Spring comes back to us, and lies down in the bed of winter. There are still flurries of snow in mid-March, but the promise of warm days are airborne. The children come home for their spring break, reminding us that they still long for their original nest; but we also see the independence that is broad across their back. The migration to the East End stretches weekends into months in our reach into the Hamptons’ summer.

In yoga, our front body is open and vulnerable like the coming spring, and it projects the pouring of light and sound into the amphitheater of our back body. We use backbends like flowers use the earth: we root into the ground with our back body—down into our tailbone, and then down into our heels—as we open up the petals of our heart and lungs. The front of our chest is a greenhouse window that magnifies the light of the sun and bakes the magic of the universe into the stem of our body, our sushumna nadi.

The naming of backbends is elusive, because the real direction of movement is down and up. For example, in upward-bow pose we root straight down with our feet and our hands as our sacrum and our shoulder blades rise up. Our front body continues to relax onto our broad, lifted, and supported back body: it remains open and receptive. This is more than a gymnastic, architectural shape; it is a psychological willingness to meet life full on, a receptivity to the song of now and all that now has to deliver, whether or not it agrees with us. It is a willingness to open the iron curtain that fictitiously protects our hearts and minds from the dangers of the outside world.

Like flowers, we are the rain and the sun, and we can lie back into the earth, our original nest, and spring forth with our innate spirit, full of beauty and magnificence. As we meet spring, we can root into our center and anchor into the essence of our “beingness.”

May coming home to Yoga Shanti be a celebration of the art of being, through the tools of yoga: asana, pranayama, and meditation. See you soon.

Recently, I’ve found myself in a confusing place. I used to spend much of my time “listening to my own heart” and “serving my heart”—or what I thought of as my heart. I’d close my eyes and feel my desires, bow my head to the center of my chest and connect with something that felt peaceful, soft, and still. I really felt like I knew where and what my heart was. Now, since my daughter, Harbor, was born just about a year ago, I literally watch my heart crawling around and interacting with the environment from every angle. Rolling on the floor, playing with food, calling out, smiling, crying, laughing, and sleeping, it is existing without any interference from my head, and it is absolutely the purest most beautiful thing I know. The strange thing is that I don’t even recognize it as the heart that I felt like I knew so well.

Now I’m on the ferry making my way back home to Shelter Island thinking about how foreign everything feels when I’m not with Harbor. Where is my heart (the one I’ve gotten to see clearly now with my head out of the picture)? Here are some places I’ve found my heart since asking the question:

My sacrum in virabhadrasana I.

The unadulterated sunlight coming through a clear sky after days of cold damp rain and cold.

A moment of forgiveness after a misunderstanding.

Unrestricted belly breath.

A feeling of sadness after learning of someone else’s misfortune.

Sand in constant movement; wind, waves.

Vibration of Radha sounding in my mouth while chanting.

I no longer understand my heart as some secret place at the center of my chest (although my heart is there, too). Now that I’ve had the chance to see my heart liberated from my mind’s definitions, I know my heart is Atman. Free from attachment, my deepest reality is Atman, the same Atman contained in every object, both living and not, in the universe.

Now I’m watching my heart melt away in a fading heap of snow, feeling the earth swelling with moisture and seeds of spring. “We are all bound like broken mirrored glass. Together we reflect Brahman.”

Happy coming of springtime.

I have a lot to be happy about: I have a thriving kid, good friends, a fun job, and I live in paradise (that is, Sag Harbor). I do yoga five a days a week, I have the best teachers, I am learning constantly. For the first time in my life, I feel peaceful. But you know how it is sometimes: sometimes you’re just blue or tweaked or crabby for no reason.

So I was standing in the middle of a Starbucks in the city the other day, with a latte in my hand, melancholy for no reason. It was freezing out, and I had back-to-back appointments, and the city was hard and loud and rude and I wanted to go home. Then, all of sudden, the 1997 Dylan song “Make You Feel My Love,” sung by Adele, came up on the playlist.

When the rain is blowing in your face,
And the whole world is on your case,
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.

When the evening shadows and the stars appear,
And there is no one there to dry your tears,
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love.

