I have a four-year-old son, so I read a lot of Curious George. Nearly every book begins with the lines, “This is George. George was a good little monkey and always very curious.” As you all know, this curiosity leads George on many exciting adventures. It’s a shame that we non-monkeys eschew the more curious aspects of our minds in favor of concrete knowledge. It’s a shame because declarative knowing dulls our experience of the world and ourselves. And yet, we so often grasp for, and then concretize around, an idea, instead of suspending our minds in the ripeness of not-knowing for sure. Colleen taught a beautiful class last week. We slithered in and out of familiar shapes, tasting the poses but never indulging fully enough to find our habitual experience. It reminded me of something Richard Freeman wrote in his book Mirror of Yoga; he said that through our yoga practice “we discover that the human body is far more than any of the theories about it. Through our own body, we learn to understand the universe.” I believe that in order to practice in a manner befitting such potential, we must have our own adventures. However, in most Curious George stories, there is a moment where George’s unbridled curiosity creates so much chaos that order must be restored. Here we learn that, even for monkeys, the vastness of wonderment can be as overwhelming as it is intoxicating. Sincere inquiry requires the diligence of steady attention, the openness of awareness, and the capacity to really listen. Dona Holleman writes, in her book Centered Yoga, “A mind that is dogmatic is a stiff and unforgiving mind. This mind can never know freedom…. Only a supple mind can be genuinely silent.”

When I was eight years old, we moved from Corning, New York—where all of our extended family lived—to Indiana, so that my dad could start a new job. The move was hard on us all, but it was especially hard for my mom: sometimes I would find her looking out the window of our new house with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, tears sliding down her face.

I remember one day asking her why she was sad, and she said, “I miss my trees.”

“Trees?” I thought. “After everything we’d lost, you miss trees?”

My mom loved trees, especially old maples. And, though my first thought was sassy, I knew she missed much more than her trees: she had been yanked from everything that she had ever known, and moved to a strange, treeless place where she had no roots, no history. My mother’s trees were a symbol for all that she’d lost.

Many years later, that my mother would grieve the loss of trees seems even more bittersweet: the whole idea of roots and growth and balance and connection—and symbolism—is yoga, which is my love. Yoga gives us deep roots, so that we can blow in the wind and stay grounded, no matter what storm might come along. Yoga gives us a healthy, strong, stable trunk, and leaves that dance in the wind before they fall off, only to grow back more vibrant as winter turns to spring. If only my mom could have put her body in the shape of a tree, and balanced on one foot while steadying her gaze and following her breath: maybe she wouldn’t have felt so disconnected.

In the last few weeks I’ve been asking myself what new seed I should plant in the form of a New Year’s resolution. Should it be the same one I’ve attempted to plant for the last ten years—to stop eating sugar? (Those roots don’t seem to want to deepen!) Maybe the fact is, that I’m fine as I am—a strong, old tree. In any case, to commemorate this new year, I’m going to plant a maple tree in honor of my mom, who had her final uprooting two years ago this month.

Whatever seeds you plant, may they take hold and grow strong. Happy New Year to my whole Shanti family.

Love, Colleen

Usually, our Sunday morning meditation class at Yoga Shanti is just sitting: we come in silently, sit for twenty minutes, walk slowly once around the circumference of Shanti’s beautiful morning-lit room—our attention on the way our feet feel on the floor—and then sit again in silence. Maybe I’ll read something inspiring from Pema Chodron or Trungpa Rinpoche, but nothing long.

Lately, though, I’ve been feeling that students are getting too comfortable—too cozy—during our Sunday morning sits. The whole routine is getting habitual, and our sharp and vivid awareness of the present moment is waning. So the other day I threw a wrench in the works and changed the way we practice: instead of the Tibetan style of meditation called shamatha (continually bringing our awareness back to the breath), I asked the students to try something more Japanese: letting our mind go where it will, but not moving our body at all—no adjusting our legs, no changing our hand position, no swallowing, very little blinking.

Afterwards, I asked for feedback. One student remarked on how unusually still the room seemed. Another talked about having a breakthrough: he noticed, for the first time, how, allowing his body to be still, his mind could be even more so, and he could be more present. This second student was so excited, that he went on a bit. Finally, a third student, a relative newcomer to meditation, expressed anger: he was frustrated that some of his beloved 45-minute sitting time was taken up by a discussion. He said, “I just want to keep it simple. If you’re going to talk, tell me ahead of time, and I’ll stay home.”

