The More We Learn, the More We Love, the More We Love, the More We Enjoy

While sitting in the doctor's office today I was delightfully surprised at the wonderful collection of books and magazines available to peruse--The Impressionists, a book on Australia, another of Africa, a book on Monet, a limited edition book about the Titanic, and much more. I was also impressed with the doctor and left feeling hopeful, uplifted and ready to move into his prescribed action or inaction, whatever the case may be. I feel quite hopeful that he has an understanding of my problem, one that he describes as "black and white with no areas of gray" and one that can be relatively easy to heal so long as I'm willing to do the work and stay proactive in my health care. I like his holistic approach. I like the fact that he seems so confident that he has discovered physical issues that clearly explain my problem--namely, my shoulder pain that continues to worsen no matter what I do. I wanted to jump for joy and scream YES when he told me that I've done nothing wrong, that this has nothing to do with yoga, or with doing asanas incorrectly, but has everything to do with trauma suffered in 1988-89 that has left my upper thoracic spine very much torqued in one direction which then is at a tug of war with my neck. I think the torqued upper thoracic spine spins my torso causing my right shoulder to move forward, my neck struggles to be forward looking, and there is much nerve impingement, plus the fact the the C-5 cervical disk is 60% gone and two other disks protrude slightly, one to the left, one to the right. I will work with him 3 times a week for the next two weeks followed by work with a physical therapist. He doesn't want me washing the car, mowing the grass, or doing any yoga while his treatment is in progress over the next two weeks. This will be a huge challenge. I will greatly miss the physical connection with community and no doubt the disconnect will not be easy, but this will be an opportunity to focus on the *non asana* aspects of yoga, such as, for example, studying my Anusara manuals!! But out of all the doctors and physical therapists I've seen (and more) he is the only one who has taken x-rays of my full spine, allowing him to view the whole spinal column to see what's going on. It's so common for doctors (and many of us) to have tunnel vision, maybe because we can only see that which we know about. In a book in his office I read, "The more we learn, the more we love; the more we love, the more we simply enjoy."

I took my yoga mat to Puerto Vallarta intending to do asana on the terrace or go to one of several yoga studios, but I simply didn't do that. I thought that giving my shoulders a rest might help--it did not. After a recent afternoon of swimming, I felt more pain than ever in both my shoulders, so rest seem to be a good idea, although the canopy tour of the jungle, all harnessed up and flying from one tree to another attached to a cable wire was definitely a bit of a strain on my shoulders. So mostly I just chilled, and read, and ate, and walked, and visited with people. Our suite in an old villa was funky and charming, right on the beach, and the staff and other guests were simply delightful. Dale struggled mightily with his knee and his greatly impaired ability to walk, so I suppose I did feel just a tad guilty being gone for over 6 hours on the jungle canopy tour. So I arranged several massages in our rooms, did some cooking in our little kitchen, and we spent a lot of time riding in taxis going out to eat at a new restaurant most evenings, lounging on the beach or by the pool or in the cool shade of our covered terrace. It's good to be home, as always. The pair of resident foxes are bringing their kits right up to the house to drink water. I wonder if they will survive the heat and what they find to eat. The birds and squirrels are all back as the feeders are now being filled daily. The old white haired racoon has learned to arrive early to eat what the birds and squirrels have left over. They are all always in search of food and water. The need for nourishment never ends. We can never learn too much, nor love too much, and there is always something right in front of us to enjoy, to take delight in.

"Home", More than a Film

Home is a spectacular film by Yann Arthus-Bertrand, narrated by Glenn Close, filmed in over 50 countries, with fantastic music, incredible aerial views, spectacular color. It is enlightening, enriching, educational, and a bombardment of the senses. Very Highly recommended. Home being our planet earth, its incomprehensible array of plant and animal species, micro organisms, our planet that is around 4 billion years old. We, as humans, having only appeared on the scene in the last 200,000 years. Only in the last 20,000 years did we settle into agrarian communities. Over one fourth of the people living on the planet today live exactly the way they did 6,000 years ago, and of those, three quarters still till the soil by hand. More people live in the deserts of the world than the whole of the population of Europe. Then we come to the last 50 years, and everything becomes "faster and faster" and what has happened just defies comprehension. We are a species like no other, ever. Please watch this film if you get the chance. It's available for rent, or can be purchased. I aimed the camera at the TV and took the above photos.

