universe will tell the student that he or she has reached this point in no uncertain and often painful terms: Injury, pain, or a general sense of unease and imbalance results. (Gee, how do I know this?...) Which is unfortunate. But on the flip side, this also means that we shouldn't allow ourselves to be discouraged by pain or injury or other such obstacles in the asana practice. Rather, we should heed the message that these obstacles are sending us, and adjust our practice accordingly. In fact, Sharath himself has such an experience to share, as we will see in the following:

"Due to the things we’ve done to the body before our asana practice, we might be working through a lot of stiffness.  Asana makes us free from all of this but during the transition there may be aches and pains in the body. We should practice but we should be careful.  Do not push too much until we feel better.  We don’t respect asana sometimes.  Using himself as an example, he recounted his earlier days in Eka Pada Rajakapotasana.  He thought he could do deeper and deeper until he injured his shoulder.  He demoed for Guruji the next day even though he was injured.  After that day he practiced slowly and was very careful.  It healed and he became more flexible.  He cautioned that we should go slowly, let the body change, and don’t rush it.  Flexibility will come.  When doing this practice, exercises and sports can make us more stiff and susceptible to injury.  He joked that there is no need for other activity unless we really like it and, then, we can do that once in awhile.  He said, in his experience, injuries or pains that we get by asana, asana can heal." 

I suspect that that last sentence ("injuries or pains that we get by asana, asana can heal") is the sort of thing that gets misinterpreted by many Ashtanga-bashers out there, giving Ashtanga a bad rep. But, although I obviously have a lot less experience in this area than Sharath, I can also attest to the truth of this sentence in my own way. When I first started Kapotasana, I had quite a bit of pain in my lower back. Through persistent and careful practice, the pain went away. here's another example: Last year, I injured my left knee. Through a gradual process of bringing more awareness to the surroundings muscles (external rotators, adductors and quadriceps), I was able to heal the injury while opening the eyes of these surrounding muscles, allowing me to create greater opening in many postures. For instance, over the last couple of weeks, as I was getting in Mari D on the first side, my left hip felt so open that I can almost believe that I can get the non-half-lotus foot across to the other side of the knee that is in half-lotus, and get into Purna Matsyendrasana. Not that I'm going to try, of course... :-) But I guess what I'm trying to say here is that injury can become the doorway to greater opening, if one doesn't get discouraged, and works patiently with one's body.

Well, that was quite a lot of asana-talk for one post, wasn't it? I guess I'll end here with my favorite bit from the conference notes. Sharath says:

"Everyone wants to rush now, get authorization quickly, but our aim should be to learn first, and this is why self-study becomes important.  Now we may see someone do handstands on a DVD and think they know what they are doing.  He pointed out that even his young son can do handstands." 

'Nuff said. 

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I just read this recent post by Patrick Nolan, in which he talks about there being a dialetheia of progress in the practice of Ashtanga yoga. The general idea is that in the course of our practice, we are often bombarded with two common truisms ("dialetheia" being a combination of the Greek words "di" ("two", "double") and "Aletheia" ("truth"), hence "double truths" or "double truisms". Just so you know, I wrote all this without googling or wikipedia-ing anything. Knowing a little Greek is nice for times like this :-)).

Roughly, these two common truisms are (1) Asana is important, and you need to work really hard to attain mastery in asana if you are going to get anywhere on the path of practice, and (2) Asana is not important; yoga isn't about attaining this or that asana. It's about the process which leads to ethical and spiritual growth as a human being.

Many practitioners may feel that there is a powerful tension, even a contradiction, between (1) and (2). How can asana be both important and not important at the same time? Or is asana important at certain times and under certain circumstances, and maybe not so important under other times and other circumstances? How important is dropping back into and standing up from a backbend--or, for that matter, any particular posture that I find very challenging and which seems impossible right now--to my yogic journey? Comparing this dialetheia of yoga practice to a similar dialetheia in 12-step programs, Patrick has this to say:

"In 12-step programs, pretty much everybody falls off at some point or another.  When that happens, one (hopefully) gets back on the wagon and tries again.  So there is a duality here.  One tries, earnestly, to do something which is basically impossible.  This leads some to emphasize the process as opposed to the goal.  Indeed, "progress, not perfection" is one of the myriad 12-step slogans.  Another 12-step slogan is "easy does it."  Too much emphasis on process, though, and you can lose sight of the goal completely.  Still another slogan, in rebuttal to the aforementioned one, is "easy does it, but you gotta do it."  For addicts, too much emphasis on the goal can lead to an endless cycle of failure (both actual and perceived), guilt, and then resentment.  On the other hand, addicts who put too much emphasis on process at the expense of the goal might continue to fuck up, harming themselves and others, with no accountability.