Nelson Mandela died yesterday, and it feels like a blow. It’s been helpful for us to know that there’s someone on the planet who has overcome his self-centeredness, and dedicated his life, very publically, to peace and the liberation of all. His example has been vivid and stunning: we know how much he forfeited for us; we’re all aware of how his sacrifices and hardships did not erode his aspiration. He made a difference, and he gave us hope.

There is still the Dalai Lama, but soon there won’t be. Soon the job of inspiring others to dedicate their lives to the liberation of all beings will fall only to us—that is, to you and me. It is my hope that when we sit—and when we do our asana practice—that we do it, not just for ourselves, but for the benefit of others. It is my hope that the awareness and peace that come from these practices lead to what the Buddhists call “spontaneous joy”: to finding our own happiness in the happiness and success of others.

It is tempting to wrap our yummy practices around ourselves like a cocoon, and let our minds drift to sleep. But getting cozy in our asana and sitting practices is not going to help anyone, including ourselves. Sure, we want to get in shape and look good and feel good—we all want to relax; we need that—but the main point of the practices, for the centuries since they were developed, is to wake us up. The point is to help us liberate ourselves from our own self-centeredness, so that we can help others be happy and free.

May all beings be liberated in the new year, and everyone’s happiness be your own.

Have you ever practiced yoga in a hospital bed?

Yoga teachers in our community—those trained as Urban Zen Integrative Therapists (UZITs), that is—have been helping patients do just this at Southampton Hospital for the last few years. Urban Zen Integrative Therapy is Donna Karan’s brainchild. She was inspired to develop this program after caring for her late husband and many of her friends while they were sick or dying. At that time, she depended on doctors and nurses to help her loved ones, but she also depended on complementary therapies. In fact, it became her passion to make this kind of care available to more people. After Donna’s husband passed away, she, Colleen, and Rodney (who were, and are, Donna’s yoga teachers) organized a program that would train people to go into hospitals and various care centers and help ease the symptoms of illness. They brought together experts in the fields of yoga, Reiki, end of life and contemplative care, essential oil therapy, medicine, and more.

At Southampton Hospital, under the guidance of doctors and nurses, we visit patients in their rooms. Our goal is to relieve symptoms related to being sick, and being in a hospital: pain, anxiety, nausea, insomnia, constipation, and exhaustion. So we lead patients through movements based on yoga, breath awareness, and body-focused meditation. We help them into restorative positions and perform Reiki. Maybe most importantly, we teach patients some of these techniques—a breathing routine to help them sleep, a movement to relieve back pain—so that they can practice on their own. We aim to increase patients’ feelings of wellbeing and contentment.

Consider these two experiences I myself had:

Once I worked with a woman who had chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). She came in with bad back pain, coughing, and labored breathing. I led her through several in-bed yoga movements, positioned her in a gentle forward bend for a few minutes, and then supported her back so her chest was wider and not so concave. I talked her through a body scan and breath-awareness exercise, while giving her a Reiki session. Throughout our entire time together, she had unlabored breathing, no coughing, and was clearly more comfortable. She said she felt more relaxed than ever.

A man with Lou Gehrig’s disease and his wife came to Southampton Hospital as a safety measure, in anticipation of Hurricane Sandy. The man, who couldn’t move his arms or legs, was agitated and clearly unhappy. I used Reiki, breath awareness, and meditation with both him and his wife. During and after our session, he was remarkably less agitated, and even smiled. His eyes had a gentle look. His wife started to cry: she was so thankful for the attention she received during and after our session.

Urban Zen has been in partnership with Southampton Hospital for three years. The plan is to continue to deepen, evolve, and expand our work there—to offer this service to more local patients and their families. We’re asking for your help to continue our work at the hospital. We are supported in part by the hospital, and in part by private donations. As we actively look for ways to make the program financially sustainable, we are asking the Yoga Shanti community to donate whatever they can.

