Over the weekend, my husband put in a new kitchen door. The new door is all glass, whereas the old door was only half glass. Now, during the endless cycle of loading and unloading the dishwasher, I am bathed in the warmth of the morning sun, and as I look up to put the plates away, the vibrant green of the outside rushes to me. The extra glass has nudged me out of the deep and myopic rut of routine. My perspective is refreshed.

I am reminded of the simple profundity of paying attention. This jolt of realization—that we must pay attention—is not particularly astute, but it is important. As students of yoga, we hear this line so often that it starts to sound trite. However, I think we keep hearing it because it is so difficult to do. It seems to me that in order to change thought patterns or physical habits or knee-jerk emotional responses, we must have a direct and sincere relationship with all that is. We must observe the glory that is present in the mundane, and both the exhilarating and the devastating without indulging in the desire to rush in and make a change. While the truth found in pure observation may leave us raw, it does not render us helpless. Rather, it arms us with the clarity to think and act decisively and with compassion.

It is easy to wax poetic on the art of paying attention, but quite another matter to actually pay attention. The instruction is simple, but the application and effects are deeply complex. Still, refining your attention to perceive the subtleties of your existence in this interconnected world doesn’t have to be a big deal. Open your mind, or maybe just your eyes, and start small. Practice makes perfect. What you find may not be perfectly to your liking, but is perfect nontheless.

“Watch where you’re going!” That was the immediate, angry response I received after I accidentally bumped into a stranger on the street the other day. I felt a strong surge of emotion arise inside of me, and it required conscious effort to reign in the urge to shout back in my own defense.

In Kundalini yoga, there is a lot of talk about “strengthening the nervous system.” Many of its postures, breathing practices, and movements are designed to do just that. But why? Of course, strong bones and muscles are good—but a strong nervous system?

To answer that question, it helps to remember what our nervous systems do. Put simply, our nervous systems translate our intentions into physical action. For example, in order to start to move into triangle pose, you first need to have the intention, “I want to move my feet.” After receiving this intentional thought, your nervous system translates that thought into action: it rotates your left foot, followed by a slightly larger rotation of your right foot. In this way, our nervous systems act as a translator, manifesting the intention of our minds into the actions of our bodies.

When we’re in yoga class, we are often asked to hold challenging poses—whether it’s downward dog, wheel, or boat pose. And while holding these poses certainly strengthens our muscles, at a deeper level it also strengthens our nervous system’s capacity to carry out our intention. It’s in that moment during the fourth or fifth breath of downward dog, when our legs are tired and our arms are shaking, that we have to hold a strong intention in the mind in order to endure the challenging situation. “Stay in the pose,” we tell ourselves, “Breathe.” And our nervous systems respond accordingly. The long-run outcome of practicing yoga is the strengthening of the nervous system and the development of tolerance—both on and off the mat.

When I bumped into that stranger, anger and defensiveness started to well up in me, similar to how fatigue and desperation can well up during challenging yoga poses. As in yoga class, I breathed through my discomfort and set a clear mental intention: “Stay calm.” My nervous system responded, and I replied to him in a soft voice, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.” He instantly froze, confused by my quiet sincerity. And then something magical happened—his anger instantly dissipated. “That’s alright,” he said with a soft smile.

In day-to-day life, we often find ourselves in situations that provoke anger, sadness, or stress. The more we strengthen our nervous systems in yoga class, however, the more tolerant we will be when faced with these situations out on the street. In fact, some would go so far as to say that learning to maintain equanimity off the mat is the reason for getting on the mat in the first place.

If I had to sum up my world in five words or less, “Dogs” would make the list. They are my love, my work, and my passion. When I lost my dog Charlie last spring, I was beyond devastated. I was truly and utterly heartbroken. It was as if, overnight, the world had changed. For me it had. The loving face that greeted me with each new day for thirteen years was no longer there when I opened my eyes. The sound of his nails on the stairs, following me up and down, had been a metronome, marking the rhythm of our days. I could distinguish the sound his tag and collar made over the other dogs by the way he walked. Always underfoot, he was, literally, my shadow. And suddenly I had none.

In his own cockeyed way, Charlie was as much a teacher for me as I was to him. His separation anxiety in our early days together was the impetus for me becoming a dog trainer. His need to be close to me, always, spawned a new hybrid of yoga, which I called “Doga.” Our connection was so deep, that strangers often stopped me to remark on it. Our relationship was chronicled in a television show on Animal Planet called “K9 Karma.”