This is a song that Colleen used to play a lot during savasana when I first started coming to Shanti.It’s schmaltzy, but it’s a love song by Bob Dylan, so it’s great too. At the time, when Colleen was playing it a lot, I was at the end of a marriage and pretty much consumed by grief. So I’d lie there in final relaxation, suffering, and I’d listen to this love song, both sweet and sad. Soon I started to associate the song with Colleen and her yoga: first she’d open us up with poses, and then, during savasana, when we were quiet and ready, she’d fill us with love.

Eventually I felt better.

So then the other day I was in Starbucks, feeling tweaked and melancholy, and Dylan’s song, which Colleen doesn’t play much anymore, came over the speakers.

I’d go hungry; I’d go black and blue,
I’d go crawling down the avenue.
No, there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do
To make you feel my love.

On the spot, I was transported to a state of savasana. On the spot, I could feel my whole body relax, and peace was there. What a surprise it was, to be so easily calmed and feel so fully nurtured, out of nowhere. But it wasn’t out of nowhere: Colleen did that: held the space and allowed me to exhale.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Coll, from all of us at Shanti.

In 2006, Rodney and I had the privilege of taking a few classes with Mr. Iyengar. When it came time for headstand, I informed the yoga master that I didn’t do them—I have a seizure disorder, and I always felt it was aggravated by headstands. He told me, in no uncertain terms, to stand on my head now! And I did. I stayed up, and only came down when he said it was time.

By then, the rest of the class had moved on to supta virasana, and, trying to be a good student, I came down from headstand and sat right up to join them. That’s the point at which he slapped my back and said, “That is your problem, not headstand: You transition too quickly and mindlessly. I am sure that you do this in your life as well. You never let anything settle in.” Wow, what an acute teaching for a chronic issue!

Needless to say, the post-headstand seizures have completely stopped. I now stay in child’s pose for the length of time that I have just spent in headstand, and I focus on my exhalation. I dwell and bask in the sweet residue of the pose, and when I move onto the next pose, I am fully there. I feel that loving slap every day when I come out of headstand. More importantly, I also feel that slap during other transitions, both large and small.

We are all in such a hurry, but for what? We move from one thing to another so quickly that absorption is almost impossible. Roshi Joan Halifax says that the “residue”—what’s left just after one thing but before another—is a large part of our lives, and an amazing opportunity. In fact, it could be that it’s during the time of the residue that the mind is most free. But instead of free, we are usually simply mindless, and the moment is wasted.

There is the quiet transition every morning from dark to light as nature begins to stir. The residue of the night still hangs in the air, and the bright daylight is not yet here. The masters say that this is a perfect time to practice pranayama. Instead, though, we mindlessly drag ourselves out of bed, into the shower, and then onto a cup of coffee. We grab our keys and still don’t realize what a blessed gift this breath is.

If we sleep through the transitions, we will spend most of our life asleep. It is funny how fast we can transition from savasana to road rage, from chanting lokah samasta sukinoh bhavantu to gossiping. Can we all hit the pause button and tune in during these precious in-between moments? These are practice for the maha transitions.

The maha transitions can be anything from marriage, to divorce, to menopause, to losing a loved one, to children leaving the house, to retirement, to becoming a mother and then a grandmother, to our own death. The list goes on. How can we transition with grace? How can we dwell mindfully in the residue? How can we use the in-between times to focus on our breath? How can we show up for our life instead of just speeding through it?

Can we use this new year’s reflection to pause and allow the residue to settle in, and the bubbling of gratitude for this breath to surface? Lama Marut says, “Those who cling to the past are doomed to repeat it. I renounce toxic nostalgia, and vow to replace clinging with fond gratitude. Now is the only time we have.”
I humbly bow at the feet Mr. Iyengar, and thank him for the slap that created some awareness in me. I also bow to Roshi Joan Halifax for compassionately passing the same message along as she chants to us:

“Let me respectfully remind you,
Life and death are of supreme importance.
Time swiftly passes by and opportunity is lost.
Each of us should strive to awaken. . .
. .
Awaken,
take heed. Do not squander your life.”

