“A fair is a place you take a pig and bring home a ribbon.” – my friend, Annie Webb

 

“That’s not fair!” These are words we’ve all heard, thought and probably whined at some time or another. Though it would be easy (and convenient) to point the finger at the 10 and under crowd for holding a deep-seated belief in the notion of fairness, I suspect most of us grown-ups struggle periodically with the feeling that it’s just not fair when life doesn’t go our way. But, as we’ve all been told in countless ways over the years, life isn’t fair.

 

In an interesting twist, it is often managing the events in our lives that feel the most unfair that helps us grow into the people we’re meant to be. When I came down with a recurring bone infection in middle school that made me limp and kept me off my beloved tennis courts, I know I cried many, many times “This isn’t fair!” When my mom and dad announced that we were moving from Texas to Connecticut the summer before eighth grade, I suspect my response was “That’s not fair!” I vividly remember my reaction when I was accepted at my first choice college, but only if I agreed to start in January rather than September. I wadded up the acceptance letter and yelled, “This is not fair!”

 

Yet each of these events were to be formational experiences for me. Chronic illness made me resourceful and resilient at a younger age than many of my peers. Moving (not just once, but twice) during my teenage years helped me to develop a clearer sense of self than I would have otherwise. Spending my first semester of college at a local school gave me the chance to test myself in the world of higher education from the safety of my parents’ home, so that I was more confident and better prepared when I hit the campus where I’d spend the remaining three years.

 

Even knowing that I’ve received tremendous gifts from struggles I initially bewailed hasn’t always helped prevent me from moaning, “That’s not fair!” as an adult. Loved ones get sick. Dear friends move away. Pets die prematurely. Vacations get cancelled. Things great and small just don’t work out the way you’d hoped or expected. This is the nature of life. While it may not be much fun and it certainly takes more out of you than smooth seas, learning to navigate the choppy waters of life is integral to our growth and development.

 

Years of yoga classes have taught me a great deal about the notion of fairness strange as that may seem. On more than one occasion, I’ve stared wistfully and enviously (albeit out of the corner of my eye) at exceptionally bendy students only to hear them exclaim after class how stiff and painful the practice had been for them. “Could it be,” I thought, “that they feel just like me?” I’ve also worked with many new students who can barely bend over who experience the heightened focus and spiritual awareness that practicing yoga can create. These folks are easier for me to relate with as, not too long ago, I was in their shoes.

 

I’ve studied with teachers who make me look like a rubber band and others who make me look like a piece of wood. I’ve learned from them all. While I have learned a great deal from each of my teachers, I’ve learned exponentially more from those who teach from their limitations. It’s by sharing their very personal journeys of challenge, inability, and gradual growth that these men and women manage to share the deeper gifts of the practice.

 

Working with these teachers has helped me develop a certainty that struggles are not thrown in our paths to derail us, but to foster creativity, persistence, patience and even faith. When we find ourselves limited in our practice, we don’t exclaim, “This isn’t fair!” and turn in our yoga mat for a pilates reformer or aerobics shoes. Instead, we learn to modify the stretch to suit us as we are. We learn to keep coming back to our most difficult asana because that is almost always the one that has the most to teach us. We learn not to force our way deeper into a posture, but rather to be where we can breathe and wait for our body to open. We learn, in the end, to have faith in the practice even when our faith in ourselves and our body may be a little shaky.

 

In practicing this way, we experience tremendous change on and off our mats. Gradually, we continue our journey back to physical wellness. Gradually, we continue our journey of becoming the person we are created to be.

 

And that’s the one thing in life that is fair. We are all created with special strengths and gifts. One way or another, life will bring us chances to uncover these talents, to develop these traits and to share them with others. Sometimes (a lot of the time), our first reaction to these chances will be “ That’s not fair!” But if we work to set aside those feelings and focus on navigating through these challenging times, we will emerge wiser, stronger and better people.

 

That’s better than any ol’ blue ribbon, isn’t it?

Amy

 

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Anyone who has ever spent time with a toddler knows that navigating transitions is a learned skill rather than one we’re born with. When my otherwise even-keeled son was little, transitions were almost the only thing that could drive him into a full-fledged tantrum. I cannot begin to count the number of times I had to carry him out of our neighbor’s house thrashing and screaming. Turning off the television after “Dragontales” ended left him sobbing. Leaving the local toy store with its wooden train track and gazillions of trains was a nightmare every single time.

 

Flash forward a decade or so and transitions are still tough for him. Getting him to turn off a video game is nearly impossible. “I just want to beat this level, Mom!” Getting his nose out of a book and his body into the car can still require the “10-minute warning” we devised back when he was pitching fits every time we left anywhere. Even getting him to move on from the research phase into the writing phase for a school paper can take repeated pokes and prods. The boy just likes to be where he is and do what he’s doing ‘til he’s done, thank you very much!

 

And, you know what? The kid isn’t alone. Transitions are tricky for a lot of us.

 

It’s not just shifting from a pleasant activity (reading a good book) to something less pleasant (changing the sheets) that is difficult. I can have just as hard a time leaving on vacation as I do coming home. The ramp-up to departure can leave me seething with so much stress that it can take me a ridiculously long time to settle into the reality that I’ve actually left my stresses behind. Similarly, coming home can be brutal. My friends and I have dubbed the day after any escape “re-entry.” It is a precarious time fraught with short-tempers and wild mood swings – not to mention dizzying piles of laundry.

 

In the first year of practicing yoga, I recall being flabbergasted to find that I was actually suffering from “re-entry” when returning home from my weekly Monday morning class. I’d float out of the studio feeling centered, settled, energized and ready to take on the world. I’d enter my house and go to pieces at the first peep of bickering or defiance from my kids. My yoga bubble wouldn’t just burst. It would explode leaving everyone in the vicinity (especially me) dripping in yuck. Clearly, this was something I needed to figure out.

 

I found a way to practice navigating transitions on my mat. Any sequence of yoga postures is filled with transitions. In fact, you could say that the flowing kind of yoga that I practice (Ashtanga yoga) is one long transition from the opening Sun Salutations to savasana. During the course of my practice, it is guaranteed that I will have to move out a posture that feels fabulous and into one that doesn’t. I will also get to leave behind a painful, challenging posture and move into one that comes easily to me. In other words, I get to practice both kinds of transitions.

 

Both require mindfulness. When I move out of a favorite posture, I have found that I need to watch my attitude. While it’s perfectly fine to relish the breaths I get to take in a posture that feels good, I have to be careful to leave readily, willingly and with an open mind. Otherwise, I’ve already shortchanged the upcoming posture. If I slip into resistance or throw myself a little pity party, I’m distracted as I enter the next pose. If the next stretch is a tough one for me, my distracted state simply makes it harder. Even the most challenging posture feels better when I come into it with an open mind and 100% of my focus.