He was special. He was perfect. Well, almost perfect. Charlie had one dirty little secret: He was prejudiced. Prejudiced against Dobermans, that is. This was not without merit, mind you. One late afternoon soon after we adopted him, in an East Village schoolyard-turned-dog-run, a huge, brown Doberman Pinscher who had apparently escaped through an open apartment door and run down Second Avenue and across 11th Street, came racing through the gate and, in a split second, attacked my new puppy. He took a chunk out of one of Charlie’s hind legs.

Charlie had to spend the night in the animal hospital, and it was several days of drain-cleaning and wound-flushing before he was back to his happy-go-lucky self. But from that day on, whenever he saw a Doberman, he would go on the offensive and morph into this Cujo dog, barking and snarling on the end of his leash, as if to say, “I’m a bad ass and you do not want to mess with me!” Luckily, the popularity of Dobermans waned when “Magnum PI” was cancelled, and German Shepherds became more popular, so we didn’t run into them very often.

After Charlie’s death, I found comfort each night on petfinder.com. For weeks on end, I would comb through all the Border Collie, Australian Shepherd, and Husky mixes within 100 miles of my zip code. I knew I wasn’t ready for another dog, yet all of these beautiful animals were in need of a forever home. I checked shelter websites for available dogs, and checked back every day to see who had been adopted. I became a cyber puppy stalker.

It was a place to put my grief. To pour my heart and love and sadness into these dogs, even virtually, was somehow comforting. There, on my computer screen, right in front of me, were thousands of possibilities of loving again. I could love these dogs. I could help these dogs.

I could foster these dogs.

Yes! Fostering was the answer. I could use my skills as a trainer, and my love as a dog mom, and help all these dogs in need of a home until they found their forever homes. I could make a difference. And it would all be a tribute to my Charlie.

There were several dogs that Michelle Neufeld, the founder of Gimme Shelter Animal Rescue, asked me to foster. But they always fell through. One dog was adopted from her picture; another was taken by another rescue; one was not good with other dogs. And then one day Michelle emailed me about a cruelty case she was involved in; a man had been hoarding and starving many dogs at his home in Arkansas. Of the twenty dogs, only four had survived, and she was bringing them up north once they were well enough to travel. She wanted me to take Juice, an emaciated lab mix with an injured front leg that would probably need to be amputated once she was healthy enough to undergo surgery.

It looked like I was going to actually get my first foster dog!

But it turned out that Juice had mange, and couldn’t go to a house with other dogs and kids. Would I please foster Justice instead? Justice was at the vet in Hampton Bays recovering from what turned out to be a botched neutering. Hadn’t this poor creature been through enough? Yes, of course, I said, I will foster Justice.

It was the Monday of Thanksgiving week when Michelle pulled into my driveway. The kids and I were so excited. And then Michelle got out the car with this huge brown Doberman. (I hadn’t asked what kind of dog Justice was.)

Was this the universe’s idea of a joke? A Doberman? Really? He strained at the end of his leash. (He probably had never been walked on one.) He had never lived inside, was starved to the point of near-death. He clearly had never known patience and consistent love.

Inhale, exhale, pause. O.K., boy, it’s you and me. You’re safe now.

I spent hours every day working with him, crate training, housebreaking, basic obedience. Of course, he was highly food-motivated, which made training fun for him. But he ate with the voracity of a starved animal that didn’t know if and when the next meal would come. His rescuers told me that he could be food-aggressive, and would snap treats with no regard for the hand wielding them.

He needed to learn manners, yes, but he needed to learn that he could trust humans too. I fed him three meals a day. He ate my kids’ leftovers. I cooked eggs and sausage for him, made him brown rice and chicken soup to supplement his kibble. I took to bringing home food from restaurants. This dog who just six weeks before had been living in such neglectful circumstances, was now enjoying butternut risotto and organic chicken from Nick ‘n Toni’s.

Justcie – A Rescued Doberman

I bought him new toys. He swallowed the squeaky raccoon whole in one gulp. He needed to learn how to play. The first time he loped after a tennis ball, I rejoiced. He ran around my yard like an awkward gazelle, having no idea how big his body had become. His newfound exuberance was awe-inspiring. My little Havanese wanted to wrestle with Justice, and so he learned just how gentle he had to be with all nine pounds of her. He did tricks for my six year old. He took treats from my 2 year old, slowly and nicely.