Let’s hold hands and brave this beautiful, crazy life together with a sweet smile and a calm breath.

Happy New Year!

With loving gratitude,

Colleen

My mother loved all holidays but she was especially good at making Christmas an extraordinary event. In the nights leading up to the big day, before going to sleep, my sisters and I would place our slippers on the window sill with hopes that St. Nicholas would leave a gift in them. Each morning we would run to see if he had visited. I can no longer remember what gifts we discovered, I can remember the feel of my chilly, smooth, red leather slippers and the look of absolute joy on my mother’s face, reflecting our wonder at the magical visitation.

Gifts are exciting. They are full of energy and have momentum. They can carry emotional power. At best, they are freely given and fully received. A little something wrapped in paper, tied with a ribbon can be a token of appreciation, a commemoration of time spent together,of energy expended and ideas exchanged. Gifts are a kind of punctuation in a relationship and signify connection.

In terms of our natural born talents, what are these gifts if not shared? In this realm where there might be no concrete object, the line between giving and receiving is less defined, more fluid. Musicians needs listeners, teachers needs students and vice versa. Gratitude is the fulcrum upon which our gifts turn.

The looping exchange of what we have to offer creates the fabric of our community at Yoga Shanti, in other words…our Kula. For me, being part of it really has been the gift that keeps on giving.
In the spirit of the Kula we hope you will join us in helping to brighten the lives of children affected by hurricane Sandy. We will be sponsoring a toy drive. From now until December 20th there will be a box at Yoga Shanti where you can drop off an unwrapped gift for a child age 0-16.

Thank you, every one of you for what you bring to our community.

Unbeknownst to him, Rodney’s question to the mentors at the beginning of last month’s teacher-training weekend was prophetic: “What is grounding?” I thought about it a lot right after he posed the question, even emailing him a short answer that same day. For me, grounding is not only the feeling of having one’s feet on the ground, and a connection to earth; it is also knowing, feeling, and discovering your place in the world, and feeling comfortable and strong in that. I even included a cool quote in my short answer to Rodney on that first day. I can be a real nerd sometimes. 🙂

And then the ground was swept away. Hurricane Sandy brought floods and surges that devastated so many in our area. Most people lost power. Many had trees down and water somewhere.

Our house was unscathed. I was cooking anything and everything as I prepped for the possibility that I may not have the use of an oven for awhile. As friends were texting and facebook posts were alerting us to power outages in different areas, I was roasting and baking and praying: “Please don’t lose power before my banana bread is done.” Our lights flickered several times and even went out for five seconds, twice, but miraculously came on again. By 4 o’clock we were feeling very lucky, so we told a couple of our friends to come to our house for dinner and to bring an overnight bag and their dog so they could spend the night.

By Tuesday morning, the damage left in Sandy’s wake was sobering. Many homes out here were compromised, some beyond repair. The dunes were obliterated. We have dear friends who were supposed to move into their dream home on the ocean on Friday. Their house was dangling. Literally.

Tuesday afternoon, I sent out smoke signals to all of our friends. “We have power. Bring your phones, your iPads, your laptops, your defrosted meat, your dirty selves, and we will have a charging/shower/dinner party. Four families, eight kids, five dogs and countless Mac gadgets showed up. Lots of cooking and chaos and laughter ensued. Wine flowed. Lots of wine.

When the adults finally sat down to eat, we all raised a glass. We were safe and clean and in the company of friends, enjoying home-cooked food and community. One person said, “It takes a storm to finally bring us all together.” I said that I was so grateful that we were all okay and that we were here for each other during this time. This night, for me, was our Thanksgiving dinner. This is what matters.

Later, when we were cleaning up, I looked over at one point to see that all the dads had one of their own children on their shoulders, and they were doing a chicken-fight version of “Ring Around the Rosey.” It was hysterical. And it was a moment that I will never forget for the rest of my life.

When we grow up, move away, and build our lives away from where we were raised, many or most of us don’t have the luxury of having our extended family nearby. But these people, right here, are my “family.” My friends’ young son calls them “framily.” They are friends, but they are more like family. I love that.