Perhaps you have had a loved one at Southampton Hospital who has experienced our work, or maybe you’ve taken an Urban Zen restorative class at Shanti, designed for all students—not just those who are ill. Or you may one day be at the hospital and have a visit from one of us. Whatever your interest, we appreciate your generosity. The money that you give will go directly and completely to hours that the UZITs are in the hospital.

We see the smiles on the patients’ relaxed faces, the shoulders resting. We hear less labored breathing and words of gratitude. What we’re doing is cutting edge, and I’m proud to be part of it. Please consider lending a hand.

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School has started. The new fall clothes are bought—on sale, of course—books purchased, and pencils sharpened (oh, I mean, computers updated with more memory). Yoga Shanti is back to sanity, with no one turned away and mat space to spare. Maybe Colleen and I will get to teach a wall class where everyone gets their very own space around the periphery of the room. As BKS Iyengar said, I have had two teachers—Krishnamacharya and the wall.

With this in mind, and the remembered returned-to-school feeling, I figure it is time to reboot the yoga basics: If I had a group of beginners for the next year, which poses would I focus on that would be foundational poses for the rest of their lives and why?

First, mountain pose—tadasana—which is a constant reminder of basic posture, and yet sublime, subtle alignment—a pose in which all others return and reflect

Handstand—adho mukha vrksasana—would need to be included, or a handstand variation, to get people mentally awake and present.

Downward-facing dog—adho mukha svanasana—is the quintessential yoga posture that connects both our hands and feet to the earth, brings suspension to our torso, and reconnects us to the animal world.

Headstand—sirsasana—aligns our entire spine with particular attention to our neck and our head; when learned properly, headstand brings us closer to our energetic center and quiets the chatter in our minds.

Reclined hero’s pose—supta virasana— s the one pose that addresses many of the bindings of modern Western culture—for example, the full bending of the knees and the full opening of the hip flexors.

Upward-facing-bow pose—urdhva danurasana—is included to keep our entire spine free and healthy, and to keep our hearts wide open and fearless.

Shoulder stand is the queen cooling pose, and the perfect bookend to headstand; it releases so much built up tension in the neck and shoulders, and sets us deep into the inward journey.

Plow pose—halasana—releases all the muscles of our back body, and plummets us further inwards.

Full-seated forward bend—paschimottanasana—is the essential forward bend that opens the flight muscles (the hamstrings), and gets our senses to turn inwards toward our breath; with full-seated forward bend, our breath is forced closer to our central channel, and any blockages become apparent.

Relaxation pose—savasana—is the classic pose to still our body as we challenge our mind to stay present and aware.

With any cross-legged-seated pose that allows for ease and freedom of the breath, the foundations for meditation can be explored.

These are my choices for Poses 101. I know some of these poses are not available to many of you, and that you will have to substitute other poses or modifications. But these are the basics I keep in mind and am always refining.

As the fall takes away the flamboyancy of the bright summer days, bring your yoga practice back to its life-giving roots, and plant them well into Mother Earth.

Namaste
Rodney

Last Friday night, I assisted Colleen and Rodney as they taught a yoga class to over 4,000 people in Times Square. Before the big event, lots of logistical emails were exchanged among the assistants. In one email, someone expressed concern over being barefoot. She wrote, “Wait— are we seriously going to be assisting barefoot in Times Square?!”

I laughed when I read the email, because just months prior, I found myself on a barefoot pilgrimage in Govardhan, a holy town in the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. I figured that if I could walk all over India barefoot, Times Square should be a cinch!

Now don’t get the wrong idea—I am by no means some crunchy hippie who leaves her shoes at home when running errands in New York City. I’m actually pretty polished. (It has been noted that I’m never seen rolling out my mat at Yoga Shanti without wearing mascara and lip gloss.) But something came over me on this most recent trip to India that left me willing to bare my soles.

I had been visiting the sacred city of Vrindavan, when the teacher with whom I was studying, Dhanurdhara Swami, suggested that I “do a parikrama around Govardhan Hill.” I had no idea what parikrama meant, and I’d never heard of Govardhan Hill, but wanting to be a good student, I eagerly nodded my head in agreement.

Back in my room at the ashram, a quick Google search revealed that parikrama means “the path surrounding something,” in Sanskrit. I learned that “doing a parikrama” is a symbol of prayer and devotion, and it’s an integral part of worship in India and sacred sites throughout the East. Good to know!