He loved me. He trusted me. And my heart, still broken, seemed to break wide open. If he could love and be happy after his ordeal, then surely there was hope for me. In the three weeks that he lived in our house, he healed his life of hurt. And I healed too. A Doberman… What poetic justice.

What is the yogic teaching to my story? Could it be rebirth tied into Spring? The path of karma yoga? Perhaps it resonates with all those who have loved something so deeply and lost something so profoundly. Or maybe, it’s even simpler than that: maybe it’s the resilience of our hearts, and the power of love.

In yoga class we often talk about the benefits of having an “open heart” —in fact, there is an entire category of postures called “heart openers” to help us achieve this goal. We lift into setu bandha, twist in uttitha parsakonasana, and drop back into urdhva dhanurasana, not only to create more space in the cavity of the chest, but also to uncover a little part of that mysterious, seductive engine that lies at our core. We do this voluntarily because an “open heart” is something we strive for. But what if, quite literally, your heart was “opened”?

In late December, my father had open-heart surgery. The difference between these two ideas is obvious, one a metaphorical concept, the other a physical reality. But while they’re very different, they can both be quite terrifying. An open heart is exposed—at the mercy of the elements—whether at the hands of the surgeon, or at the mercy of the hardships and cruelties of daily living.

We like to know that the heart is buried and protected beneath mounds of muscle and tissue and bone. We’re happy piling on shirts, sweaters, and coats. But as we practice yoga, we begin to peel away these layers (or koshas), one after another. And as the layers drop away, we become increasingly sensitive: A sensitive heart can feel, and only by feeling can we become truly compassionate.

Well, the result of my father’s surgery is that they have installed a heart pump—a mechanical device that literally takes on the job of pumping blood throughout the body. The pump is internal, yet my father needs to be constantly connected to an external source of power, plugged into the wall at night and on rechargeable batteries during the day. This is indeed an amazing feat of medicine, and yet quite an unnerving idea; imagine having to rely on something outside of yourself to live. What if the electricity goes out?

But the reality is that we all are “plugged in.” We are all attached to certain things outside of ourselves from which we derive our power; we’re plugged into other people—partners, family, friends—to our career, to financial success. Yet these things are tenuous—money comes and goes, people come and go, the years come and go. So maybe we’re all just as vulnerable as my father.

Becoming aware of our vulnerabilities is ironically one of the strongest practices that yoga has to offer. Realizing that we don’t have the control we think we do is a great step towards practicing deeper empathy for ourselves and for others.
As February comes to a close and March begins, and we look ahead to the return of spring, it may be the perfect time to begin the process of “peeling away.” Begin with the coats and sweaters first. It’s an endlessly unfolding journey, this lifetime of exploration into unlocking the power and compassion that resides within us all.

Can you fall headlong into your beingness? What would it take today and everyday to look again and again at what you are? Go deep into the fabric of your humanness and you’ll find connection to the world. Exciting. Breathtaking (you know you don’t own that breath—there’s no holding it. But sometimes we do to keep the desired inside and the undesired out).

Look what happens when people are made to move like machines (goose step…fascism…holocaust). Is there any element of disembodiment in your yoga practice? If your asanas feel like an imposition, or mechanical, look again. Look at the smallest gesture—a handshake…heart to hand to another: it’s a spiral. Or the infinity symbol of a hug. Find the spirals in you, moving through you, extending beyond you, and parivrtta trikonasana will be revelatory. Standing in tree pose could break your heart and wear you down to nakedness. That heart, that little muscular transformer at the center of the circulatory system, giving exactly what it receives is the essence of spiraling infinity. Remember that the sobbing person in yoga class is the bravest person in the room. Happy Valentine’s Day.

No one likes to meditate. Certainly not in the beginning. Maybe if you’ve been living in a Himalayan cave for the last twenty years without a modern mind that flips and dips and cries out: “Laundry!” “Have to call her back!” “I don’t like his sweaters.” “I want new sweaters!” Then I can see the ease in meditating.