 

It’s just as important that I stay mindful as I shift from a tough pose to an easy one. The urge to “rubber band” out of a tough, deep stretch when you realize it’s over is hard to resist. Especially when you know that one of your favorite postures is next. However, yoga teaches us to move out of a pose mindfully and with the breath. Doing so allows your body to unwind or unfold gradually. This actually helps create the muscle memory that will eventually help you to go deeper into the stretch. When you charge willy-nilly into a pose that comes easily to you, you are also robbing yourself. A mindful transition teaches us to appreciate every step along the way.

 

Practicing yoga has also taught me to view the transitions between postures as distinct parts of my practice. In Ashtanga yoga, we move from posture to posture through a repeated short series of movements called a vinyasa. When I was new to the practice, these movements felt “extra.” They felt like something I had to do in order to get to the “good stuff” of the next posture. As my practice has evolved, my understanding of these movements has shifted. They no longer feel “in between.” They feel important and worthy of my full focus in and of themselves. They yield warmth, strength and flexibility to my body. They also refocus my mind, helping it move gracefully from one posture to the next. By moving through each vinyasa mindfully, I am fully present as I move into each subsequent posture in the series.

 

In short, my yoga practice has affirmed that transitions are hard. To successfully navigate them requires our full focus. I’ve also learned that to gracefully manage a transition, we must enter that transition willingly. We mustn’t hold tight to the vacation or the video game or the super-fun play-date. Instead, we must lift our gaze to what is next, take a deep breath and forge onward.

 

Sometimes we’ll move into something hard, sometimes something easy. Sometimes what’s ahead will be delightful, or restful or rejuvenating. Sometimes we’re moving into a time of sadness or worry or challenge. Our job is to breathe, move and to give ourselves over to whatever life brings out way. After all, there isn’t a dizzying pile of laundry out there that will not (eventually) be clean – especially if you skip the tantrum!

 

Onward ho!

Amy

 

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I love birthdays. At my age, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I still get a thrill out of all the birthday trappings. I love receiving cards and presents. I love that my far-away family leaves me singing voice messages that I replay several times before deleting. I love that my husband jokingly refers to my birthday as a national holiday and makes a big stink. I love the fanfare of candles, making a wish and eating a slice of cake.

 

Even more than all this, though, I love the feeling of birthdays. Having a birthday puts me into an special frame of mind. It begins as I wake up – sometimes before I even open my eyes. It’s taking a moment in bed to savor the fact that today is here. It’s instantly feeling a little special. It puts a spring in my step and a smile on my lips. A birthday frame of mind is a perspective. It opens my eyes to little “gifts” from the world around me.

 

Let me explain. I recently had an especially nice birthday. It was a Thursday filled to overflowing with just this type of little gifts. Forecasted rain held off so that a friend and I didn’t have to cancel our weekly walk. Instead of practicing yoga by myself as I usually do on Thursdays, I had the chance to practice side by side with a new friend. A client cancelled a private lesson at the last minute. While cancellations are usually one of the less pleasant aspects to my line of work, on this day it felt like a gift. I called my husband who immediately offered to take me out for a grilled cheese sandwich at a local luncheonette. It was an awesome morning.

 

I did not have high hopes for my birthday afternoon, however. My son had his quarterly check-up at the hospital that afternoon. This is typically a grueling five-hour process of driving into the city, waiting, navigating the questions and answers of one doctor’s appointment, waiting some more, having a second appointment, waiting some more and having blood drawn. Yet, I coasted into the high school to pick up my son glowing from the riches of my lovely morning, and I’ll be darned if the gifts didn’t keep flowing my way!

 

As we made our way downtown, my son pointed out that every single stop light turned green just as we approached. We found a parking spot on the crowded and coveted first level of the hospital garage. We had time to get him a snack, his doctors were not running late and we didn’t have to wait at the lab for his blood work. Best of all, in our conversation with his doctors, they commented that it’s really a miracle that he is so well right now. A year ago, not one of his doctors dreamed this was possible. You couldn’t ask for a better gift than that reminder.

 

Without my awareness, these little Thursday “happenings” may not have felt like gifts. This awareness did not come easily to me. The hours that I spend on my mat are, in part, an exercise in learning how to pay attention. As I move and breathe during yoga, I am learning how to notice little gifts. As I unroll my mat day after day, I get to practice mindfully setting my perspective. I can choose to see all the things I can’t do, all the stretches where I’m still tight, and all the postures I still haven’t mastered. Or, I can choose to focus on all the ways I’m changing, developing and growing. The choice is mine. And (here’s the kicker) my choice of perspective dictates the nature of my experience. Whether I leave my mat feeling frustrated or fulfilled, groaning or grinning, is up to me.

 

Had I not been in a “birthday frame of mind,” that particular Thursday, I wonder if all the little gifts from the world around me would have passed me by without registering. While I’d like to think the awareness I’ve developed on my yoga mat would have prevented this, honestly, it’s perfectly conceivable that some or all of them could have. I could have focused on the grayness of the day rather than the fact that the rain held off. I could have allowed my cancelled appointment to get me down. I could have slipped into a “woe-is-me” mindset that I had to spend my birthday at the doctor. It was my birthday perspective that made the whole day seem like a celebration.

 

I know that part of what makes birthdays such a treat is that they happen only once a year. But there is a lesson in birthdays that we can carry with us through the other 364 days of the year. While the world may not conspire to deluge us with a wealth of gifts every day, every single day we do receive some. It is up to us to choose to notice them. When we do so, every day will contain moments that leave us feeling as blessed, special and cared for as a birthday girl.

 

Namaste,

Amy

 

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Falling down is how we learn. Staying down is how we die. – Brian Vaszily

 

I have a friend who is quite used to being the only girl in her family. She grew up with two brothers and has gone on to raise three sons. While I’d never call her a tomboy, she has a special ability and willingness to fall in step with the guys. Weekends spent skiing have been a favorite family pastime for my friend since her boys were very small. In fact, we spent a fabulously snowy weekend with them when both of our families deposited a little one just out of diapers into “Ski Wees.” Schussing down a hill on a winter day is great fun for all ages.

 

Little boys turn into big boys surprisingly quickly. As her sons grew, their interests veered away from skiing toward snowboarding. My friend found herself at a crossroads. She could continue to ski or she could join her sons in snowboarding lessons. Because so much of the joy of their family weekends came from doing something together, the decision was an easy one for her. She rented a board, acquired some boots and tromped out to her first lesson alongside her boys.

 

Learning how to snowboard, it seems, is really learning how to fall. In fact, week after week my friend said she spent more time on her fanny than on her feet. People, I have never seen bruises like the ones she showed me that first winter.

 

But, before that winter of lessons was over, I also remember her positively beaming with joy and pride. She’d figured it out! She’d managed to spend two whole days off the bunny slope and on the actual mountain snowboarding with her sons. Did she still spend some time on her bottom? Sure she did. Falling down is a massive part of learning and getting better. Once you get yourself back up and going again, she told me, you’re having way too much fun to dwell on your falls.

