of
us.
"Getting stuck" is a broad term with no particular Sanskrit
equivalent, but it is a yogic concept
through and through. I'm stuck
when
I limit myself to narrow concepts of how things are or ought to be,
and
to concepts of what constitutes progress. Getting stuck doesn't just
mean
being brought to a
standstill, or reaching a plateau and not being able
to climb higher. Limited ideas of progress get me
stuck in the wheel
ruts
of repetitive patterns, going forward but nowhere new.
Ask a
yogi about his greatest teacher, and you're likely to hear a tale of an
injury that stopped him in
his
tracks. Setbacks move us forward. Why? Because they bring to our
attention
back to ourselves to see
what
we have been neglecting in our quest for progress. Yoga is such an
organic
process of growth and expansion that whatever we neglect within
ourselves
will ultimately hold us back, acting as a tether that
keeps
us galloping in circles. The shock of a setback brings us to realize
that,
while we may have been
doing
our routine, we have strayed from doing our yoga.
In my
case the wake-up call came literally with a knock on the head. In a
group
practice session we had
been
working on backbends, and the leader of the session announced that we
would
do drop-backs. (A drop-back is to start from a standing position and
bend
over backwards, dropping into a full backbend by reaching back and
landing
on your hands.) This is not something I have any particular problem
with,
though mine are not the most elegant backdrops. But on this day my
heart
just wasn't in it. I went ahead anyway, mostly because everyone else
was
doing it -- after all, this was a group practice meant to challenge and
move us forward. I coaxed myself with the theory that perhaps doing a
couple
of them would spark the enthusiasm I was as yet lacking. I resigned
myself
to it, and proceeded. On the first try I didn't open enough with my
heart,
was late with my hands, and landed pretty much on my head. This didn't
cause any great injury since I did manage to catch well enough with my
hands to muffle the impact, but it did give me an opportunity to sit
back,
watch the stars, and consider what had just happened.
Why had
I attempted it when my heart wasn't in it? What had been the point?
This
is yoga, and a yogic challenge takes us forward when it's met with the
heart, not just the head. You have to want the challenge because it
nourishes
you, because your focused effort gives you a taste of the goodness of
life.
Yet I had
left
my heart behind in the rush to keep up, so it wasn't there when I
needed
it -- and my head got its just reward.
These
days, when I feel some resistance to doing a pose, I pause to ask what
I really want from this
practice.
When I focus on the inner experience rather than the ambition to
achieve
a particular pose,
the
resistance is easily overcome and the challenge met with greater
wisdom,
energy and patience than if
I
had
simply forged ahead for the sake of the discipline. Other times I just
know it is better to set the
effort
aside for another day.
Moreover,
when a teacher cajoles me to go deeper or stay longer in a pose, my
(silent)
reply is, "I'm not
doing
my yoga for you" and I ask myself what I want to feel from the pose. If
my heart is there, the pose
is
too.
If the heart is not, or the body is not ready to go that extra inch,
there
is no point in forcing it.
There
is of course nothing wrong with accepting encouragement or asking for
help
to experience a pose
more
deeply; but the desire has to come first from within, for the pose is
ultimately
an expression of your
own
self. There is no yoga in being cranked into a pose.
We do
celebrate physical accomplishments in our culture that, while hard-won
and a wonder to behold,
are
only temporary -- bright and glistening moments that quickly evaporate.
Yoga wants to show us what is lasting about ourselves, what is eternal
and indestructibly good. The body and the mind provide the tools
we
can
work with to recognize and live this truth, but the accomplishments of
the body and mind are not
the
point -- they are anecdotes illuminating a greater truth, the goodness,
resilience and strength of the
human
heart.
It's
irresistible to focus on accomplishments. Accomplishments give us a
tangible
foothold for our sense of progress. But while we are directed by our
goals
to make greater and greater advances, our goals also limit us, because
they represent what we think we lack; they often mirror our sense of
imperfection.
The moment we define our world by what we lack -- and indeed we do this
every day -- we are stuck, and progress in achieving our goals is no
real
progress at all, as long as the idea of this lack remains. Our goals,
even
when attained, do not finally satisfy that original sense of emptiness.
The problem
begins when we set up this sense of opposition, of division or duality
in our lives -- having and not having, winning and losing, success and
failure, peace and turmoil. This creeps into our yoga practice in a
number
of ways. It begins when we set our yoga apart from our lives. It can be
a relief to think of our practice as a refuge, as a moment for
ourselves
away from it all. In fact it's such a relief that we often do achieve
moments
of peace and stillness -- and then get frustrated when we (or perhaps
those
who know us) see that this pristine peace does not carry over into the
turbulence of the everyday; one minute we're serene and Buddha-like,
the
next we fly off the handle when things don't go our way.
Often
too our schedule makes it impossible to fit our accustomed routine into
the day. Disheartened by such setbacks, we lose enthusiasm while
feeling
guilty and resentful all at the same time. It is a great discipline to
make our practice a sacred and inviolable time, but our frustration
from
the dichotomy will not go away until we find a way to make every moment
of our lives our yoga, for yoga is not time apart from the world, but
full
participation in the world.
An even
more familiar strain of poverty-consciousness shows itself in our
practice
the moment we judge our practice as 'advanced' according to the
repertoire
of poses we have achieved, or our ability to hold them
for
impressive lengths of time. It's basic human nature to see things this
way; but yoga is meant to pull us
out
of this self-defeating perception of our practice.