Fortunately/unfortunately, I don’t live in a cave. I grew up and currently live on the Upper East Side in New York City, a place where relationships, consumerism, and mani/pedis are the currency. I also grew up with a father who meditated every morning, come rain, shine, sleet, possible bankruptcy, and the death of family and friends. Although his chanting somewhat terrified me as a tot, low and behold, I found myself doing the same damn thing as an adult, just not as well.

My dad taught me that my happiness wasn’t coming from a new sweater or the color of my nails; that if I wanted happiness, I’d have to sit down and learn to meditate. The problem was that I didn’t want to. There’s nothing harder than doing something you don’t want to do, that no one is holding you accountable for, that provides no immediate reward or benefit and more than likely will give you foot cramps.

In Vedanta, we learn about the idea of nonduality, which essentially teaches us that the notion that we are separate from anything or anyone is an illusion. I’ve seen this manifest in my own life on many levels, from the gross to the minute, but mostly in that we all have a common and basic desire. In some, that desire burns bright and hard and we can recognize it through their actions and the sparkle in their eyes. In others, the desire has been covered by life’s challenges. Beneath that, we all have a basic desire to be happy.

My dad once said, “Love is a choice.” The possibility of finding that perfect someone who happens to be a brain surgeon, a supermodel, and who understands you and loves you completely is a pipe dream. One day, you just pick someone and you love them, come rain, shine, sleet, near bankruptcy, and even death.

In my struggle to sit and be still, I’ve found that meditation is very much like this. I’m never going to want to do the things that are difficult and challenge me and that give me foot cramps, but in the past year of my life, I made the choice that I have no choice. Making money, buying things, going to a movie and repeating the cycle simply has not ever made me happy. At least not for more than eight seconds. So until I am able to figure out a different formula, I get up every morning, swig my cold herbal tea, splash my face and then I sit.

Not long ago, I was given an article to read — well, an interview — in which the primary focus was the so called “pitfalls” of long-term spiritual practice. This caught my attention, for we, as yogis, take such pride in our spiritual practice, and rarely speak of the potential downfalls it may have. We see our practice — whether it’s yoga, meditation, or chanting — as a tool to open ourselves, to expand our consciousness, to let go, surrender, witness, observe, find enlightenment, and, overall, be a kind, compassionate, happy person. But what if we are using our spiritual practice as just another distraction?

John Welwood writes about the relationship between Western psychotherapy and Buddhist practice. About 30 years ago, he introduced a term known as “spiritual bypassing.” He defines this as using spiritual ideas and practices to sidestep or avoid facing unresolved emotional issues, psychological wounds, and unfinished developmental tasks. He says, “When we are spiritually bypassing, we often use the goal of awakening or liberation to try to rise above the raw and messy side of our humanness before we fully faced and made peace with it.”

This raises interesting questions, like, How do we detach without disconnecting? How do we develop our buddhanature without side-stepping our human nature?

Lets face it — we are not old yogis living in a cave. We are working, relating, emotional beings attempting to find balance in an, at times, crazy and hectic world. We get angry, we get upset, we want to be loved, admired, and appreciated. We are human. We have needs and wants, and this should not be ignored, pushed aside, or overlooked.

Instead, we must embrace our humanness. That is where our work is, and that is where our true buddhanature will reveal itself. The word “compassion” literally means, “feeling with.” John Welwood believes you can’t have compassion unless you are first willing to feel what you feel. This is where our spiritual practice can help! We feel our bodies on our yoga mats. We feel our breath in meditation. We feel our vibrations in our chanting. We can then take this into the rest of our lives and continue our practice by feeling our anger or sadness or frustration. Our spiritual practice is not here to transport us into another dimension, or cloud over the reality in which we live; instead it’s here to guide us in how to be present in all aspects of our lives.

We have to have relationships, we have to have the uncomfortable conversations, we have to look at the aspects of ourselves that we don’t really like, and we have to be thankful for the people who show us those parts of ourselves. We need to put our “practice” into practice. When we do this, we become whole, integrated human beings living rich and fulfilling lives.

Welwood suggests engaging in personal work in conjunction with spiritual practice. He sees relationships as the leading edge of human evolution, and believes that it is the arena where it is hardest to remain conscious and awake. “We need to speak with each other personally and honestly from present experience, instead of parroting teachings about what we think we should be experiencing.”