In yoga practice, less direly, emphasis on process can mean stagnation and ultimately, resignation... The yoga that I do is Ashtanga Vinyasa yoga as taught by Sri K Pattabhi Jois.  It is a system of hatha yoga, which means that asana is the point of departure into investigating ethical principles, the mind, spirituality, etc.  Although I don't really practice them any more so I can't say for sure, this should also be true of other systems of hatha yoga as well,eg, Sivananda, Iyengar, Viniyoga, etc., etc.  I'll repeat: asana is the point of departure.  Therefore it behooves a practitioner of any hatha yoga system to be acutely involved in his asana practice. He or she should always strive for improvement and growth.  Progress and striving can be good.  So it confuses me when I keep reading over and over again in places like Recovering Yogi and Elephant Journal complaints about yoga teachers who supposedly place too much emphasis on asana.  The complaints are typically along the lines of: "Yoga isn't just about asana, and anybody who emphasizes asana can only be somebody who doesn't have the intellectual and/or emotional means to get the deeper spiritual dimensions of the tradition."  I find this attitude insulting.  I'm over it.  To paraphrase the speaker at the 12-step meeting:  if you think it's not about asana, try working at asana.  And furthermore, if you have a yoga teacher who says its not about asana, chances are his own asana practice is deficient." 
 
I think that last sentence there ("if you have a yoga teacher who says its not about asana, chances are his own asana practice is deficient") is a bit harsh and quite possibly a sweeping generalization. I also don't know enough (quite honestly, I know nothing) about 12-step programs to be able to say whether Patrick's comparison is an apt one.

But all in all, I think that Patrick's main point is well-taken. Asana, as he mentions, is the point of departure. Personally, I prefer to call it the foundation and the starting point of the practice, but I think it all comes down to the same thing in the end. B.K.S Iyengar expresses this point very nicely in an interview he gave some years back . His interviewer was peppering him left and right with questions about what enlightenment is. Finally, Mr. Iyengar got a little impatient, stuck out his hand, and said, "If you can't even hold this hand in proper alignment, how can you talk about enlightenment?" (Note to reader: I'm feeling a little too lazy right now to go You-tubing to hunt down that video, but maybe some of you Iyengar folks out there may know which video this is. I'm pretty sure I didn't make this up :-)).

I don't think there is much more I can add to this: It's very difficult to trump Mr. Iyengar when it comes to immediacy and clarity in making a point. The general idea is that we are all embodied beings, and being embodied beings, the most natural place to start to work with ourselves and attain control over our selves is with the body. Hence, again, asana is the starting point/point of departure.

But I just thought of a slightly different way of approaching the same point. Actually, this may prove to be a more apt way of getting the point across to many people, since I seem to be attracting a lot of foodies to my blog lately (see previous post for more on this). Think about it this way. Suppose life were a big dinner in a nice restaurant, and suppose the goal of life is to taste and rate every single item on this restaurant's menu accurately, without rating it too highly or too lowly. (So yes, I am comparing the yoga journey to being a food critic, if you haven't already noticed ;-)). In order to do your job as a food critic successfully, you have to train your tastebuds by exposing it to a very wide variety of different tastes and flavors. If your taste buds are only exposed to sweet things and nothing else, you won't be able to judge salty or sour flavors. If you have never exposed your tastebuds to spicy food, they won't be able to accurately rate foods that are spicy. Same goes for life and the asana practice: If you never push and strive very hard to attain a particular asana (and attain the asana/s in question at least some of the time), you won't be able to understand what it means to put your body through intense physical and mental struggle. And intense physical and mental struggle is a big part of life and the yogic journey.

Well, I hope my restaurant/food critic analogy works. Actually, it's starting to look like Mr. Iyengar's and Patrick's ways of putting the point across are clearer and more succinct... Oh well. this will have to do for now. I've got other things to go do for today. Can't spend the whole day polishing one example in one blog post... More later.   