 

It wasn’t easy. In fact, from my perspective, it looked supremely hard. But, for my friend, it was more than learning how to snowboard. It was a way to continue the joyful family weekends she and her boys had come to treasure. For a parent, that’s a gift worth any price – even some serious posterior shiners.

 

While yoga doesn’t leave bruises the way snowboarding does, it’s not easy either. This can be surprising to new students. “After all,” they think (and sometimes say), “how hard can some relaxing stretching be?” (I’m assuming many of you are stifling a laugh right about now.)

 

The first month that I practiced yoga, I hurt in places I didn’t even know muscles existed. Until my first yoga class, I believed I didn’t really sweat. (This from a girl who grew up on outdoor tennis courts in steamy Houston, Texas!) I was mystified watching my teacher and classmates as they floated lightly around on their mats while I felt and sounded like a stegosaurus stomping around on mine. Week after week, I had to retreat to child’s pose (balasana) several times a class because I couldn’t begin to move into the position my teacher was describing. I even managed to fall on my fanny – right out of revolved side angle (parivritta parsvakonasana). Yoga is, hands down, the hardest thing I’ve ever learned how to do.

 

Why, you may ask, did I keep at it? Even after classes where I spent more time falling over, struggling and wondering if I’d survive, I felt a glimmer of something that I wanted more of. Something deep inside of me was responding to the practice no matter how I was butchering it. I sensed that this was something big, something life-giving, something that I needed almost more than I wanted. This was something that was a lot more than a work-out. As much as I knew my body was going to change, I could tell that the inner changes could be even more significant. So I kept showing up.

 

Here I am, a decade later, still showing up. Is yoga easier? In some ways, yes. But, amazingly, it can still be supremely hard. There is always something to learn (or re-learn). There is always something I cannot do. Sometimes, I still even manage to fall on my fanny.

 

Just as my friend somehow sensed that the hours she would spend on a snowboard were much more than hours spent alternately schussing and falling, I somehow knew right from the start that the hours I would spend on my mat were much more than that. Just as snowboarding has become another way for my friend to continue to connect with her boys as they grow into manhood, yoga is a way for me to stay connected with who I am and why I’m here. Both my friend and I discovered long ago that, as long as we keep getting up, our falls can’t hold a flame to the gifts we’re receiving.

 

For the record, no one ever told either of us it was going to be easy.

Amy

 

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I lived in Brooklyn when I had my first child. Through a series of encounters in the parks that filled our neighborhood (the loneliness of first time maternity leave drives perfectly sane women to bare their souls to utter strangers, you see), my first circle of “mommy friends” developed. In addition to providing much craved adult companionship in days dictated by the nap and feeding schedule of a tiny being who could not answer my questions or laugh at my jokes, these women were fonts of advice about all things baby.

 

The women in this group had opinions about every single aspect of motherhood and they shared them freely. I was instructed in the best way to feed a baby. I was taught the only way to carry a baby to preserve the mother-child bond. I was lectured in the dangers of a nursery versus “co-sleeping.” From diapers, to strollers, to the occasional use of a babysitter, these women had passionately strong opinions.

 

This was all well and good until the next crop of new moms started to show up in the neighborhood parks seeking companionship and even advice. By this time, I had started to develop a few opinions of my own, some that ran counter to the group’s earthier tendencies. As I shared my experiences with a younger mom, I noticed one of the group veterans rolling her eyes and shaking her head in a not-so-subtle way. Rather than joining our conversation to share an additional perspective, she waited until this new mom and I parted ways and pounced. As I walked past them on the way to the swings, I overheard her pointing out the “flaws” in what I’d said.

 

We’ve all run into people like this in our lives. People who seem to feel that opinions are a zero-sum-game; that there cannot possibly be two right ways of doing things. If you don’t agree, one of you must be wrong. Maybe you have a friend who can’t fathom why you make chicken parm the way you do. Maybe a colleague at work is constantly niggling at you to change the format of your staff meetings to run more like his. Maybe you do it, too?

 

I’m not proud to admit that I think my husband should drive my car more like I do. This can make me a very annoying passenger. When I’m not watching my mouth, I find myself instructing him in things like parking, backing up, even slowing down. I’m pretty sure he learned all these skills a lifetime ago in driver’s ed. Which is to say that I need to zip it and accept that there is more than one way to drive my car. In fact, if I’d shut my mouth and open my mind, it’s possible that he could teach me a thing or two.

 

Exchanges like this are even harder to handle when dealing with bigger, more emotionally loaded topics. Religion, politics and other social issues can be veritable minefields. Have you ever embarked on a conversation about faith, only to find yourself with your back to the wall the first time you expressed a difference of opinion? This is a shame because engaging in conversations on topics like this can be a great way to learn and grow. At the very least, exchanging ideas is a way to better understand the people you disagree with.

 

It’s ironic that a practice that is designed to teach us to set aside judgment and to constantly seek “beginner’s mind,” can foster just these types of opinions. Whether it’s our own particular style of sun salutation, the way we breathe, the way our teachers string together a series, the way we chant before and after class, or the way we place our hand in a specific asana, yogis can have opinions that rival the unwavering passion of the mothers I met in the parks of Brooklyn.

 

Just because we practice yoga doesn’t mean that we don’t fall prey to the temptation to share our opinions. How many times have you overheard a student critiquing something about a class as you leave the studio? We can also come face to face with our own close-mindedness on our mats. How many times have you tried a new class and been tempted to do things the way you always do them rather than following the cues of the teacher?

 

Our yoga practices offer us some powerful tools to help us steer clear of the pitfalls of unilateral belief. On our mats, we learn to observe. While this same skill can lead us directly into judging the person next to us for taking a posture differently than we do, the skill of observation also helps us catch ourselves when we slip into a judging mindset. The simple act of noticing our judging thought patterns is the first step toward changing them.

 

We also learn on our mats to stay curious or to cultivate “beginner’s mind.” This mindset helps us maintain our sharp focus on our own practice as we wonder what each posture will feel like today. It helps us avoid the self-fulfilling prophecies of assumptions. It can also lead us to wonder what the person next to us is experiencing when they take a posture differently than we do. This wonder can lead us to try something new. While you may hate it, it is just as conceivable that you will like the way it feels. If you do, you’ve just received the gift of a new tool to add to your yoga tool belt.

 

You’ve also learned the powerful life lesson that just because someone does something differently than you do doesn’t mean that one of you is wrong. The fact that there is another way to do something need not make you feel vulnerable or scared. The reality is that, as you’ve learned from trying the pose the way the person on the mat next to you does it, they have the same opportunity to learn from you. Whether you eventually adopt the new way or not, the act of experimenting will enrich your understanding of your practice.

 

As with so much of yoga, this lesson serves us off our mats as well. In life, though, the lessons we learn are wildly more important than how to do or not to do a stretch. It is possible that the understandings that develop when we deliberately listen to one another, share with one another and experiment with one another’s ideas could change the world we live in.