So to answer your question, Rodney—on a technical level, grounding is a connection to earth. Grounding is also a technique that often uses the five senses and is designed to immediately connect you with the here and now. For example, listening to loud music, holding onto a piece of ice, or biting into a lemon all produce sensations that are difficult to ignore, thereby directly and instantaneously connecting you with the present moment. Grounding is often used as a way of coping with traumatic or stressful situations, like, say, a hurricane that sweeps through your town.

Why is it that we see so clearly what matters most, when things fall apart? What do we truly hold precious in this life? For me, it’s the simple sound of my son’s breathing in the middle of the night. The weight of my dog, sleeping across my legs. My husband’s unfailing devotion. This community that I love dearly, coming together in times of celebration as well as tragedy.

As for that cool quote I sent to Rod? It was from the Buddha: “The foot feels the foot when it feels the ground.” So even if that ground is unfamiliar, unstable, or temporarily uninhabitable, it is still a source of feedback and a point of reference for our lives. When we know where we stand, we can hold our ground, we can move forward, and we can grow.

I hope you are all enjoying what matters most. Nature is a powerful teacher.

In gratitude,

Kari

Hurricane season is upon us. Some people may feel a sense of anxiety or fear; others feel excitement, and travel from afar to be near.

Imagine bathing in the ocean and all of a sudden a massive wave comes and tosses you around like a rag doll in a washing machine. What do you do? Will you survive? Will you drown?

When people drown in these situations, it is most commonly because they have used up all their oxygen, and are no longer strong enough to keep their mouth closed. The body kicks into a primitive brainstem response called “agonal breathing”—a last-ditch effort to reverse extreme hypoxia. If agonal breathing continues for too long, the ability to keep the mouth shut is lost, the lungs fill with water, and consciousness moves out of the body.

Any big-wave surfer will tell you the trick to surviving this circumstance: first, take your last breath in, ditch whatever you may be holding on to, and dive as deep as you can to try and avoid the white water. If you get caught by the powerful force of the churning pool, allow your body to become limp, and protect your head with your arms, using as little of the body’s oxygen as possible.

This “limpness” is a form of letting go—not just of the muscles, but also the fears of the mind. Lack of faith will cause anxiety, and the estimated hundred-billion neurons in the brain love to use up our precious oxygen during these states of panic. The brain, being only two percent of the body’s weight, uses roughly twenty percent of our energy. Letting go, calmness of mind, and faith are essential if a person is to endure the turmoil of waves—not only out at sea, but also in each moment of our lives.

The choice to let go is within each moment, and it can be made a reality faster than the speed of light. First we must gain awareness of what we are holding onto: what thoughts or perceptions may be causing us to feel anxiety, and what muscles and organs we tend to hold our stress in. The perfect place to start is on our mat. When we remove all the tension, fears, and wasteful anxiety, we can then be fully at peace in the present moment.

May October’s transitions help us all dive deeper into this awareness. May we begin to allow the rough seas in our life help us to see what it is we are really grasping on to. Through this clarity, perhaps we will find joy in the present moment, even in the presence of big waves.

Sometimes I am annoyed by much around me. I say things that could be offensive, and then regret it. I wonder why I even left the house. (“I love mankind—” the American cartoonist Charles Schulz said, “it’s people I can’t stand.”) In my work as an integrative therapist, I was yelled at by a doctor after helping his patient. At home, my kids whine, and demand a third course at dinner when I haven’t even eaten my first. My husband and I often find ourselves arguing about something that is pointless.

And then, at other times, everything seems to flow. I successfully help someone. I have an exchange with another that warms my heart and inspires me. My kids are sharing and picking up after themselves and saying brilliant, thoughtful things. The people that seemed annoying are actually entertaining characters and teachers. The present moment is just right and I am in it.

When opposing feelings and thoughts settle together and there is peace, that is yoga. How do we spend more time feeling content with whatever surrounds us?

Richard Freeman writes that when yoga poses are well-aligned, they feel so good internally that the mind is practically stunned with awe, and the breath flows right up the front of the spine into the spacious radiance of the body’s central axis. The experience is beautiful and sublime. But, he admits, this is rare, and a challenging experience to attain.