Before dawn the following day, I set off for Govardhan with Rati, my Vrindavan guide and new best friend. We weren’t in the car long before Rati said, “I hope you slept well last night, because it’s a long journey. The parikrama is 21 kilometers long.”

Now, my knowledge of the metric system is a little rusty, but I was pretty sure that 21 kilometers worked out to be roughly 13 miles—or half of a marathon!

Before I had time to process the length of our impending expedition, Rati added, “And, it’s best to do it barefoot.”

Barefoot? In India?! Was she kidding?

“Why barefoot?” I asked, trying to conceal my horror.

“The ground here is sacred,” she explained. “Krishna walked on this earth. If you have to wear socks or sandals, I suppose you can, but it really is best to do it with bare feet.”

Panic stirred within me. I didn’t want to let her down, but I really couldn’t imagine walking 13 miles barefoot in India, of all places—which is not exactly known for being sterile!

“Calm down, Tracey,” my higher self spoke up. “Stop being such a germophobe! You’ve traveled all this way. If you’re going to do your first parikrama, then goddamnit, you are going to do it right! If Rati can do it, so can you. Do you hear me? No shoes!”

When we arrived at our starting point, Rati and I slipped off our sandals and left them in the car. There was no turning back now. It was still dark when we began walking. The rough, nubby pavement tore the soft soles of my feet as I followed my faithful companion through the ancient streets of Govardhan.

The terrain changed under us as we ventured onward. Pavement gave way to dusty trails. We walked on smooth, cool marble tiles, then on cement, then grass, then sand, then back to pavement. At one point, I was ankle-deep in cow dung. I was so tired and filthy that I almost started to cry, but then I burst out laughing instead.

“What’s so funny?” Rati asked.

“Well,” I said, “Last week I was driving around the Hamptons in a Range Rover sipping a $12 smoothie. Now look at me! I’m literally covered in cow poop! You know, some women want to get away and they hop on a flight to Miami. Some who are a little more ‘spiritual,’ might book a yoga retreat in Tulum. But not me. Oh no! I had to go to India all by myself, and walk thirteen miles around a sacred hill—barefoot! I’m a sweaty mess!”

Rati laughed and said, “Well, baby Krishna was always very dirty.”

“In that case,” I replied, “I’ve never been closer to God.” We both cracked up, and she locked her arm around mine as we forged ahead.

Feeling your feet on the ground for 21 kilometers is literally a moving experience. Nothing keeps you rooted in the present moment quite like making sure you don’t step on a thorn, or a jagged stone. Throughout our odyssey, I went through a spectrum of emotions, from elation, to gratitude, to boredom, to euphoria, to are-we-there-yet?, to the most intense devotion I’ve ever felt, to having to pee so badly I thought I was going to die. When I was feeling beat down and disheartened, I reflected on what Rati said about the ground of Govardhan being sacred. I took out my mala and chanted the Hare Krishna mantra softly to myself as we walked, and I could actually feel the hallowed earth vibrating beneath my bare feet. The ground was responding to me intoning the holy names. Would I have felt the earth answering my call if I was wearing shoes?

Like many great pilgrimages, we completed our parikrama right where we started. I was exhausted, parched, achy, and covered in dust and dung. The soles of my feet were black and calloused. To say I needed a spa pedicure would be the understatement of the century. Yet I can’t remember a time when I felt as happy and as free as I did when we offered our final obeisances to Govardhan Hill and hugged one another to seal our journey.

Back in the car, Rati handed me my shoes.

I threw them in the back seat. Who needs them?

***It’s always difficult to adjust back to “normal life” after being in India. When I landed at Newark Airport I was struck by the realization that—just like the parikrama—I ended up exactly where I started. I was in the exact same terminal, carrying the exact same luggage, yet I felt wholly changed—as if all my molecules had been scrambled and rearranged. During my stay in Vrindavan, I saw so much, heard so much, tasted so much, learned so much, that my consciousness had expanded. Would this new, expansive Tracey be able to fit back into her life in New York City? Would my shoes still fit?

It was a rough transition, but eventually I did settle back in—knee-high boots and all. Still, I’m always grateful for an opportunity to bare my soles in public. So when Colleen and Rodney asked me to assist them in Times Square, I was the first one to kick off my flip-flops and let my feet receive the vibrations of New York City.