 

Imagine that.

Amy

 

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I love to spend hours wandering along the beach looking for shells. My kids think I’m crazy. When they tag along they pummel me with non-stop questions: “How much farther are we going?” “What time are we turning around?” And my favorite, “What are you looking for today?” I think it confuses them that I don’t have a plan. After all, I usually do. Were it not for me and my plans, there wouldn’t be clean uniforms in their sports bags or dinner on the table. Certainly, without my planning they’d rarely get where they needed to be when they needed to be there.

 

But, short of deciding which direction to walk, plans are absolutely useless when looking for shells. In fact, when combing the beach for treasures, plans are downright frustrating. They suck the joy right out of the experience.

 

Let me share my theory of shell hunting with you: You have to receive what the ocean gives you. If you stay open to its gifts, you will have a fabulous time and return from your stroll feeling blessed. You simply never know what the sea is going to offer. One day on our vacation last week, I returned from a walk with 77 fossilized shark’s teeth! (That’s got to be a complete mouthful!) Another day, I found dozens of tiny, pastel colored, pairs of coquina shells shaped like butterflies. On yet another day, I came home with two rarities that I’d never before found - a smooth, freckled, snub-nosed alphabet cone shell and a spiny, curvaceous apple murex.

 

Expectations can blind you to the ocean’s gifts. If you head out planning to find a sand dollar, you may overlook the conch or lettered olive or breathtaking pink and orange scallop at your feet. Especially when looking for shells, your eyes see what they seek. It’s happened to me a hundred times. I’ve walked right past a beauty only to have my husband exclaim from behind me, “Look at this!” The key is to keep your eyes open to what is rather than to what you want to see. Otherwise, you risk returning from your journey empty handed or, worse, frustrated by what you didn’t find rather than overjoyed by what you did discover.

 

This is a lesson we learn on our mats as well. Yoga goes best when you arrive unencumbered by expectations or plans. If you practice regularly in a group class, you know this well. Part of your practice is to shed your own desires and accept the series that your teacher offers that day. To arrive at the studio determined to work on hand balances can be an exercise in frustration if your class is filled with beginners. You may miss out on the lovely experience of a twisting series if you’re focused on how badly you had hoped to explore backbends. To show up to class fixated on your own agenda is to rob yourself of the gift of the series that comes your way.

 

The lesson is no less powerful if you practice on your own, you just have to be a little more aware. Your body is different each and every time you unroll your mat. And the needs of our body are not always in synch with the desires of our mind. Perhaps this has happened to you? You’ve decided to work on back-bending, only to find when you start to move that you are feeling quite stiff that morning. You have a choice. You can respect and honor what your body needs each moment, or you can bulldoze onward into those strenuous backbends as you had planned. If we let it, yoga will meet us where we are and we’ll end our practice feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. Or we can end our practice feeling frustrated at our lack of “progress” and slightly beaten.

 

The operative word here is choice. There are times when it is fitting (indeed rewarding) to choose to shed our plans and expectations. When these times present themselves, we can choose to approach our experiences with open eyes and a grateful heart. Or we can choose to hold tight to our plans.

 

While making the choice to free ourselves from the fetters of expectations and plans seems easy to do on a yoga mat or while combing a beach, it requires practice. Often the first thing we practice is recognizing when we’re gripping our plans so tightly that we’re missing out on our actual experience. We need to learn to recognize those times when our plans encumber us. Once we’ve developed a heightened awareness to our own patterns and tendencies, we can, a little at a time, begin to work on letting go. After all, it is less concerning to have your yoga practice veer off in an unexpected direction than your day or even your week.

 

Thankfully, practice does yield proficiency. This is a skill that can help each and every one of us to navigate the ups and downs of our lives. Doctors never know what illnesses or injuries are going to walk into their office each day. Lawyers do not choose their cases, but are rather chosen by their clients. A great chef will cook from the freshest, seasonal bounty available to her rather than yearning for fresh corn on the cob in November. While they show up to class with a lesson plan, the very best teachers keep a gentle hold on these plans, trusting that the most memorable, meaningful classes come from a willingness to explore their students’ ideas and questions.

 

Which is why my answer never varies when my kids ask me again and again what I’m looking for as I wander for miles along the beach. “I’ll find whatever the ocean wants to give me today.” I can’t wait to see what it is. Can you?

 

Happy hunting,

Amy

 

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Only on an island can you watch the sun rise and set over the water. It’s a pretty special thing. We’re on vacation this week and, while watching the sun set is something we plan into our days, I stumbled onto my first sunrise by sheer chance. I’d headed out for my morning walk in the dark as always and managed to arrive on the harbor side of Boca Grande just as the sun was peeking over the horizon. It literally stopped me in my tracks.

 

For me, nothing brings to mind beginnings and endings like sunrise and sunset. The feelings of beginning that are stirred in me as I watch the sun rise are filled with hope, possibility and anticipation. When I watch the sun set, the feelings of ending that I experience are not sad. Rather, they are reflective, grateful and peaceful.

 

As I walked into that first vacation sunrise, it’s not surprising that I was excited for my day at the beach. But the nature of that excitement shifted as I watched the sun come up over the horizon. I was awash with gratitude for witnessing this sight. My eagerness for the day ahead softened. Rather than feeling specific in nature (“I want to do this and this and this …”), the possibility that I felt opened. I felt hopeful for all that might come my way. I felt willing to allow the day to unfold as it would, just grateful to be along for the ride.

 

While I’m usually alone as the sun comes up, sunsets here at the beach are typically times of community. Times of bonding, chatting and laughing. Conversations as the sun sets can turn a little reflective. As we sit together watching the day draw to a splendid close, it’s natural to look back over the day with gratitude. Endings like these leave me feeling complete and ready to rest in preparation for tomorrow.

 

Yoga teaches us to observe the tenor of beginnings and endings. It also teaches us a little about setting the tone for these moments. In most yoga styles, we embark upon our practice by moving through Sun Salutations (surya namaskar). In the first movement of these series we open our arms wide and reach our arms over our head. Because this is a simple, basic movement compared to the forward bends and downward facing dogs to come, it is easy to sail through it without paying much attention. It’s even easier to miss it when we’re rushed, stressed or distracted.

 

To miss the feelings of this little movement, however, is a huge loss. It’s like the sunrise of my practice. The movement cues feelings of joy. It symbolizes a welcoming greeting. It stirs up hope, possibility and anticipation. When I open my arms wide and stretch them over my head, I can’t help but smile. After ten in a row, those feelings have spread from my heart throughout my whole body. I am ready to go! Ready to allow my practice to unfold as it will, just grateful to be along for the ride.