Resolving that Antsy Feeling

A small remnant of a dream remembered from last night held fast to consciousness this morning, so I've been thinking about it over coffee. Something like this: the large (think super-size) skeleton of an ant fell on the floor after I extracted it from my ear, along with some other debris. I thought it might be the skeleton of a scorpion. With curiosity I touched it, and it was indeed the skeleton of a large ant--dead, decaying, and unraveling. The end of its life cycle. I'm pleased but a little sad, this letting go of something many have told me to do. Let's get to the core. I took yoga teacher training for the purpose of deepening my practice. I never aspired to teaching, and always put that out there and made that clear. Still, others who I very much admire and respect kept telling me that I should teach, that I would be good at it, that it would benefit both myself and others. This kind of positive but instructive feedback was good to hear even though it contradicted my original thinking. I began to question my lack of aspiration to teach. I began to turn it over and over in my mind. Again and again I would come back home to my own thoughts and feelings that teaching yoga is something I GREATLY admire in others, something that has benefited me beyond words. But me teach? Such a new, unexplored arena. So in a way, I gave in to the idea and signed up to be a substitute teacher. I had many doubts--not so much about my ability to teach (but yes, definitely some of those doubts), but more about my desire to teach, and how it would fit into my lifestyle, my time schedule, my commitment to my personal practice, my time constraints. More importantly, is this something I want to do? So I have been doing some teaching, and for a beginner teacher it is challenging, time consuming, and at first pretty scary. But I've done it and while it has dramatically increased my appreciation and admiration for the art and discipline of teaching this sacred practice, I have come round full circle and again have come to the confirmation that it is not something I want to do. And I need to be at peace that this is okay. I need to know that no matter what others tell me (and the vast majority of those who encourage me to teach are teachers themselves), I am ultimately the one who decides what my heart is asking me to do. So I've been a busy ant for a significant portion of my life, then I stopped and was no longer a busy worker ant always with a demanding job in front of me. I will not feel the sting of the scorpion by NOT doing what others tell me, I will not be punished, there will be no consequences to suffer, only that which I impose on myself. So I have given notice to the place where I teach, and this notice was received with total acceptance, understanding, and love. Sometimes my intuition isn't clear, it isn't black and white. Before we truly know what's best for us, we need to get out there and explore, and do it. Go through the fear, move through the action. And then we are far better equipped to move forward in our lives with discernment. And, this may need to be repeated. It is important to listen to what others say, and allow for change and a multitude of possibilities, but ultimately we chose our own paths.

Engagement in the Many Journeys

After yoga Sunday night a small group of us were having sandwiches at The Great Outdoors Cafe: Paul had recently traveled to New Mexico and his roommate has/had a house in Santa Fe, Jim is going to the Bodhi Zen Center in Jemez Springs, his friend is going to meet him for a stay in Santa Fe, Bo was recently there...and all this got me thinking along these lines:

It began with a woman in art therapy giving me a rock that was precious to her. Take it, she said, hold it and feel the magic, let it transport you, it comes from the banks of the Chama River in Northern New Mexico.