Here’s what I’ve learned: you can actually hear with your feet. But you have to listen, and it helps to be barefoot.

“Self-disciple burns away impurities and kindles the sparks of divinity.”
— B.K.S. Iyengar, translating Yoga Sutra II.43

About six years ago, during a very challenging period in my life, I started practicing ashtanga yoga as taught by Pattabhi Jois. I had been a yoga teacher for almost a decade at this point, had been exposed to the practice of ashtanga on several occasions, and often reacted to it with aversion and judgment. But, for some reason, during this particular moment in my life, the practice felt like home.

In ashtanga, the breath is the heart of the discipline, and helps to link postures in a precise order. Then, with the application of mulabandha (the root lock), and uddiyanabandha (the flying-up lock), as well as drishti (the gazing place), an immediate and intense internal heat is produced. Very quickly, with daily practice, the practitioner realizes that it’s not about how challenging the posture is, but how we can cultivate our capacity to breathe deeply and evenly while sustaining the focus of the mind. This is what we attempt to do every time we unroll our mat.

As we all know, this is much easier said than done. The body can distract us with its aches, pains, and constant cravings; the breath can be shallow, erratic, labored; and the mind is usually wild with thought, jumping all over the place, and riddled with fear. So how can we liberate ourselves from the endless pushing and pulling of internal forces? How can our daily, consistent yoga practice purify our body, breath, and mind in order to experience the more subtle aspects of spiritual practice that await us?

Fortunately, within this tradition of practice, there are great answers for every question one might have (even if the answer is, “Practice and all is coming”). Guruji would say that ashtanga yoga was Patanjali yoga—all the answers can be found in the Yoga Sutras, in which Patanjali describes the process of yoga. In the second chapter, he lists the eight-limbed path of ashtanga yoga—yama (how we relate to the world); niyama (how we relate to ourselves); asana (postures); pranayama (regulation of prana/breath control); pratyahara (withdrawal of the senses from their objects); dharana (concentration); dhyana (meditation); samadhi (absorption into spirit/source/divinity/pure absolute consciousness). The first five limbs are the outer limbs—we actively participate in them through daily practice. The last three limbs are gifted to us; we receive them as a result of our diligent and consistent efforts, which is tapas.

So our goal relies on our commitment to our detoxification and purification on every level. Our tapas—sometimes translated as “to burn”—is our willingness to use our body, breath, and mind to begin a type of “un-gluing” process—to make a sacrificial fire of ourselves. Asana is designed to soften us up, to make us more receptive, to help us let go of our protective layer of conditioning, to release fear, pain, doubt. But how do we begin to purify (and eventually steady) the mind?

In Patanjali’s system of classical yoga, we approach the mind through the sense organs. We apply each of the senses to a specific aspect of the practice, keeping them fluidly fixed on the present moment (instead of their usual tendency to run in every direction in search of satisfaction). Our physical posture relates to our sense of touch— we are encouraged to remain still, without fidgeting, for the length of the posture (usually five breaths). This resistance to fidgeting causes friction, which in turn causes heat! The breathing system relates to the sense of sound, smell, and taste. We breathe with sound, through the nose, while the mouth remains closed. The gazing place relates to sight—the eyes rest in one place. As we try to clean our sense organs, we become more sensible, more sensitive.

This increased sensibility and sensitivity has an affect on our relationship with the world. We begin to cultivate discernment that will help to further our spiritual pursuits through better choices. My teacher, Tim Miller, says, “Clean the sense organs, polish your heart.” In sutraII.43, Patanjali writes that when one is firmly established in tapas, one receives the gift of freedom from the bondage of the mind and body—the purification and mastery of the mind and body. When one’s mind and body are purified, the heart is free to shine.

Let’s take this opportunity to recommit to our daily tapas; to refine our relationships, both external and internal; to cleanse our bodies, breath, and minds through our own disciplined efforts, making ourselves ever more receptive to the divine gifts all around and within us.

I dedicate my efforts to my wonderful partner in life and love, my beautiful daughters, my extraordinary family and to all those who choose to dig deeper than the obvious.