 

Yoga also offers us a lesson in endings. Any practice of asana ends with some time in corpse pose (savasana). After all the movement of our practice, we move into stillness. Again, the posture itself is not challenging. We simply settle onto our backs, let our feet flop out to the side and rest the tops of our hands on the mat. However, the feelings this posture cues are even more powerful than those stirred up in our opening movement.

 

In savasana, it is said, we receive the gifts of the practice. As we settle in on our mats, quietly breathing, we have the opportunity to reflect back on our practice. It’s not necessary to mentally click through each asana we took along the way to feel awash in gratitude for all that transpired, for all that we’ve tried and for all that we’ve done. This is the sunset of our practice. This is our rest. Rather than preparing ourselves to practice again, however, in this rest we are preparing to enter back into our life. This preparation is not active. We are not planning, plotting and scheduling. The peaceful, open-handed, open-hearted nature of our savasana sets the tenor for our approach to the rest of our day.

 

It’s clearly easier to greet each day with wide, open arms and a soft smile while on vacation. It’s clearly easier to pause at the end of the day to reflect gratefully on all that filled it when cued to do so by a spectacular sunset over the Gulf of Mexico. But, just as we practice beginning and ending on our mats, vacation days can be practice. In the end, it’s all in our approach. And that is something we can learn to control. Just think, with a little practice, a normal day at home can be even more fulfilling than a day on vacation because it’s filled with our life’s work.

 

Namaste,

Amy

 

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While not many of us have accepted an Academy Award, we have all had moments when we’ve felt just like this. Moments when we’ve received accolades that make us want to dance with joy or burst with pride. It feels pretty amazing when the world notices how awesome you are. It feels pretty darn good to be liked.

 

I suspect it is the fact that we can all intimately relate with the surprisingly powerful feelings of receiving external validation that Sally Field was expressing that night, that makes her speech the most memorable and most parodied of Oscar acceptance speeches. After all, is there a better feeling than receiving a phone call from a client letting you know that “we all think you’re fantastic?” Or winning a coveted award at work? Or reading a grateful, glowing email the morning after the fundraiser you worked on for months?

 

It feels good to be liked.

 

The issue is that the feelings that wash over you in a moment of recognition can be swept away quite suddenly. Can you imagine how Sally Field felt the morning after her moment of glory when she woke to find her acceptance speech parodied? A word of criticism, a nasty email, a whisper of overheard gossip sometimes stir up even more powerful feelings than the pride and joy we feel when we receive recognition for a job well done. Doubt. Hurt. Anger. These don’t feel so good.

 

As we practice yoga, we learn to appreciate, trust and value a different kind of feedback. We learn to listen to other voices. We tune out from the external and in to the way our practice makes us feel. The grateful releases of our body as it stretches each day on our mat. The appreciative silence of our mind as we deliberately focus it on the simple, consuming act of moving in synchronicity with our breath. The expansive openness of our heart as we pause, even for a moment, from judging, comparing and competing. These effects of our practice leave us feeling great, glowing even.

 

The feelings of satisfaction and wellbeing that we feel as a result of our practice may not be as dazzling, day-glo bright as the awards, praise and back-slaps that we receive from others. But they are consistent. They are steady. And there is no “flip side.” No one can take them away from us. They are part of us. These feelings of validation come from within. They are always there waiting for us. All we have to do is come to our mat, focus and do our very best.

 

Think back for a second. Remember the last time you completed a job well done. Remember the moment of actual completion. The moment you reflected on the work and realized you were done and it was good. How did you feel?

 

As I write this, I am awash in my own memory of a recent job well done. My business partner and I had just cranked out a ten-week anatomy curriculum for our yoga teacher training program. We’d both been dreading the process of putting this curriculum together. There was so much to teach! How would we work in all the necessary details? How could we present the material in a way that would “stick” with our students?

 

When we sat down to write it, though, it came together more smoothly than we’d dared to hope. We’d just read back through our final product when I had my own “Sally Field moment.” As my partner’s babysitter walked into the kitchen where we were working, I looked up and announced, “You are in the presence of genius.” We all immediately burst out laughing at my audacious lack of humility. But deep inside, we felt like dancing. We’d completed a job well done and it felt good. Really, really good.

 

Here’s the thing. I know it will feel good to teach the material. I bet it might feel really good if our students like it. But I can’t imagine anything overshadowing that initial wash of pride that I felt (“I like it. I really like it!”) when I realized what we’d done.

 

Namaste,

Amy

 

For weeks I watched the sky grow lighter and lighter on my morning walks. Each day I set out wondering if this was the day I’d get to see the sunrise. The brighter mornings teased me with the lure of winter’s end. It was easier to get out of bed and into my sneakers. I relished the added pleasure of sightseeing as the darkness began to lift. The birds seemed to serenade my dog and me on our route. Then one morning, it happened. The sky was already pink when I headed out and I watched the sun rise over the horizon as we made our way through town. I’d made it out of the dark months and into the light! Halleluiah!

 

Two short weeks later, we turned the clocks forward for daylight savings time and my walks reverted to complete darkness. As I pulled my reflective vest back out of the closet that first dark morning, I felt dejected. Those brighter skies felt like something I’d earned. After all, hadn’t I patiently journeyed through months of darkness? Hadn’t I rejoiced to see the pink light of morning? Hadn’t I finally made it to spring? The fact that I now had to take the same long, dark journey again seemed patently unfair.

 

One day as I moped along in the dark, wishing for morning’s soft light, I realized that my feelings of frustration and fatigue were familiar. I’d been here before. This return to darkness felt exactly the same to me as my (many) set-backs on my yoga mat.

 

Perhaps you’ve been there too? You work for weeks and months and even years on a particular posture. You finally (finally!) get it. You are so pleased with yourself. You celebrate your progress. You feel virtuous as you are rewarded by the fruits of your hard work. And then, perhaps out of the clear blue, you come to your mat to find your new posture is no longer accessible. Perhaps a new tightness or pain has cropped up. Perhaps the muscles you’d worked so hard to open are again as elastic as steel. Whatever the reason, you find yourself back at square one, facing the same journey of opening that you just completed.

 

Lotus posture (padmasana) opened to me early in my practice. As someone who couldn’t do so many other postures because of my tight upper body, it was a source of pride for me that I could fold my legs into the various poses requiring lotus. I eagerly awaited these postures when I practiced. They made me feel successful. They made me hopeful that the rest of my body would eventually open to match the external rotation in my hips.

Amy

 

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When your ten-year-old daughter informs you that she is “dying” to go to an art museum, you jump on it. So last week, I cleared my schedule for a day and took her to a Van Gogh exhibit at the Philadelphia Art Museum. Because this is a special exhibit, an audio guide was included in our admission price, but I was a little dubious about the recorded tour. After all, I wanted to talk to my daughter about the paintings not simply stand next to one another plugged into headphones. But she was insistent.