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I'm guessing that some of you out there might be getting a little sick of reading my quotes from Eckhart Tolle in my posts over the last two weeks. Well, if you are... I'm sorry that you are. But I blog about what I am thinking about, and what I am thinking about at any given moment is often informed by what I am reading at the time. But I don't just randomly quote what I am reading either. I try to pick quotes that are more or less yoga-related, or can be related to the practice in one way or another.

But anyhow, I read something in A New Earth yesterday that really pertains very directly to the practice. Tolle talks about cultivating inner body awareness as a way of moving beyond identification with the body. Through cultivating inner body awareness, you can gradually shift your attention "from the external form of your body and from thoughts about your body--beautiful, ugly, strong, weak, too fat, too thin--to the feeling of aliveness inside it. No matter what your body's appearance is on the outer level, beyond the outer form it is an intensely alive energy field."

Tolle continues:

'If you are not familiar with "inner body" awareness, close your eyes for a moment and find out if there is life inside your hands. Don't ask your mind. It will say, "I can't feel anything." Probably it will also say, "Give me something more interesting to think about." So instead of asking your mind, go to the hands directly. By this I mean become aware of the subtle feeling of aliveness inside them. It is there. You just have to go there with your attention to notice it. You may get a slight tingling sensation at first, then a feeling of energy or aliveness. If you hold your attention in your hands for a while, the sense of aliveness will intensify... Then go to your feet, keep your attention there for a minute or so, and begin to feel your hands and feet at the same time. Then incorporate other parts of the body--legs, arms, abdomen, chest, and so on--into that feeling until you are aware of the inner body as a global sense of aliveness.'

Lying in bed last night, I tried this exercise in inner body awareness, starting with the hands and feet and then moving into the rest of the body, as Tolle suggests. It felt really good to be so aware of the entire body. Actually, the feeling is a bit similar to the kind of calm feeling that I get during my acupuncture sessions. I'm starting to think that this inner body awareness may be what Taichi practitioners are trying to cultivate when they work on cultivating chi or life energy during their Taichi exercises. Very interesting.

This morning, I also tried to see if I can bring the same level of inner body awareness to the practice. Starting from Ekam position in Surya A, I brought my attention to the hands as I raised them over my head. And then to the hands and the feet as I went into downward dog in Shad position. I was able to maintain a reasonably high level of body awareness throughout Suryas A and B. And then, without quite knowing it, I lost this awareness as I went into more challenging postures. I realized that, without knowing it, as I got further into the practice and encountered more challenging postures, my focus had shifted from simply being aware of the body to using the body to do this or that posture. In other words, I had shifted from a state of simply being to a state of doing; in so doing, I was no longer so aware of the body as it simply is. Or, to put it in slightly more fancy terms, I was no longer with the is-ness of the body in the present moment.

Herein lies the dilemma: For most of us, the practice consists of postures of varying degrees of physical difficulty. Thus it seems that for most of us, the only way to be totally aware of the body as it is in the present moment without asking or expecting anything of it would be to stop the practice at the precise moment when it becomes physically challenging. But that would mean that most of us would have to do practices that are way shorter than what they are right now. For me, I might have to stop practicing somewhere around Utthita or Parivrtta Parsvakonasana! I mean, I'm not sure if it would ever be possible for me to do, say, Kapotasana while being totally present in every part of the body as it is without asking or expecting anything of it. Then again, isn't this what Sthira Sukha Asanam ("Asana is effort without tension, relaxation without dullness") mean? Maybe it will come one day. Dirgha Kala...

Do you have any thoughts on this? How do you balance (i) being with the body in the present moment and (ii) getting the body to do this or that challenging posture in the practice?    

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Literally. During the finishing backbends this morning, I tried to follow Kino's instructions in her recent video as closely as possible in order to grab my ankles in Chakrabandhasana (see this post). First, I grabbed my left ankle while keeping the right hand firmly grounded in the mat. Then I grabbed my right ankle while keeping the left hand firmly grounded in the mat. Finally, I walked both my hands towards the ankles and grabbed them. I succeeded in grabbing both ankles for one (maybe two) breaths, before I felt something pull my entire body forward... Next thing I knew, I found myself on my knees, like a samurai waiting to be beheaded.

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