—Erika Halweil

On our last family vacation, my daughter swam with the dolphins. She was ecstatic, her face beaming bright as these charming and clever creatures pulled her through the water. As you might imagine, dolphin fever took hold at our house in the weeks following, and we learned a lot about them. One thing I learned was that dolphins form “maternity pods”—groups of mothers and babies swimming together. Smart animals; it seems that dolphins know all about sangha.

About eight years ago, I found my own maternity pod right here at Yoga Shanti, in the Baby & Me yoga class taught by Subhadra Fleming. I was a new mother—anxious, sleep-deprived, grappling with my radical new role in the world. My saving grace was finding other women just like me. We were from varying backgrounds, with diverse interests and hobbies, but united by this common thread of motherhood. These women continue to be some of my best friends in the community. The children, now eight and nine years old, still delight in seeing one another. They can’t believe it when they see pictures of themselves together as babies.

Full of gratitude for my experience, I wanted to re-create this for other new moms, and so I began teaching the Baby & Me class several years ago. I see this same pattern happen time and time again: before the first “om” is chanted, or the first asana performed, the yoga is there in the room. It is in the relief in the faces of the mothers as they share stories, vent frustrations, and celebrate milestones together. With extended families spreading out across the country, and sometimes across the globe, the sangha of motherhood is more necessary and vital than ever. Many women no longer have the wisdom of their female elders to guide them. We need each other.

So my first daughter started me on a journey that would bring me deeper and deeper into my yoga practice—eventually to the point where I would teach, first children, and now adults. Strangely, however, my second daughter wound up leading me away from my yoga practice: for some reason, yoga didn’t feel so good to my pregnant body the second time around. The mere thought of an inversion nauseated me. Gradually, my formal asana practice began to slip away.

This is not something I’m proud of; I do lament its loss. I can’t pretend it doesn’t bother me when I stop in at the studio to drop something off, and someone says, “Are you coming to class?” Gosh, I wish I were. But then I get to the car and catch the tail end of a conversation between my two daughters in the back. I wonder what sweet little moment I missed in those brief minutes I was gone. And I know that yoga, in a formal sense, will still be there when they are old enough to get around themselves.

My yoga practice is not completely gone: it has crept in, in new and interesting ways. I try to ground through my big-toe mound and stand in tadasana when I’m washing dishes. I coordinate my inhale and exhale while bending and straightening to pick up toys in the playroom. My focus of meditation is the rhythm of my daughter’s breath as I lie beside her in bed. And I have found that when sung with the right intent, “Row, Row, Row your Boat” is the most beautiful mantra ever written.

I have also found that many of the principles and lessons we discuss in class—devotion, impermanence, compassion—are inherent in the practice of mothering. It is a practice of complete devotion, pure bhakti. My gurus are my children. And they are not always the most accommodating teachers; they can be manipulative, and they are great at exposing my insecurities and weaknesses. They don’t often tell me that I’m doing a great job. But with a smile and a hug, they transport me to a state of blissful contentment. There is a line in a Mary Oliver poem which goes, “And the sands in the glass stopped for a pure white moment while gravity sprinkled upward, like rain rising.” It’s kind of like that.

Every day it is inevitable that I come into contact with someone who looks wistfully at my two year old and feels compelled to tell me, “It goes so fast.” They’ll trail off for a moment and I imagine they’re remembering their own children when they were young and held so close. These people may not be standing in front of an altar, but I understand their lessons: these days are fleeting, impermanent.

Fortunately, that screaming, kicking, on the floor tantrum that happens every morning because my daughter doesn’t want to wear a jacket is also impermanent. But so is the delightful way she says “Sure.” Last July, David Swenson wrote Yoga Shanti’s Focus of the Month. In it he writes, “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.”

I can’t say that I feel enlightened early on a Monday morning when I’m rushing to get the kids out of the house (late again), can’t find my keys, and my daughter is on the floor crying and refusing to wear a jacket. Enlightened? No. Fully absorbed and present? Absolutely.

So for now, more often I am standing on my head, not in sirsasana, but to make my kids laugh or to persuade them to take another bite of their meal. And I’m bending over backwards, not in urdhva dhanurasana, but to make sure I give them all the tools they need for a secure, happy, rich and meaningful life.

Happy Mother’s Day.