(This is another article I wrote to my younger self, about some things I think I might have found helpful back when I was miserable.)
I would tell you a story about yoga. Honestly, I would tell you many stories about yoga. But for now, here’s a fun one I wrote a while back.
I was just starting my favorite yoga practice (Power Yoga) at one of my favorite places on earth. I was on the large wooden deck of a 150-year-old farmhouse, in the stunning mountains of Virginia. I would tell you, you will have many happy moments there, and challenges too. But the challenges and the rural beauty of Virginia will heal you, time and time again.
We had celebrated a raucous Thanksgiving the day before, with plenty of booze flowing, pot smoking, and piles of exquisite food. It was a delightfully mild and sunny long weekend, surprising but possible at the end of November. Every single resident of the commune was off premises this Friday, as I set up to practice. The vast and beautiful lawn spread out before me, surrounded by heavily forested hills. I’m not sure, but I would bet I hit the pot pipe a time or two in the process of preparing. It was as close to heaven on earth as I could imagine, and I was fully grateful for the opportunity of this experience.
I started to drop into the routine, a routine I knew well from the hundreds of times I had practiced it. I would tell you that when I started it two years earlier, flopping around spasmodically, I was weak, uncoordinated and tight. But after two years of nearly daily practice, I became strong, open and capable—as a yogi and as a human.
As soon as I poured myself into the initial child’s pose, my body and mind responsively melted onto the mat. On this sweet day, I took a deep, slow breath in and exhaled slowly and fully, automatically attaining deep relaxation. Ah, sweet and complete peace.
That’s when the gunfire started. Some random neighbor was enjoying a firing range for holiday entertainment. It should be noted: gunfire, high-pitched whining power tools and revving ATV engines are not uncommon in those parts, especially on days of leisure.
Immediately, resistance was triggered. Annoyance flared up. Heaven was disrupted and was quickly turning into hell. I went into full-blown aggravated resistance mode. It quickly became clear: a choice had to be made.
Should I pack it up and move inside to continue my practice? Do I ditch the whole plan entirely and try later, maybe take a walk instead? Could I possibly overcome my opposition and frustration to reality, so that I could enjoy my sacred practice in this magical moment on this enchanting property? I asked myself if I could manage my internal conflict, so that I could stay put? Could I quit griping about the situation and relax? That last option seemed unlikely, but I was willing to consider it since I was reluctant to give up my delightful plan even as it seemed to be falling to shit.
As I contemplated my options while breathing (slowly, deeply, fully) and melting ever more comfortably onto the mat, a new frightening thought volunteered itself and agitated me, as they will. Not only is the gunfire annoying as hell, but I could also literally be killed right here on my sweet mat. Visions of my contorted, bloody body glistening in the sunshine popped into my head. Okay, I knew it was very unlikely that I would be shot to death then and there, but it was a thought and a possibility, slim though it was.
Once again, blessedly, I was reminded of the fact of my death. I was reminded that the moment will come, sure and soon enough, when the dream of my life will end. And I realized there could be no better way to go, then on this mat, in this paradise, under the gentle November sun. With that realization, I knew I wasn’t going to budge. I knew I wasn’t going to soil this perfect moment with resistance or complaint, for it may be my very last moment in this sweet, fascinating and insane realm.
I surrendered to the conditions of the day, immersed myself in my practice. The random but frequent gunfire created beautiful music for my practice and made me smile. The periodic stink of old cigarettes in the loaded ashtrays around me from yesterday’s party wafted into my nostrils, becoming an aromatic reminder of yesterday’s joyful celebration with my beloved people, like holy incense.
I would tell you to practice surrendering. Practice allowing. Practice the fact of your death, because your life can only be as comfortable as your relationship with your death. Practice opening to each moment as it is, for it may be your last. And when you can’t open to the moment, practice studying what closes it so that maybe next time you will be better able to open. I would tell you that takes a lot of practice, to be sure. And as I always tell you, practice is easy when it’s easy. That is when you are preparing for when it’s hard. You must practice practicing. And when practice is hard, that’s when the real work is getting done and your gratification will be great.
I would tell you every moment offers choices, and there is no right or wrong one. Maybe on another day I would have packed it in and moved inside or taken a walk or tried to practice later when everything simmered down. But whatever choice you make, tend to the moment so you are open to it. Observe your resistance. Follow your inspiration. Breathe and melt into the fullness of the moment, for this moment is all there is.
I would tell you there is no problem beyond your own resistance. Everything else is just life. And death.
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