Fifteen years ago I had a house in Canones, northern New Mexico, at the end of a four mile long dirt road that began as a forest trail and evolved into a two lane, deeply rutted, narrow, and at times harrowing road to the house and the surrounding four acres. It was a beautiful four mile drive that took thirty minutes to traverse in good weather, in a four wheel drive vehicle or pickup truck. At the crest of a hill to the left was an ancient Anasazi Indian village rarely seen except by the occasional villager and visiting archaeologist. To the right was a tiny Greek Orthodox Monastery that kept me amply supplied with the best locally made bees wax candles in exchange for taking in their cats during short sabbaticals. I had no telephone, no television, and in the winter, no neighbors. Delicious, sweet water flowed through the property from a mountain stream that also brought piped water into the house all year long--a rare commodity for most in this region. Near the corner of a large field behind the house were the remnants of a log cabin from long ago, shaded by an apple tree that was a prolific producer of small, sour apples. Horses loved the apples and with an old fashioned recipe could be made into the best apple pie I've ever tasted. A lone pinon pine towered mightily at the front gate while groves of cottonwoods lined the banks of the icy cold Canones Creek and colored the landscape with brilliant colors in the fall season. Surrounding the house was a root cellar, a tack room, a greenhouse, two large screened porches, one attached and the other some distance from the house as part of a guest room and an old abandoned trailer house that smelled of dead mice. There was a free standing carport adjacent to the small shed that housed the firewood. A giant propane tank stood out like a sore thumb near the entry gate and foretold of long, harsh winters that visited each year with deep snows and subfreezing temperatures. An old fashioned swing hung from the rafters of a small gazebo next to the wooden foot bridge that crossed the creek. The house itself had an exterior covering of split logs made shiny with regular linseed oil applications and was well insulated against the cold. Inside were two bedrooms, a sleeping porch/studio, an open kitchen and living room with fireplace, one bathroom, and a sizable utility room containing the defunct baseboard heating system, washer, dryer, hot water heater, and large freezer. I painted most of the interior walls, applied yet another coat of linseed oil diluted with turpentine to the exterior planks, and painted the trim of the house a colorful Indian red. I gardened, hauled rocks, mowed, chopped firewood, mended fences and gates, cleaned the tall chimney like a chimney sweep, went for long walks in the adjacent state and national forest lands, visited the Anasazi ruins, made friends with the monks and some of the villagers and used tools my hands had never before touched. I added extra panes of glass to the windows of the added-on sleeping porch which was intended for summer use and not well insulated against the blowing winds of winter. I learned to keep it closed off from rest of the house during cold winter nights, then would open it up during sunny days as I sat in front of my easel or took lazy afternoon naps. I added two propane heaters as emergency back-up. I settled in for winter. I was happy and contented. I was doing exactly what I wanted to do, I was following my dream. I had moved to my oasis, my utopia in the remote deserts, forests, mountains and valleys of Northern New Mexico.


I barely made it for a year. The winter turned the landscape to infinite shades of dull, depressing gray. The roads became worse. There was always the possibility of the pipes freezing which would result in the loss of water until spring. I fell off a ladder injuring my wrist with no one to hear my screams for assistance. I drove two hours to get groceries and stood outside in the freezing snows and blizzard-like winds making phone calls home, beginning to question my decision to move here in the first place. As winter wore on and isolation set in, I became desperately lonely. Night after night was yet another dark night of the soul. I would retreat to the Benedictine Monastery about 30 miles away for company, all the while worried about leaving my cats alone. I would walk out to the front gate under a brilliant cast of stars the likes of which I had never seen before or since and call out to some god to bring an end to my loneliness, my fear, my isolation. I spent day after day contacting and visiting various bureaucratic agencies in an attempt to get a telephone installed. I was told that a telephone would be simple to install provided I pay about $100,000 for the 3.5 miles of wires and poles that needed to be installed, after obtaining permission from each and every landowner whose property the lines would cross. I would visit friends in Santa Fe who couldn't visit me without having the underbellies of their vehicles torn away. I would visit art galleries and restaurants and get home long past midnight. I missed my partner back in Austin more than I imagined possible. I started therapy in Santa Fe with a wonderful young therapist who was my saving grace. After several months he asked me what prevented me from returning to Austin, from returning home, from returning to my partner? When I realized the answer was NOTHING, I jumped for joy, packed up some clothes and the cats, winterized the cabin, and headed back home. I had spent my time alone in the deserted northern wilds of New Mexico and came to fully understand the deep meaning in the phrase "there's no place like home." Dorothy said it, she was wearing the shoes all the while without knowing their power. A rich, unforgettable experience, a journey of learning and growth, a time of deep searching and longing and introspection, a time to never forget, but finally, the realization that I needed to go home, and that I had a home to go to.