We need to be real. We need to make sure we’re not using our spiritual practice as some sort of bypass, as if what we are experiencing right now isn’t enough, or already perfect. We have the ability to change whatever it is we want, but first we need to have the courage to look at it.

Most of us love our yoga practices, and it’s easy to smile while we’re inside the studio. But what about when we go home? What about when we are with our children? Our spouses? Our co-workers? Do we remember to “practice” then? If we don’t integrate, then all we are doing is creating a split between the buddha and the human within us. And, as Welwood states, this leads to a conceptual, one-sided kind of spirituality where one pole of life is elevated at the expense of the other: “Absolute truth is favored over relative truth, the impersonal over the personal, emptiness over form, transcendence over embodiment, and detachment over feeling.”

Our spiritual practice is essential, yet let’s remember, it is simply one part of our lives. Yes, we feel disconnected when we don’t pursue our spiritual practice, but we also feel equally as empty when we are disconnected and ineffective with the people in our lives. And when our spiritual development evolves beyond our human development, we don’t fully ripen.

“What if our religion was each other
If our practice was our life
If prayer, our words
What if the temple was the Earth
If forests were our church
If holy water-the rivers, lakes and ocean
What if meditation was our relationships
If the teacher was life
If wisdom was self-knowledge
If love was the center of our being.”

—Ganga White

Close to the Thanksgiving holiday, the idea of gratitude often comes up. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because of that. Maybe because I am not a “glass half full” person, I have to work at gratitude. I have to put aside time to reflect on what it means to me—how appreciation of the many beautiful and challenging things in my life helps me acknowledge that I am making a choice in how I look at the circumstances that I am in, or the people who I am looking at.

Many years ago, I read a book about gratitude, by Melody Beattie, a prominent voice of identifying and overcoming codependency. After Beattie had written two best-selling books, her son was killed in a skiing accident. What I remember most about the book was Beattie’s ability to focus on the things in her life that were working, and acknowledge how grateful she was for them. They weren’t special things; they were simple, small, everyday things. However small it was, in the depths of her grief she used gratitude as a beacon to guide her. It opened the door just enough to let the light back in. It’s such a small shift of focus that can create change, and any change can be a huge shift in consciousness. I often think of Beattie when I think of gratitude and that small, or maybe big, shift in focus.

It is, though, one thing to talk about it, and another thing to live it—especially when life is not going my way. I can easily feel ganged up on by life—even today: I have been asked to leave the home I have been living and working in. I have not been here long, but it has been a refuge after a long period of being unsettled. So I have fluctuated from being very angry to feeling devastated. This change has unearthed a huge pile of fear in me. I have no support from my family, and often feel like an orphan. It opens that big wound.

I have loving people in my life, though—people who have been pulled closer to me because of my son. I have people to remind me that it’s only a house, and that these feeling are only feelings. They will pass. I will find a new place. It’s another opportunity to take steps forward, to stand up for myself, to not feel victimized, to reach out, to be honest. It’s another opportunity to cherish the beauty of my son.

That appreciation moves me forward. That gratitude changes the lens through which I am looking. It can take me out of old emotions and bring me back to the present time. It can even help me step forward to a different future. If I step forward with gratitude, it might look different than if I step forward with anger. It sure feels different.

I have often used a gratitude list, naming the things and people that have touched my heart, and cultivating a lightness and an appreciation within me. When I am in the dumps, it becomes a tool to look around, not at what is wrong (what is wrong is apparent—always apparent), but to see the unfolding of the moment. I’m not talking about sitting in tolerance—I’m not talking about accepting things that aren’t acceptable. I’m talking about sitting in fertile soil. It’s about turning on the light to see the whole picture.

Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist monk and teacher, speaks about cultivating the qualities that nurture us. We have qualities that exist within us­—such as anger, hurt, pain, excitement, jealousy, hope, peace, understanding—and each one may arise throughout the day. He asks us to cultivate the qualities that support us to be at peace in our lives; the qualities hat allow us to be present and fully engaged in the moment.  He uses the image of a cup of salt poured into a bowl of water—it becomes unusable. But if we pour a cup of salt into a lake, there is little difference. To cultivate, to focus on, to read about, to listen to, to observe, to foster those qualities of appreciation, gratitude, understanding, and compassion within us, allows the waters of our mind to be in peace. Anger may arise, but not distort us. It will subside again, as another quality arises. The calm waters will reflect who we are beyond the anger, fear, grief.