When
the measure of your practice becomes your accomplishments -- and
especially
when that leads to frustration or (God forbid) pride, the relevant
question
is this: are you doing your yoga for your heart or
for
your head? Are you more concerned for how you perceive yourself or for
how others -- your teacher especially -- perceive you, or for how you
genuinely
feel inside? Success and accomplishment make us feel good, but which
part
of you is feeling good, and at what cost? Might there be an even deeper
and more steadfast way of feeling good through your yoga than what
you've
been feeling until now? Can you feel as good even when you can't quite
do a posture -- or meditate -- to your satisfaction, or have you
made
succeeding
the point of your practice? Does your standard of success have you
stuck?
What might you experience by letting go of success?
The Bhagavad-Gita
has this to say: "Your right is to action alone; never to its fruits.
Never
should the fruits of action be your motive" In other words, while we
have
the right to set our intentions and make an effort
to
grow,
we have no real entitlement to have things turn out just the way we
want
them to. Most of us know or acknowledge this truth on some level; few
of
us actually accept it.
It's
strong medicine. The teaching demands our recognition that if we judge
the worth of our efforts by
the
outcome, we'll never be free of the gnawing sense of lack that makes us
feel we are less than we truly are. Outward success is never certain --
or lasting -- and for that reason cannot appease the sense of lack
or
imperfection
that goads us to chase after success in the first place. Rather than
focus
on the anticipated fruits of success in the future, we need to address
that sense of emptiness now.
Yoga
would have us know that this sense of lack is a false premise on which
we're basing the argument for our lives, and we would do best to dispel
it with the truth. For genuine progress is not measured by outer
achievement,
it is measured by our recognition and appreciation of our true inner
power.
If we don't let go
of
the
expected fruits, dissolving our own picture of success or failure, we
make
little progress in that kind
of
self-understanding.
Even our successes will remain tainted with a nagging sense of
emptiness
and disappointment.
Physical
achievements are fleeting and fragile, but the effort is not pointless.
Any effort toward mastery
will
lead us to draw upon the true source of strength and wisdom within each
of us -- and the more
challenging
and impossible the situation, the better. The moment of breakthrough
when
we draw upon a
deeper
power to get us through is a moment of grace, and that moment makes the
whole experience
satisfying
and worthwhile. The taste of this grace is what truly feels good. It's
that moment when we were truly in touch with our greater Self and our
inner
power, so much so that the outcome doesn't even matter. In that moment
we experience what in yoga is called steady wisdom -- stitha prajna. We
draw upon the
strength
and wisdom behind all accomplishment and we do not fear the outcome,
because
we no longer
listen
to our limited ideas and instead make the leap into a higher way of
being,
erasing our false sense
of
lack
with our own understanding.
The true
goal -- and measure -- of progress in yoga is to become established in
this steady wisdom. One of the great texts of yoga, the Yoga Vasistha,
summed up steady wisdom in a simple maxim for dealing with the events
of
our lives: whatever comes, let it come; whatever goes, let it go.
Behind
this teaching lies the
experience
gained from yoga that we are already full and complete in our own
essential
nature. We needn't fret about what will come to us, nor fear what we
will
lose; nothing that happens in the world can add to or take away from
what
we already are. To know and genuinely feel this sense of completeness
and
ease with the world is steady wisdom.
Outwardly
we handle the events of our lives as a play and participate fully;
inwardly
we keep steady
wisdom,
knowing that there is the presence within the heart of a greater, wiser
Self. Let the body be
cranky,
let it be supple; steady wisdom is to be free of the limitations of
success
and failure, but rather
to
live
with an awareness that welcomes and can deal with both, neither getting
too proud of success nor
too
disappointed with failure. It's a play, which if it has a purpose at
all,
is meant to return us to our own
inner
steadiness, so that we the actors may enjoy the play as much as its
author
(and even do a good deal of ad-libbing).
Yoga
is at its heart a mysticism that turns our common way of perceiving,
evaluating
and living our lives on
its
head, one that does not define progress in terms of success and
failure,
but instead defines progress
as
becoming
free from success and failure. Yoga teaches that we get unstuck by
staying
put, remaining steadfast in our own wisdom while delving deeply into
it.
Beyond letting go of ideas, beyond making the
mind
still and thought-free, there is an experience of fullness, plenitude
and
enthusiasm within that the
texts
of yoga describe as "purno-aham-vimarsha," the experiential awareness
that
in our innermost nature we are already perfect and complete. We always
have been, and always will be; there is nothing to achieve. We just
need
to entertain that understanding and become quiet enough to experience
it,
even if just for a moment, and then gradually make it a steady state of
awareness through our practice. The texts of yoga say that this
experience
is no further from you than your own breath. Just as your breath is
always
with you, so the experience of perfection is always close at hand.
The mysticism
of yoga is this: that we can step up to our mat -- and to our lives --
without expectation of
how
things will turn out, and with that finally begin to experience
ourselves
as we truly are: light,
spontaneous,
resilient, strong and supple in spirit, and fully open to each moment
of
grace as it comes.
That's
the practice of yoga.
How is
my Dog Pose today? I'm stiff and I feel goooood.
Doug
Keller
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