 

When we stepped into the gallery, I found myself face to face with Van Gogh’s famous work, Sunflowers. It was breathtaking to be that close to a masterpiece that I’d studied in college Art History classes. I got lost for a moment in the swirls of golden color. I was fascinated by the texture of the painting. The visible brushstrokes helped me imagine him actually creating the image. When I squinted a little, the undulating curves of his composition leaped out at me, making the entire painting seem like it was in motion. This was clearly much more than simple painting of a vase of flowers.

 

My daughter dragged me back from my reverie by pulling repeatedly on my hand. “Let’s make sure to hit the play button at the same time, Mommy! 1, 2, 3… Now!” Pressing that button was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to sink back into my impressions of the painting. I wanted to stretch myself to see what I could remember of his work from college. I wanted to just experience the art that surrounded me. But, this was her day, and if she wanted me to press play, then press play I would.

 

As the narrator’s voice filled my ears, I shifted gears. My almost physical experience of the painting changed. I slipped from an emotional state into a more intellectual mode. As I listened to the recording I became a student again. As this happened, what I was seeing shifted as well. As I listened to the recording, my eyes followed along from the texture of the pottery vase, to the location of the artist’s signature, to the riotous colors the artist selected for the blooms. I learned that he framed his images tightly to create a more powerful image. I was carried away by the idea that his use of a horizon line (or lack thereof) revealed the fluctuating state of his mental illness. To think that these very paintings were a windows into the genius and pain of such a brilliant, tortured existence!

 

Each new piece of information and interpretation offered by the narrator made me hungry for more. I eagerly headed to the next painting on the audio tour and hit play again. This happened repeatedly until the narrator suggested we move into the next room. As my daughter forged through the crowd toward the door, I grabbed her arm. “Hang on! Don’t you want to look at the other paintings, sweetheart?” She hadn’t even realized that on our quest for works supported by a recording we’d zoomed past several others paintings.

 

Again, I shifted gears. I found, however, that my few minutes with a teacher (albeit a recorded one) had changed my experience of Van Gogh’s paintings. While still more visceral than heady, this time as I stood in front of his works I was more informed. I could see more. I could even feel more. In addition to trying to understand how he created his paintings by studying his trademark brushstrokes, I also sought insight into how he was feeling. Were the strokes choppy? Or swirling? In one painting in particular, as I sought the horizon line I actually began to feel a little claustrophobic and wondered if he did, too.

 

Moving from student mode to a more experiential mode is not at all foreign to me. I do it all the time on my yoga mat. In fact I’ve found an incomparable richness when I manage to balance these two modes within my yoga practice.

 

I love being a student. The joy of studying with my teacher has not faded one bit over the years. Her insights never fail to inform my experiences. I am always “wowed” to find that there is more to grapple with in postures I know so well. I also love going to group classes in local studios. I always leave class with a new idea for sequencing. I find it fascinating to hear other opinions and experiences about this practice. Being a student ignites an intellectual craving for a deeper understanding of yoga that better enables me to experience the practice and to share it with others as I teach.

 

That said, yoga is inherently an individual experience. Practicing is meant to draw us inward, beneath our swirling thoughts, to a place where we connect again with our feelings. We simply can’t do this in the heady state of being a student. It’s when we’re moving and breathing on our own that we can drop into the visceral state of experiencing the practice. It is as we root our awareness into each breath and every movement, that we begin to experience the calming, stabilizing, stilling effects that yoga has on us at the very core of our being.

 

This is where the balancing act comes into play. My individual experiences on my mat are informed by my studies with my teacher and in classes. If I did not spend time on my mat actively in student mode, I would surely miss a great deal of what yoga has to offer. On the other hand, if I did not spend time on my mat soaking in the experience of moving and breathing, much of what I learn would be shallow and two-dimensional. To really know something, you must experience it. Your experiences adds meaning. Your experiences add invaluable nuances of understanding. It’s by balancing learning and experiencing that we stretch beyond knowledge to real wisdom.

 

As my daughter and I headed into the next gallery, we understood better how to proceed. The exhibit was designed to give guests the chance to be both students and individuals which yielded a very rich experience. While we continued to soak up the information from our audio tour, we now approached one painting at a time rather than dashing through the room. When we arrived in front of paintings not on the tour, we stopped and changed gears. Even though we’d taken our student hats off for a few moments, we found we were experiencing the paintings at a whole new level thanks to all we’d learned from the recording.

 

Step back and take a look at your practice as if it is a work of art. Maybe you need to squint a little to allow the patterns to pop out. Seek the curving lines of your individual experiences on your mat. View them against the contrast of all you learn as a student. See how they support one another? Are they in balance?

 

Namaste,

Amy

 

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“If you want to be truly understood, you need to say everything three times, in three different ways.

Once for each ear … and once for the heart.”

Paula Underwood Spencer

 

Over the years, my husband and I have discovered that we have very different ears. Whether we’re rehashing a dinner party conversation or discussing information from a doctor’s appointment, we often discover that we’ve heard completely different things. Granted, sometimes this is just a gender thing. (Honestly, are men and women from different planets?) But, alarmingly often, we have listened to the same words and heard an entirely different message.

 

I’ll never forget getting into the car after a doctor’s appointment verging on tears, devastated by the news we’d received. My husband hopped into the driver’s seat and heaved a relieved sigh. With a big smile, he looked at me and said, “Great news, right?” “What?” I replied, in teary shock. We had heard such different things that day that we went back into the office and asked to meet with the doctor again. I’m sure she thought we were crazy, but I was very glad that she was willing to say everything twice that day. I was also very glad that we’d had two sets of ears in the room, because together we’d heard a lot more than either of us would have heard on our own.

 

Sometimes, it’s perspective that colors our understandings. Sometimes, it’s our emotional state. Sometimes (a lot of times), it’s timing that affects our ability to hear. Perhaps one of us got distracted by the Phillies on TV in another room. Or maybe he had a coughing fit in the middle of the conversation. Or maybe I had to put the dog out just as things were getting good. Or the phone rang. Or, or, or … Life has a nasty habit of getting in the way of our listening.

 

Sometimes, it’s timing of an entirely different sort. Sometimes, we’re just not ready to hear what is being said.

 

This one has been easier for me to grapple with on my yoga mat where things aren’t quite as pressing as real world stuff. In fact, my yoga teacher loves to laugh at me when I “discover” something she’s been telling me for years. It’s happened so many times that she doesn’t even have to say anything anymore. Her smile sweetly says, “I’m so happy you finally figured that out. If I’ve said that once, I’ve said it a hundred times!” Clearly, even when I’m listening, I’m not always ready to hear.

 

This is the nature of the practice. There are so many levels to move through and nuances to explore in each and every yoga posture that there is no way to ever learn it all. Ten years later, when I’m able to do lots of complicated and challenging postures, I continue to learn in the basic stretches I did in my very first class. The same instructions that helped me find my way into downward facing dog a decade ago are still informing me today. My body is different. My experience level is different. Therefore, what I hear is different than what I heard years ago. Thank goodness yoga teachers are perfectly happy to repeat themselves!