I am grateful to be teaching at Yoga Shanti. I am grateful for all that it has taught me, and is teaching me. As a teacher, we are always learning in order to articulate and be clear in conveying this tangible, yet not so tangible thing called yoga. As a person, we are always striving to be happy, to be content with who we are as a person. I am grateful for who I have become as a person. I have work to do—I am still working on relationships with others—but, so far, I like me.

Many blessings to the yoga community. May we all grow together.

“To live in the present moment is a miracle. The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on the green Earth in the present moment, to appreciate the peace and beauty that are available now.” — Thich Nhat Hanh

The first time I ever meditated was in the early 1990s, at a three-day workshop given at the place where I was studying yoga in Santa Monica. The first morning, I was told to sit up straight and cross-legged, to lay my palms on my thighs, to gaze down at the floor two or three or four feet in front of me, and to put about twenty-five percent of my attention on my breath going in and out. When a thought came into my mind, I was supposed to say the word, “Thinking,” to myself, and go back to my breath. We began—this little group of maybe eight or nine people sitting in an empty, light-filled, ocean-breezy room—and sat for periods of forty minutes, with five or ten minutes of walking meditation in between.

That first morning, I did this pretty simple thing that they had taught me: I put my attention on my breath, and when thoughts came up—which they did constantly, since I was an ace fantasizer and obsessive mental-list maker—I said, “Thinking,” to myself, and put my attention back on my breath. Within a couple of hours of starting on the first day, I was struck by something truly shocking: When I came back to my breath after catching myself lost in thought—when I came back into the room where I was sitting on the floor—I found myself in a kind of nonspecific but terrible emotional pain. That is, being in the present moment—being here—was the last place on earth I wanted to be. (I mean, there were a couple of moments when I came back to the breath and found myself, not in pain, but in the most wonderful spaciousness—a gap between thoughts, a break in the neurosis, that felt like no peace I had ever known. Just FYI.)

The truth is, I had never been here before. I was a writer—I made a living out of thinking thoughts about something else. I had always been a voracious reader of novels. I had done tons of drugs to get to a nicer place, and smoked a million cigarettes. I had spent half a lifetime obsessing about one man or another. I had made a profession out of not being here, because being here sucked. Honestly—why would anyone want to be here now?

After a day or so, I asked the group leader why I felt so much pain in the present moment, and he smiled at me, and he said, “You should look into Buddhism—I think you’d find it interesting.” So I did, and I discovered that what they call the “first noble truth” of Buddhism is the truth of suffering.

Anyway, this thing I’m writing here is not about meditation or the first noble truth. I wanted to tell you a story, but I needed you to know, first, that I came to Buddhism from this place of immense suffering that I discovered in my first meditation retreat. On some level, it woke me up: I knew, in that first weekend, that there had to be something very wrong if I actually preferred fantasy to reality—if I’d spent a lifetime avoiding myself. So I embarked on this journey to understand that: to understand why I—why we—suffer so much. I’ve learned a lot over the years, both about the truth of suffering, and also the cessation of suffering, and I no longer want to be anywhere but here. But again, that’s not the subject of this story.

But this is: I was in San Francisco about five years ago, at a talk given by my teacher, Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche. It was a Q-and-A, and people were standing up at the microphone, asking all sorts of questions about the ins and outs of enlightenment (part of the subject of the teaching). I didn’t understand how they could talk about enlightenment when they had no idea what it was. It was something so far off, something that only realized beings experienced, something we’d probably never even get a glimpse of. Hadn’t Pema Chodron and others told us that it took three countless eons to get enlightened? So I stood up and asked my teacher this question: “How can we talk about enlightenment when we’re just ordinary, unenlightened people living these ordinary, unenlightened lives?”

He looked at me quizzically, and he said, somewhat impatiently, “You people…” and he shook his head sadly. Then he said something like, “You think that enlightenment is something out there, something far off, on another plane. You Westerners are so theistic.” He paused then, and he looked me straight in the eye, and he said, “This is it.” There was silence all around. Then he said, “You people—you—have to stop thinking there’s something else. This. Is. It.”

This is it—that’s what I learned that day: right here in this room where you are right now. There’s nothing else, there’s nothing more. The Buddhists call it precious human birth, and it lasts the time it takes for a spark to fly from a fire and burn out in mid-air. We can miss it, this extraordinary ordinary, difficult, beautiful, sorrowful thing, if we allow ourselves too many distractions. There’s nothing else: This is it. Right here, right now.