A young, gifted friend tells me he wants to pull up stakes and move to New Mexico, buy some land, have a house and a separate studio for yoga, massage, teaching classes, group meetings and gatherings, and ideally have a scattering of small cabins on the property for guests. Where? I ask. Somewhere in Northern New Mexico, between Santa Fe and Taos, a small town. Why? I ask. To be in touch and harmony with nature, the dramatic, beautiful landscape, experience the intensity of the change of seasons. Like so many of us, he is drawn deeply into the Land of Enchantment. The place where alternative lifestyles are relatively commonplace. A place of indigenous peoples, secluded monasteries, Zen centers, Native American reservations, communities living off the grid. I totally understand this urge that pulls at him. I have felt it and acted on it. It's important to have dreams, goals, to follow our hearts, to move out into the world and take risks--this is what makes us feel alive. As an elder, I have seen this dream acted on over and over again, and while I'd never discourage anyone from following their dreams, I do strongly advise people to go out to New Mexico first and stay for a while, rent a house, become familiar with your surrounds. It's a very harsh life out there. It's one of the most sparsely populated states in the US. It's difficult to earn a living. It can get very lonely. All the people you dream about coming to visit you may not show up. The community you dream of building may not come to pass. The chances of returning to the place from whence you came are pretty high. I've seen this over and over again. The largest town between Santa Fe and Taos is Espanola. Between Espanola and Taos are a few very tiny towns, and although incredibly picturesque, not very many permanent residents. Heading from Espanola towards Abiquiu is also beautiful, but again a very harsh and difficult climate in which to live. People build dream homes along the Chama River and a year or two later put them up for sale. Countless communes have come and gone. Georgia O'Keefe loved this country and lived there for many years, but in the beginning she rented a house on secluded property of Ghost Ranch and frequently returned to New York. Over a period of many years and frequent visits and increasingly longer stays, she decided to take up permanent residence. But she was a highly successful painter and knew the landscape thoroughly, and was one of a rare breed of people who can thrive creatively and otherwise both in a harsh climate and virtual isolation from community for extended periods of time. But who am I to say that this gifted young man will not go out there and find exactly what he wants and needs? I am not one to say that, only present my perspective, my own personal experience, and be at peace with him doing exactly what he wants to do. Blessings to him and to all who venture forth into the unknown, whether alone or with a companion, in search of meaning and happiness.

A Motley Crew of Poets, Indeed

A motley group of students take a field trip with their teacher to an old, run down monastery, built of great substance but in much need of restoration, set in a series of beautifully maintained gardens. Through dirty windows one glimpses the extraordinary greenery of the inner and outer sculpted and natural landscapes--inner courtyards and surrounding gardens with cypress trees growing along the grassy banks of a flowing stream. It speaks of enlightenment and the likes of William Blake. The assignment is to compose a traditional sonnet following a prescribed rhyme scheme. Afterwards, students are called out by name to read their compositions to the group. With great dramatic flair, one student pretends to conduct an orchestra as a prelude to the reading of his literary masterpiece. Another student greatly surprises the group by reading an exquisite poem written masterfully with perfect rhyme and image provoking metaphor. Yet another student reads her poem which ends abruptly mid-stanza and leaves the group puzzled over the lack of apparent meaning and the total departure from the specific assignment. I am called upon to read my poem, which I have completed following the given instructions, and I'm initially very pleased with my creative output until I begin comparing my poem to the exquisite compositions of others. Suddenly mine seems lame, and worthless, and I don't want to read it so I pretend to have lost it. I am not let off the hook, and the class waits while I search. In the meanwhile yet another student recites her poem of near perfection. Now my poem appears to be lost and I am glad I cannot find it. The teacher asks for all my materials--my books and various papers, and he begins a personal search for my lost poem. He finds other poems I've written, and drawings, and doodles and scribbles and underlined passages and marvels at it all. He points out the beauty of my personal inventory. Suddenly I am aglow with a renewed faith in myself and I too begin searching for the poem I have written. I find it and am pleased with it, I love it for what it is--my poem. Maybe not as sophisticated or erudite as some of the others, maybe not so rich in metaphor, not so colorful, but still, it is mine (and it is part of the whole). And all is well as I've listened to my teacher and stopped comparing and contrasting my work with that of others, stopped separating mine out.

We can always find people whose poetry of being is more beautiful than ours, just as we can easily find those whose poetry seems nonsensical, or lacking in rhyme and rhythm and substance. It's good to be aware of this great diversity and to observe it and soak it all in lovingly. But when we begin to compare ourselves in a judgmental way to those whose poetry we find more beautiful than ours we begin to doubt ourselves and lose touch with our inner teacher. The same is true when we compare ourselves with those whose poetry appears shallow and without meaning, for if we use it for comparative purposes to give rise to our own sense of well being, we have failed to truly embrace the beauty of diversity, we have turned off the dialog with our inner teacher. And so as we look out on to the poetic landscape of our lives, we seek to find learning and growth and beauty in all this, and focus our attention on exactly what we have before us in our own gardens--one day it may be lush and tropical, other days it may be a frightening barren landscape. Our outer bones and structure may begin to face decay, but it is what it is and we are who we are and so we begin to cultivate the poetry of our inner lives, listening to others, sharing, accepting, exercising non-envy and stepping forth into the circle and community of self-acceptance. By tending to our own gardens, we show others how to tend to theirs, and we all reap the bounty.