 

The fact that I’m still learning in the very first yoga posture I ever did illustrates how much of what my teacher has been telling me through the years I had missed. Thank goodness yoga is all about trying again, all about practice, all about repetition! By listening over and over again, I have been able to hear more. It’s also helpful to hear from classmates what they’ve heard. Like my husband and I in that doctor’s office, very often, my classmates and I pick up different things. Together, we are able to learn a lot more than any of us would on our own.

 

Practicing yoga has given me a certain comfort with the fact that no matter how closely I’m listening, it’s a pretty sure thing that I’ve missed something. I’m more willing to stay tuned in. I’m more willing to keep exploring. I’m more willing to seek clarification. Teaching yoga has made me comfortable expressing the same ideas over and over again in many different ways. After all, it follows that this will be as helpful to my students as my own teacher’s innovative repetition is for me.

 

All of these skills carry off my mat and into my life. As a parent, I often find myself hanging on every word as other parents speak about life with older kids. I know from experience on my yoga mat that I can’t hear these stories too often. Each time I do, I pick up something else to file away. Eventually, I’m sure I’ll “discover” a few great ideas that I’ve heard (but not heard) a hundred times. I’m lucky to have a classmate in these lessons. Because we rarely hear the same thing, when we share what we’ve absorbed, my husband and I learn a whole lot more than we could on our own.

 

That said, it’s the skill of effectively repeating ourselves that serves our family best. Between the two of us, repetition helps us better convey how we’re really feeling and what we’re really thinking. But, it is even more important for the kids. After all, they are growing and changing more dramatically than I ever will on my mat. And as they do, the more they are able to hear of what we say.

 

Life lessons have endless layers and nuances that make yoga postures look one-dimensional. What starts out as a simple playground instruction, “We don’t hit,” quickly morphs into “Use kind words,” and on into “Be a kind person.” Thankfully, life, like yoga, repeats itself. We have many chances to try again, to practice, to get it better if not right.

 

And that really does bear repeating,

Amy

 

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If you ever need to find us at 8:00 on a Sunday morning, we’re at the Bagel Factory cozied up into our favorite booth. Once upon a time we easily fit into that  booth. Nowadays, however, we need an extra chair at the end of the table because three of us are a whole lot bigger than they used to be. Over the years, as we’ve expanded to overflow our booth, our tab has also grown to keep pace with the kids’ appetites. But that has not deterred our weekly treat of going out to breakfast before church.

 

Our tradition began as a way to avoid weekly tussles with the kids over going to church. We discovered that no one complained about heading out to breakfast. And once out, getting to church was a no-brainer. We arrive in our pew well-fed and usually laughing over something someone said or did at breakfast. Forty-five minutes less sleep and the cost of breakfast are a small price to pay for avoiding all that fussing and complaining.

 

You could say that bagels and chocolate milk have come to play a foundational role in our children’s religious formation. Which is why it is a little ironic that my youngest had her first religious “crisis” over her Sunday chocolate milk. At ten years old, she decided to give something up for Lent for the first time this year. And she didn’t go for any of the classic kid cop-outs like giving up homework or broccoli. No, not our girl. She opted in with all her might and gave up chocolate.

 

When she blithely ordered (and ate) the same meal she orders every single week, the fact that she was drinking chocolate milk didn’t even cross her mind. It certainly didn’t register with me. In fact, I don’t think she put it all together until that night when I asked if staying away from chocolate had been hard. She gasped and then hung her head. “I messed up already,” she moped. “I stink at this.”

 

Cue religious lesson.

 

Once I got her calmed down, we sat down and talked about the meaning behind a Lenten sacrifice. Each time she wanted chocolate or chose not to eat chocolate was simply a chance to think about God. God, I told her, loves her and wants her to be closer to Him. Each time she focuses on Him (even if it’s just a second) pleases Him. I wanted her to understand that whether she eats chocolate or not is irrelevant to God. Whether she is successful at maintaining her Lenten sacrifice or stinks at it, is not the point. Her sacrifice is just a tool to help her stay God-focused during Lent. That’s a lot to absorb --- even when you’re a little older than ten.

 

In  fact, I get tangled up with this notion on a regular basis with my yoga practice. My yoga, like my daughter’s Lenten sacrifice, is a tool with a higher, spiritual purpose. I practice to achieve a quiet state of mind. I practice to learn to focus more attentively on the moments that make up each of my days. I practice to remember who I really am. I practice to re-connect with my spiritual nature and to spend (at least) a little time each day focused on God.

 

I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve felt like echoing my daughter’s words on my mat – “I messed up. I stink at this.” Perhaps I’ve been unable to figure out a new, challenging stretch. Or perhaps I spent more time falling out of a balancing pose than I was actually in it. Or perhaps, despite my best intentions, I managed to spend an entire hour on my mat daydreaming or list making. Because the work of my yoga practice is so immediate and so hard, it’s easy to forget that the yoga postures are not why I set aside time each day to do yoga. When this happens, I’m allowing the practice itself to obscure my actual purpose.

 

Often, I don’t figure this out until hours after I’ve left my mat. On these days, all is not lost. I still receive the physical gifts of the practice. My muscles still get stretched. My crooked body still gets re-balanced. An hour or more of deep breathing, even with a hoppy mind, is restorative and rejuvenating. No matter how late it comes, my realization that I’ve been distracted from the higher purpose of the practice is still an opportunity to reconnect with the real reasons I do yoga.

 

When I am on my game, however, I can remember in the act that all of the movement, the sweat, and the breathing are simply ways to balance my body, settle my mind and open my heart so I can live more like the person I was created to be. These days are absolutely the best. These are the pinnacle practices that keep me coming back day after day, year after year. On these days, I know through and through that it doesn’t matter if I can touch my toes or lift into a backbend. What matters is that every time I try is a chance to lift my focus beyond the physical to the spiritual.

 

The only way you can “stink” at yoga is to let your “bad days,” inabilities and mistakes keep you from coming back to try again. And this is what I really wanted my daughter to understand. It’s taken me years to figure out that yoga is not about perfecting postures or the practice. I’m hoping her Lenten adventures will lead her closer to the same understanding in just a few weeks. Certainly her chocolate milk “slip up” led to a powerful learning moment – for both mother and child.

 

Namaste,

Amy

 

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For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. – Matthew 11:30

 

Lent is a season of willingly assuming a discipline. Some disciplines are sacrifices. Going without chocolate, Diet Coke, wine, potato chips, coffee. Some disciplines are practices. Committing to spend a little time each day exercising, praying, reading the Bible, volunteering, writing letters of gratitude to loved ones.

 

For years, I thought of Lent as a time of suffering, a time of penitence and atonement, and there is certainly value in approaching the season with a heavy heart. Facing humanity’s failings 2,000 years ago with a steady, unfaltering gaze can be quite stirring. Bringing this same unwavering attention to my own failings to live up to my God-given potential can be motivational. But, with this perspective, my Lenten disciplines felt heavy. They were harder to maintain. My energy often flagged well before Easter morning.

