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First, some not-so-pleasant news: It appears that my SI joint has gone out again. It happened in a very surreal way during practice this morning. I was getting into Marichyasana B on the second side. As I bent forward to get into the pose, I noticed that my body seemed seriously out of whack. Somehow, the leg that is in lotus (the right leg) seems to be pointed away from the body at an angle that is wider than usual. And then I looked around, and realized that my right pelvis was tilted way further forward than my left. At almost the same instant, I felt this pulling sensation around the area of the left SI joint. "S%$t! F&%k! Quick, correct this before it is too late!" I remember telling myself (Please excuse my French, Claudia). So saying, I immediately shifted the right leg closer to my body, so that the two sides of the pelvis could come into better alignment.

But too late it was, as Yoda would say. By the time I shifted my pelvis into the correct alignment, the damage had already been done. For the rest of the practice, I felt this aching sensation in that left SI area whenever I did twists on the second side (for instance, Pasasana on the second side). Backbends didn't seem to be affected; I still did my usual deep kapotasana and dropbacks without incident. And Supta Padangusthasana B (the one where you bring the leg out to the side) turned out to be heavenly: It felt really good and healing on the SI joint.

Anyway, right now, I can't seem to sit for more than a few minutes without feeling that dull ache in that left SI joint area. The good thing, I suppose, is that this is not the first time my SI joint has gone out. I don't want to jinx myself by saying this, but experience tells me that a couple of weeks of careful practice should straighten this out. But then again, my experience with this part of my body also tells me that sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. Which means that I may be looking forward (?) to more pain coming in the next few days. Yikes...

What caused this to happen? The immediate explanation, of course, is that I wasn't paying enough attention in Mari B. Okay... but why wasn't I paying attention? To be honest, I was feeling rather tired and sluggish this morning (I ate a late dinner of white pasta with eggplant last night after my evening class... bad man!), but decided to go ahead and practice anyway. Hmm... maybe I should have taken the day off...

But I also have another nagging suspicion. Is there any astrological explanation out there which says that Leap Year Days are bad/inauspicious days? Yesterday, for instance, a bunch of crazy things happened where I was. First, there was a snow storm, and day classes were cancelled at the university where I teach. And then the barista who worked at the coffeeshop in my apartment complex fell and threw her back out (hmm... was that a premonition of things to come? Should have heeded it...). As a result of which, she was walking funny, as Guruji might say. Except not in a good way. I hope she heals soon.

And then, in a (supposedly) unrelated incident, somebody I know almost got arrested for petty theft yesterday. She had gone to the gas station to fill up her car. When she went in to the cashier to pay for the gas, she realized to her horror that she didn't have sufficient funds in her checking account! The cashier took her driver's license and took down the registration number of her car. I happened to be around when she came into the coffeeshop panicking and telling everybody what just happened, and I went with her to the gas station to help her pay for the gas and get her driver's license back. Was what the cashier did borderline illegal, or is it just me?

Anyway, sorry to bore you with all these details. But I'm just trying to show you how crazy the last 48 hours of my life have been. I don't believe much in astrology, but I can't help getting the sense that some kind of energy wackage is occurring in the universe--at least, in my corner of the universe--and that all of this wackiness has something to do with the fact that yesterday was Leap Year Day.

Does it? Or is it just me (and my little corner of the universe)?     

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“I look up at the sky, wondering if I'll catch a glimpse of kindness there, but I don't. All I see are indifferent summer clouds drifting over the Pacific. And they have nothing to say to me. Clouds are always taciturn. I probably shouldn't be looking up at them. What I should be looking at is inside of me. Like staring down into a deep well. Can I see kindness there? No, all I see is my own nature. My own individual, stubborn, uncooperative often self-centered nature that still doubts itself--that, when troubles occur, tries to find something funny, or something nearly funny, about the situation. I've carried this character around like an old suitcase, down a long, dusty path. I'm not carrying it because I like it. The contents are too heavy, and it looks crummy, fraying in spots. I've carried it with me because there was nothing else I was supposed to carry. Still, I guess I have grown attached to it. As you might expect.”

Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

Haruki Murakami is one of my favorite writers. I don't quite know how to characterize his writing. All of his novels and short stories feature ordinary people who start out facing seemingly ordinary everyday issues (cat getting lost, a teenage boy running away from home, etc.); issues which quickly metamorphosize into bizarre, surreal situations in which the everyday gets inextricably mixed up with the other-worldly, in which the protaganists (and the reader) are forced to question the very meaning of their everyday existences.