Om Hrim Om

Dissolving Knots and Melting Away Nails

After practice yesterday I had a great massage, a Jeff combo special extreme. Laying on my stomach, I went into a deep relaxation, perhaps a trance. I saw my back covered with giant nails (best description is railroad spikes). This was not a painful image or a disturbing one, no blood, just a series of spikes holding my body down, and as Jeff continued to massage me the spikes disintegrated, releasing their hold. It was a sweet, pleasant image yet one that expressed intensity. Imagine actually being nailed down with railroad spikes penetrating your body--pretty awful. But in my image the spikes were painless. When we relax our minds and our bodies, we can release all the nails of tension that keep us nailed down, that keep us held in place and stuck, that keep us face down and free from seeing, free from moving into understanding. For more than a few weeks now I've been struggling to understand a relationship that I don't fully understand. It seems to defy definition, understanding, and at times, healthy boundaries. I needed to let it go, I needed to be free from it for the time being--all this within myself. I felt hurt and angry and these feelings cause my mind to get stuck in creating scenarios that are little more than illusions that seek to release the pain. They are like illusory whirlwinds that take off and gain strength in an instant before I realize I have the capacity to stop them before they take on too much of a life of their own. Again and again when I realize that I'm not feeling loved in the world, that I'm feeling unworthy of love, it helps me understand that the pain I'm feeling comes from old wounds and has been triggered by an outside event that usually has very little to do with what's swirling around within me. However, we do need to pay close attention to those people in our lives who may indeed have a tendency to disregard our boundaries, or whose actions don't jibe with their words (and vice versa). Human nature is so complex and when we try to nail down someone else's behavior we might only end up in knots ourselves. Sometimes, not always, it's best to just let go, stop the whirlwinds of illusion, and let the nails come out, and from this place we are more free in choosing what serves us best.

Underlining the Underlying

I often find myself, while reading a book, grabbing a pencil or highliter and underlining nearly every sentence I've just read with the thought: I must come back to this--it really speaks to me, there are many layers of meaning here that warrant further exploration. Bringing Yoga to Life by Donna Farhi is one such book. For example, in her chapter The Freedom of Discipline, she talks about the importance of learning to channel our energies by "increasing our tolerance for staying in the pause between desire and satisfaction." Staying in that place between wanting and getting or doing. I've been applying this pause to so many things of late and the outcome is simply wonderful. It allows for things to just unfold without me interfering, interjecting, projecting, and in general trying to control or manipulate things, even with the very best of intentions, whether I believe I'm being appropriately assertive or not. There is a gentleness in this that I like very much. Not knowing what to do is a dilemma many of us find ourselves in, as well as not knowing what to say, when to say it, whether to say it at all when confronted with difficult situations. Yes, the avoidance of conflict altogether is not a very realistic approach to living--after all, conflict of one kind or another is a fact of life--but fully understanding and seeing that fine line that divides *into action* vs *pause* is difficult for many of us to define. Staying in pause mode can bring the clarity we are looking for, and oftentimes that clarity unfolds before us while we are in a state of pause, and resolution comes to fruition while we observe. This is NOT to say we shouldn't actively participate in our lives nor does it promote procrastination. What it does say is that the habitual reacting that may have been with us for a long time may be a behavior that needs to be carefully examined. Farhi writes that the Latin root for discipline is disciplina which means knowledge, or enlightenment. Discipline sometimes has a negative connotation, but when put in the context of an action that brings knowledge and insight into who we really are, it helps to push us to show up to the yoga mat or the meditation cushion, or just get out and work at getting and finding whatever we need in a manner that is skillful and guided by discernment. Pausing can be as simple as wanting to tell a stranger in a yoga class that his behavior is insulting to the teacher and violates yoga etiquette and tradition (not paying attention to the teacher, talking so that other students cannot hear the teacher, physically adjusting a fellow student, etc.) But when you pause from saying anything and moments later learn he is the spouse and/or best friend of the teacher it's a confirmation that the pause served you quite well!! Action that is anger based, or controlling based, or care taking orientated is best kept in the pause mode. Pause doesn't mean stop permanently, it just means slow down and be very mindful before stepping in to shape or control a situation. I really do like this whole pause concept. I'm underlining Pause and examining its many underlying meanings and applications in my life.