 

As the roots of my yoga practice deepened, I had a glimpse of a new kind of Lent. I began to see these 40 days as an opportunity for steady focus on my spirituality, for a sharpened awareness of how I was living my life, and for dedicated daily practice in stretching toward my best-possible self. Yes, I would continue to assume a discipline. But as I did so, I felt optimistic about creating new habits over the course of the 40 days. I embraced the hope of becoming a better person – healthier, kinder, more spiritual, more loving. With this perspective, my Lenten disciplines felt light. They were easier to maintain. My energy built throughout the season as I began to witness my changes and growth.

 

It is not surprising that yoga reinforces the powerful potential of assuming a discipline. After all, a regular yoga practice is like a less distilled Lent. The word “yoga” actually means “yoke” in Sanskrit. We assume the yoke of the practice just as we willingly shoulder a Lenten discipline. Because yoga is so wonderfully transformative, we typically see results immediately. We feel healthier and stronger, more focused and balanced, less frazzled and irritable. These results keep us coming back for more. Though the commitment required of us seems huge before we start, once our practice is underway, we find its burden light.

 

It is also not surprising that a yoga practice can help reveal the possibility of a less punitive Lent. As we move and breathe on our yoga mats, we learn about handling our shortcomings and failures. As we practice, we begin to see mistakes as opportunities to learn. Mistakes can motivate us. Without them, it would be harder to see how much we’re growing and changing. But they don’t help as much if we’re gripping them with white knuckles as we beat ourselves up. In order for new ways to blossom, we must be willing to allow our old ways to die. This can’t happen if we’re holding tight to our failings.

 

Practicing yoga is also a regular reminder of the many layers of a spiritual discipline. Yes, moving and breathing on my mat is quite good for me. But that is just the tip of the iceberg. The act of practicing is a reminder of my real goal rather than the goal itself. Each time I unroll my mat, I affirm my intention to take time out of my day to turn inward. I shore up my hope that I am capable of change. My optimism about my potential is recharged. My faith in the power of the practice, as well as in the act of practicing itself, is a faint shadow of my greater faith in life and its Creator.

 

So sure, giving up sweets or caffeine is good for you. But while the healthy benefits of your discipline may keep you committed for 40 days, they pale in comparison to the real gift of your sacrifice. Commitment to a Lenten discipline can be a 40 day experiment in living a more spiritual life, in living a life more in line with your faith, in pouring your energy into becoming the best possible you. With this hopeful intention, Lenten disciplines can feel like sustainable practices. With this perspective, you just may find that Jesus’ words ring true - “My yoke is easy and  my burden is light.” Then, perhaps, your new discipline and its gifts will enliven your life beyond this 40 day season and into your whole year.

 

Namaste,

Amy

 

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My son is not a morning person. He’s not grumpy or sharp-tongued like some folks (ahem, his sister) are in the morning. He’s just mostly asleep.

 

He spends a lot of time sitting on the edge of his bed. Then he moves to the edge of the tub and sits there. Then, he stands for an incredibly long time in the shower. (Honestly, we’re considering installing an automatic shut-off for the faucet in the kids’ bathroom.) Once he’s dry, he returns to the edge of his bed, where he sits some more. Once he does get downstairs, things don’t speed up much. His pace can only be described as glacial.

 

I learned long ago to leave him alone and let him creep through his routine. Nagging or reminding him to watch the time doesn’t help. It only results in making him grumpy, and we usually already have one of those stomping around the kitchen.

 

To my son’s credit, he sets his alarm to go off a full 75 minutes prior to his departure. While this seemed excessive to me (after all, he’s not a teenage GIRL with hours of requisite mirror gazing to do!), I stayed out of it. But earlier this week, his alarm didn’t go off. My husband found him in bed, sound asleep 15 minutes before we typically leave. Somehow, some way, our pokey guy managed to get himself ready.

 

In classic “mother hen” fashion, I thought, “Halleluiah! He’s speeding up! Now he can get a little more sleep in the mornings!” When I shared my optimistic take on his morning that afternoon, his response was immediate. “Yeah, I got ready. But the whole time I was so stressed that I felt like I was going to EXPLODE. Extra sleep is not worth feeling like that.”

 

That, folks, is called self-knowledge.

 

Understanding yourself like this can make your life a whole lot easier. At the tender age of 14, my son has figured out that he prefers to sacrifice a little, precious sleep to give himself the space and time to move through his morning routine in a way that leaves him feeling peaceful and clear-headed. He came to this knowledge by paying attention to his experiences and his reactions to them. Because he has the foresight (or lack thereof) of a typical 14-year-old boy, it’s safe to assume that his “study” (experimenting with different wake-up times, showers of different lengths, breakfasts, etc.) was not deliberate. But because he has a level of self-awareness that is atypical for a kid his age, he knows that being rushed makes him feel panicky. And there is nothing he hates more than feeling panicky.

 

Without even putting a toe onto a yoga mat, my son has put into practice a powerful tenet of yoga, called svadhyaya, or self-study. This is the skill of turning the lens of our awareness onto ourselves when we practice. Doing so can lead to some eye-opening self-knowledge.

 

By observing myself while I move and breathe on my mat, I have learned an awful lot about myself. I’ve learned that it’s easier for me to work hard than it is for me to let go. I’ve learned that, with a deep breath (or 5), I can be surprisingly patient. I’ve learned that my instincts are usually worthy of my trust. I’ve learned about how I handle fear, success, challenge, and frustration. I’ve learned about how I navigate transitions. I’ve learned about how I react when I‘m squeezed for time and when I have all the time in the world. Some of what I’ve learned about myself makes me proud. Some makes me cringe. My practice on my mat has helped me solidify some of my useful tendencies. It is helping me part ways with others.

 

The understanding I gain from my yoga practice extends to the obstacles I find in my path. Some, like a particularly dreaded asana that seems to come up every, single time I go to a class, are beyond my control. When faced with these, my work is to manage my response. But some obstacles I create myself. These are a little harder to recognize and a lot harder to learn to navigate - the clenched muscles that regularly inhibit my backbend (urdhva danurasana), my recurring negative mindset when I enter chair pose (utkatasana), and my reluctance to take it easy when I’m feeling fatigued. With a little foresight, a lot of consciousness and a massive does of persistence, I can learn to avoid these self-made obstacles.

 

When we bring this level of self-understanding off the mat and into our lives, life becomes a whole lot easier to live. Clearly, it’s impossible to control what life brings our way. But eliminating (at least some of) the self-made obstacles in our path leaves us with the energy and enthusiasm to approach life’s twists and turns with a peaceful spirit and a clear mind. This is exactly what my son has figured out with his slow-motion morning routine.

 

Namaste,

Amy

 

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