I often feel that Murakami's writing is yogic without the woo; through his writing, he induces the same kind of subtly powerful soul-searching and reflection that yoga practice often brings up. However, he does not pull any punches in doing so. He does not pretend that the universe is anything more than an indifferent spectator of the foibles and flaws of the human condition. Yet through it all, there is a certain compassionate tone that underlies his writing, making what might otherwise be unbearable seem bearable, even funny. My favorite novels by him are The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and Kafka on the Shore. I highly recommend them.

Murakami's work brings up one question for me: Is the universe indifferent to human suffering? What is the yogic perspective on this question? I suspect that many newcomers to yoga are attracted to yoga because yoga, at least as it is presented in the west, often gives one the impression that there is a universe that is inherently compassionate, nurturing and caring; all you have to do is to evoke the appropriate mantras, and maybe light the appropriate kind of incense, turn on the appropriate kind of soft lighting and soothing music in yoga class, and that all-pervading feel-good feeling will wash off onto you and follow you everywhere when you step off the mat and into the world.

Ashtanga practice, of course, is nothing like that. There is no music, and (usually) no incense. All you can hear is the sound of your own breathing and those of others (if you practice in a mysore room), accompanied by the incessant chattering of your own chitta vrtti, which tends to get louder and more persistent when you approach postures that you find challenging. All you can smell (if anything) is the smell of your own sweat and that of others (again, if you practice in a mysore room). And there is no teacher to lead the class and tell you that everything is all good and will be okay. You have to listen to your own breath and body, and judge for yourself if anything is not so good or not so okay, and then decide how to respond.

With all of this responsibility placed squarely onto the practitioner, one sometimes wonders where the universe stands in all of this. This is especially so when one is facing difficulties in the practice (injuries or illness, major life changes which bring up strong emotions, etc.). Amid the frustration and sweat and tears, looking up at the clouds (or, in this case, looking up at the ceiling of the practice room) for a glimpse of kindness, one seems to see only one's own frustration reflected back onto oneself. And the only things one can do is to either get off the mat and call it a day, or continue to stare inside of oneself, see all the ugliness that is there in all its full glory, accept it for what it is, and try to work with it as best as one can. In such moments, one cannot help (at least, I cannot help) but wonder: What is the universe doing? Is it just standing around somewhere, spectating with benign indifference at my clumsy attempts to come to terms with myself? If the universe is kind or compassionate, where is this kindness or compassion?

And these moments where one senses the universe's seeming indifference do not end when one gets off the mat. One feels them in everyday life too; in particularly, one feels them especially acutely in those moments where one feels that despite one's best efforts, things seem to be going in the reverse direction: It's as if one's inner computer is offline and disconnected from the rest of the universe, which seems to continue to hum merrily along while one vainly spins one's wheels in the ditch of futility.

Fortunately, most of the time, for most of us, the universe seems to be operating in a state of at least tolerable connectedness to us. It might still be indifferent, for all we know; and we know that there are always problems and issues lurking in the background. But we get by. Seen in this light, perhaps the Ashtanga practice is really a sort of magnifying glass. When one is on the mat, one deliberately places oneself in a situation where one has more opportunities than usual to get offline with the universe; these opportunities most often present themselves in the form of injuries, illness or even challenging postures. The challenge here is whether one can maintain a certain level of composure and equanimity in the face of such "offlineness" and disconnectedness. Will I face these "offline" and disconnected feelings, learn to be with them, or will I simply stand up, get off the mat, and [insert your favorite "comfort activity"]?

Well, there are no easy answers. But on a very, very different note, here's some other news: I will be in Portland, Oregon on the weekend of November 4th to 6th. I will be presenting a philosophy paper on procrastination at a philosophy conference at Lewis and Clark College. There aren't too many jobs in which you can get paid for thinking, writing and speaking about procrastination :-) It's things like this that make me feel that academia is a nice place to be in, despite whatever other issues there might be with it (I'm not going there...). Well, maybe the universe isn't so indifferent to me, after all :-) Anyway, I expect that my schedule will be really packed during the day. But I'm hoping to be able to go to at least one early-morning Ashtanga class while I'm there. So I'm going to start looking online for Ashtanga studios in the area. If any of you out there live in Portland or the surrounding area, and would like to hang out with me/practice with me/tell me about interesting places to practice Ashtanga/tell me about interesting places to eat at/whatever, please get in touch with me. I'll love to hear from you.            

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