To find this place in your practice, explore beyond your comfort zone. Do something out of the ordinary. Pema Chodron says, “Do anything that’s against your usual pattern.” I have been rollerblading, which not only makes me feel like a 1990s throwback—it makes me laugh and sweat and see spectacular Sag Harbor views until someone blasts a horn and I almost fall off the road. It is staggering how quickly bliss turns into annoyance.

One of the re-patterning techniques that is helpful for me is observing the pause at the end of the exhale; another is lying in constructive rest and feeling the whole front body—which usually leads us forward and hardens with fear and determination, giving us neck, back, and hip pains—soften and release into the cradle of the back body. Recently, I saw a sunset from the beach dunes. I still feel the beauty from that in my body and it is settles me.

Through asana, breath, and meditation, our hang-ups, obsessions, stories, and coping mechanisms are revealed and evolve. We may see the humor in the tricks we play. Isn’t it fascinating that as soon as we start judging and criticizing, we are usually guilty of exactly what we are blaming another for?

Of course, it’s not easy, staying open and relaxed during times of turbulence and difficulty; at times it seems impossible. But it is during the hardest of times that our practices can be most profound. I work with sick people in the hospital. I am constantly amazed by the fact that some people can smile and find an element of humor in their predicament, while some are simply bitter. There are events in our lives that can close us, make us angry and numb, or they can teach and inspire us.

Why do we spend so much time being irritated and afraid instead of radiant and sublime? What is the point? We know how it all ends. To be sure, some events seem impossible to weather, but they are coming. So, practice now, practice well.

And, as Pema writes, “Don’t make such a big deal. The seriousness about everything in our lives—including practice—is the world’s greatest killjoy.” Find lightness and humor when you are thrown off. How else do we want to spend our sweet, precious, who-knows-how-much time on this planet? Recently, I heard a great modern yogi respond to why he practices yoga. His response: “So I can still have compassion and humor when I am dying.”

A student once asked me: Are you enlightened?
My answer: If I am it is a big disappointment!

So what is our perception of the person that is enlightened?
Are they wearing a particular style or brand of clothing?
Do they always have a smile on their face?
Is there a slight hush to the sound of their voice when they speak?
Are they living separate from society in a cave or remote setting?

Those could certainly be symptoms of an enlightened person but are they truly the definitive expressions and demeanor of an enlightened being?

The Zen Buddhists have another possible view contained within this statement:
Before enlightenment I chopped wood and carried water.
After enlightenment I chopped wood and carried water.

Expanding upon that definition we could say that the truly enlightened individual is one that is grossly absorbed in the activities and duties of their daily life. Living to the fullest extent their true purpose. With such enlightened activities as getting their children dressed and ready for school. Approaching their job and all actions and encounters that each day has to offer with the greatest of integrity and presence. If truly enlightened the individual does not need to disengage from apparently mundane activities but rather every action becomes an expression of a truly deep understanding of the eternal spiritual nature of all beings and the common inner-connection we all share through the thread of spirit that permeates the fabric of life.

So what is enlightenment and who is enlightened? Does it really matter? Lets say we are all enlightened as of this moment forward! How would it change our life? We must still get on with our daily duties and endeavors. The difference is that no longer would our mind be disturbed by the ups and downs, struggles and joys and the tedium of daily life. Each moment is as important as any other. Every breath we take contains the full potential for enlightenment. It is not in the next level of asana or some future moment in time beyond this very instant. Rather enlightenment is waiting for our recognition of its presence right here in the very fabric of each breath we take, every thought, endeavor and encounter.

Here is a definition of a yogi that I like:
A yogi is one who leaves a place a little nicer than when they arrived.

It is a simple statement with profound significance! It does not matter how much knowledge or ability we have if our interactions are causing pain or suffering to others or the world around us. We may each ask ourselves a simple question. Is the world a better place by our presence in it? Regardless of the system of yoga we practice or the path of self-development we have chosen we must see how we are applying the juice from those activities within our daily existence.

Are we enlightened? That may be the wrong question.

Are we becoming better human beings! Now that is worth contemplating!