Human consciousness is deepening. It is doing so because it needs to during the alarming changes being demanded of so many of us, not only due to an accumulation of sudden, catastrophic developments with our climate, but in emotional climates as well. Our relationships with other people and with our own integrity seem also to need to be renovated. People understandably feel out of balance and “up in the air” and it’s not comfy.

Yogis know well that in order to stabilize in a balance pose, we need to stay grounded. As Manorama says, in order to reach further out and not fall over, we first need to go deeper in. How can we learn to stabilize unless there is something that comes along to throw us off balance, forcing us to go deeper. Why would anyone voluntarily place themselves in a difficult situation? People do that every day, though, when they go to the gym to lift weights. We ASK for this resistance, and we methodically push against the weights to get stronger. Yogis ask for difficulty every day in asana practice.

We volunteer for difficulty when we practice warrior poses. We payto have someone guide us through difficult poses which demand grounding, strength, flexibility, balance, and alignment.

We need warrior pose practice more than ever now. And we need that practice off the mat as well. We cannot have too much practice. We need to ground. Using inner body awareness, we need to find alignment, strength, balance and flexibility to get through the day, not just to get through a yoga class.

When life is seen as one very long warrior pose, suffering, formerly hated, feared, and shunned, becomes, like a warrior pose, a tool for transformation. One can then choose to align with suffering exactly as one would align with a warrior pose. In this context, suffering becomes an invigorating challenge. How exciting really! One can now look forward to the next bout of suffering with the same enthusiasm as one might anticipate an advanced yoga workshop…and that workshop is available any time there is hardship.

It’s just more yoga…and it’s available any time there is challenge arising.

It is not the suffering itself that brings what Pema describes as that hollow, jumpy icky feeling, it is our relationship with it. Viewed in this context, alignment with suffering is freedom itself. It is yoga, the calming of the fluctuations of the mind, the mood. When we review our former relationship with suffering, we find we have made choices to sidestep it which have brought us disastrously worse pain than the discomfort we sought to avoid. We can be at peace with reality  rather than at war with it. This is yoga, the calming of the fluctuations of the mind.  We can ground and align with whatever is challenging, and we can be tranquil.

If we do not bring enough willingness to a pose to fully align with it, correctly ground in it, “get our minds around it,” then we will more than likely wind up with an injury. Isn’t that how we injure ourselves in yoga, placing our bodies in a shape without cultivating the inner body awareness needed to allow each muscle group, each joint, each breath to integrate in order to make the pose not only possible, not only non -injurious, but finally, easeful? Beautiful? Jubilant?

This is how we destroy the possibility of ease in our lives, by being unwilling to fully be with a given moment because it is inconvenient, painful, unattractive, or just not what was planned for…

Slowing down, coming in for a landing, seeing what is there, and joining with it is not that difficult, especially for yogis, but it does take time, breath, and presence. And it is, as Pema is so brilliant at pointing out … counter-intuitive. We run from the “sharp points.”

But there is help! A practice! Yogis invented warrior poses! They are “sharp points” and we strive to master them with poise. We can achieve equanimity in the most ridiculous seeming positions. That’s the point! Yogis are good at that. We voluntarily choose to be in positions of difficulty, and we hold still there, we ground, align, breathe and notice.

What if life itself were one big warrior pose? It’s yoga off the mat. It’s a long yoga workshop without having to commute, park, or pay for class. We can meet difficulty by just noticing whatever we would do in a difficult warrior pose and then do that in life: ground, carefully align the body, focus the mind, breathe….breathe….awarely.

We witness our personal discomfort in the pose and notice what the tendency of the mind is when we’re under pressure. We join with the pressure. Indeed, we welcome it. WE ASK FOR IT WHEN GO TO A YOGA CLASS. Now a situation has arisen outside of yoga (if there is such a thing), and we are moping. We are personally uncomfy and we’re moping. (What’s so important about personal comfort? That’s another article I think.) We don’t seek comfort in a yoga class; we want to be challenged. But the minute we’re in the car again, we get upset if something is challenging…it’s funny really.

And eventually, even the most difficult pose comes to an end,… and we can go home and have a muffin.